Lualhati didn’t know what to do.There were so many of them, but they were just little kids!
“Go away,Muslim!” yelled one of them as he moved to the front of the pack, picking up more stones from the ground to pelt at Lualhati. “Why don’t you go blow someone else up!”
It had gotten worse. Since 9/11, the normal background level of ani- mosity against Muslims here had blossomed into a virulent and all-powerful hatred.The group of children continued throwing whatever they could pick up at Lualhati, their fear finding hatred as an easy outlet. Lualhati couldn’t do anything except try to retreat; while he could easily have fought back, he was pretty sure that a Muslim beating up small children in the street wasn’t likely to survive very long right now. He didn’t know what hurt worse, the cut on the back of his throbbing head from a well-aimed rock, or the humil- iation of being driven away by a pack of nine-year-olds.Since when did
everyone love the Americans so much?he wondered. He could remember how happy everyone was to see Subic Bay close down, the American sailors and soldiers no longer around to support the rampant sex trade in the area. He also remembered the resentment at the Americans when the local economy sagged from the loss of trade provided by those same military personnel.
But for the past month, all anyone seemed to feel towards the Americans was sympathy for their loss. And all they felt towards Muslims was hatred like he had never seen before. For the first time, Lualhati actually wished he was
back in the squalor of Mindanao, as he ran away from the children and down the street, turning into a narrow alley.
He slowed down, having left the angry children behind. It seemed they only had enough hatred to attack him when he was nearby, not enough for the inconvenience needed to follow him and do more damage. Bending over, he caught his breath and tried to make sense of this nightmare. He wasn’t able to go to school anymore, his mother had been fired, and their money was running low. He ached to get time to work on a computer, even to just play around with coding, but that was out of the question while his mother looked for another job. What had Lualhati done to any of these people to make them hate him so much?
Agpalo hadn’t been surprised by any of it. “It’s like this all over the world,” he had said. “It’s the Americans; they hate brown people, but they hate Muslims the worst. And they’re getting the rest of the world to go along with them. I think they planned it, the bombing. I don’t think there were any terrorists at all. I hear Bush was behind it, with the Israelis.” He was getting increasingly angry, Lualhati thought, but maybe he was right. Lualhati wondered where Agpalo had been going lately. He was wor- shipping more often now, but nowhere that Lualhati knew about; when- ever he asked him Agpalo just kept his mouth shut. Where was he going, and what was the big secret? And why didn’t the taunting seem to bother him the same way?
Agpalo had always been the angry one, always brash and irritated by their lot in life. And now he was calm, just as things had gotten so much worse. How could this be? It made no sense to Lualhati, and his mind flicked about trying to figure out the answer.
In another part of the city, Agpalo was doing the very thing that Lualhati was wondering about. He was listening. Weeks earlier, he had been approached by a stranger after worshipping at the mosque, and told about another place of worship. He was invited to attend, and stay a bit after to listen to what the Imam had to say.Taking the stranger up on the offer, he went the next day, to discover that he’d been invited to a meeting of Ibn Kelbeh. Ibn Kelbeh was the so-called “terrorist” group that operated in Mindanao; Agpalo had never expected to find any of them here. He’d never thought they’d be like this, they seemed so much nicer than was let
on by the government or the newspapers.They just wanted to be able to practice their faith in peace, it seemed, and only adopted violence because they had to, to defend their freedom. So what if they bombed places, what else could they do?
“Our brothers have shown the truth, that America is weak and vulner- able.Those youths who did what they did and destroyed America with their airplanes did a good deed.They have moved the battle into the heart of America. America must know that the battle will not leave its land, God willing, until America leaves the Holy Land, until it stops supporting Israel, until it stops the blockade against Iraq.”
The young followers answered out, not entirely in sync, “Allah be praised.” Agpalo listened attentively in the small windowless room, among the audience. His eyes sparkled with the hope borne of something to hold onto.
The speaker continued. “We must do our part here. We are far from America and the Holy Land, but we can still fight against the faithless powers of our own land that support the infidels in their crimes against Muslims.Their crimes against our brethren here, in Mindanao, and throughout this region may not go unpunished.”
Agpalo listened quietly and with intense devotion, but without a sense of bearing.What can I do about this? he wondered. He wanted to act, he wanted so badly to do something, but what? All he knew how to do was to write code and worship. He wasn’t strong, couldn’t afford to go to
Afghanistan to fight the infidel Americans, and certainly didn’t have the desire to blow himself up. But he still simmered inside. He wanted to help, to hit back, to fight.What can a computer geek do here to fight the Americans?