Posted by 'Chelle, Dec 3, 2009. 2223 views. ID = 2997
This post was written in 3 minutes.
|My 9th and 10th graders were writing historical fiction, which inspired me to do it, too. At first I toyed with the traditional settings of the Wild West, or WWII. But then this character came into my mind, with his beautifully accented English, and told me his story. All I did was write it down.|
|This post has been awarded 7 stars by 2 readers.|
You think I do not love.
This I know. I can see that you think this of me. Because of what I have done.
But I do love, and I have known love.
My mother I think of when I think of love. She showed me love. She was one who taught me joy, joy found in warmth of embrace. Yes, she loved me. I believe she loves me still. As I love her.
This place cannot change that. You and your superiority cannot change that. There is so much you cannot change, but you try so hard. Perhaps more passion and less force, no?
I learn that lesson with my first girl. I love her the moment she enter our village. She come from the north. So beautiful. I can see her still, the sway of her hips beneath her flowing burqua. The way her dark eyes sparkled when she speak. I loved her like I never love my mother. I wanted her so badly to love me also. I think I can make her love me. I tried to use my father’s name, what authority I thought I had. I tried to coerce her. I even thought once to force her – you think I am animal? You claim to treat women as equals here, but even I can see that you do not. Why not be honest and forget the charade? – but the look in those eyes pierce me to the soul. I could not.
Later, years later, I still love her. I cannot get her out of my head. I show her this in how I greet her. How I show her respect. The poems I write for her and whisper to her when our eyes meet. This time I learn passion. This time she love me. How we loved, with so much fire. Perhaps your country could learn something from this, no?
It is lack of passion I feel here. Anger, yes. You know anger. But deep, abiding passion…you have not learned it. You cannot hang on to a feeling for long. You have no patience.
My people know how to wait for what we desire. We see the long view. We have learn patience over millennia, since our ancestors were wronged. Our father was denied the birthright. Our father was the bastard. You think we have forgotten? We cannot forget the desert. We cannot forget the tears of our mother. We remember.
And we take hope.
You think I have nothing to live for. That, you think, is why I did what I did. Because of the poverty I know. I have known poverty. I have known wealth. I have learn to live with either. Your Bible teach this, no? Can you say the same?
No, it is not anger. It is not angst or bitterness, not even hatred.
I do not think I hate you. I do not know you. I know your type. It’s all I need to know. I see your influence in our world. I see the moral filth you spread. The lies. I know that Satan use you to defile our world.
You are…how do you say? Naiife?...if you think I acted as I did for lack of purpose in my life.
My father raise me with a passion. Did I love my father? Perhaps no. But I respect him and believe him. He show me truth. He show me how to live with fire for what you believe in. There is no mediocrity with him, nor with me. I do not love him, maybe I do not know if he love me. I want him to be proud of his son. I regret that I could not join him immediately as I had planned.
But we will be reunited.
And I will find Talika, my love, again, as well. She, so brave, so beautiful, with the eyes of night that see into my soul. She I will find there, too. She I will take into my arms again. She is what I live for, but she is not what I die for.
Ah, you dreamers. You hopeless romantics. There are forces more powerful than love. Oh yes, there are beliefs stronger.
You treat me like a criminal here. I have commited no wrongdoing. I have not sinned. I have only fulfilled that which I was called to do.
I have loved, yes. I have lived with passion. I, too, am a man who feels, who cries, who loves wildly. I am not the one who must die, but I am willing to do so if that is what it takes. I agree to lay my life down. It is no great loss, for I will gain my spot in heaven. I will be again with great men who have died for the cause before me – my father among them.
I will be once again in the embrace of my Talika, who lay her own life down before me. She was always stronger than me.
You think to trap me into a confession to use against me in your courts of law. You are not god. And I have done no wrong.
And I would kill you again if you give me the chance. You are the evil ones. You must die. This I believe and this I, Abdullah Malika al Jamal, will carry out as long as Allah wills. Praise be to Allah. Copyright 2009 'Chelle. All rights reserved. FifteenMinutesOfFiction.com has been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work. For permission to reprint this item, please contact the author.
|This post has been awarded 7 stars by 2 readers.|
|This is a revised version of a post. Click here to view the original version
Search for Great Fiction
Use the google search bar below to find writings exclusively on this site.