by Esther Ahmad
The cries of joy and praise were even louder this time. Once again there was good food to eat, sodas to drink, and the news that soon, if Allah willed it, Auntie Selma’s second son would be sent to jihad, just like his father and brother before him.
The same process repeated itself a month later, and a fourth time the month after that. By then, news of Auntie Selma’s family had spread. In addition to the usual attendees of our daras, other people from the city joined us, along with female clerics from the group. They all praised her sons and husband, speaking more highly of them than I’d heard anyone spoken of before.
“My son has made me proud,” Auntie Selma said as she held up a photograph. It was different from the ones she had shown us of her husband and other two sons. Those had been the portraits taken after her sons’ graduations, where the men looked straight at the camera, full of strength and pride. Her third son’s picture, however, showed a bloodied corpse lying on the side of the road.
“He died a martyr’s death, and I’m happy,” she said. “Now it’s my turn. I will go for jihad.”
And that was the last I saw of Auntie Selma. By the time the daras met at my family’s house the next week, Auntie Selma’s property was already empty and boarded up. Not long after that, I heard that she, too, had died. She left her home and all her jewelry to the militants.
For weeks, Auntie Selma was the chief topic of conversation among us women and girls. She was praised for her generosity and held up as an example for us to give without reservation to Allah’s cause. She was someone we all admired, and the fact that she, as a woman, had given her life, just as her husband and sons had, gave me a particular thrill.
Her sacrifice taught me that it is possible to give everything for Allah, even if you are a woman.
A change took place within me. Ever since Auntie Selma had left the city, I started seeing my own attempts at generosity in a different light. Giving away a few possessions or teaching for half an hour in the afternoons was nothing compared to what she and her family had done.
Since nobody talked about where or how Auntie Selma’s family had been martyred, I filled in the gaps myself. I had assumed they’d all gone to the border with India, joining the army and fighting in a minor skirmish. Auntie Selma’s sons were all young men in their twenties, strong and full of energy, and it was easy to imagine them and their father driving tanks and serving alongside other soldiers. I could even picture Auntie Selma handling a rifle, keeping her nerve as she tended the sick on the battle lines. But I could not see myself in any of these scenarios. I was a quiet eighteen-year-old who loved science and math. I could hardly imagine picking up an AK-47 and marching alongside seasoned troops.
†
As I was sitting next to my mother in the daras one day, a new mullah I had never seen before stood up to speak. And the longer he spoke, the more I understood how wrong I had been. Jihad was not just for men or for the strong and agile; it was for everyone—even girls like me. It was as if a veil were being lifted from my eyes.
“In this battle, we are not fighting for ourselves but for Allah,” the mullah said. “You are the army of Allah, not the army of Pakistan. You are here with a job to do and an enemy to fight. Are you willing? Are you prepared to give the life that Allah gave you back to him? Will you take up the weapons Allah provides? It’s with rifles and bombs that we fight against the infidel, who would seek to murder and maim our people. That’s how we will remove America from the face of the earth!”
At that, the room filled with shouts of support and cries of “Allahu Akbar!”
The mullah went on, his voice rising in volume and pitch. “Is it not true that Allah rewards those who serve him? I tell you the truth: the more infidels you kill, the greater your reward will be. Allah will see how many Christians and Jews you destroy, and he will not forget. And for those who give their lives in jihad, their family will also be given the same reward in paradise. No grave, no judgment—just straight to paradise. Think of those seventy-two virgins your father will be given because of you! And remember those pillows that will be so soft, and the walls of the garden so high. Would you not be proud to give such riches to your mother?”
By now the room was thick with excitement. But I sat in silence, my eyes closed tight. So much of what he said was familiar, like the fact that the only way to guarantee our entry to heaven was to give our life in jihad. But there was one thing the mullah said that I had never heard before: the idea that I could get my parents a place in heaven without having to face the trial of judgment.
It was a promise so marvelous that my lungs felt like they were filling with the sweetest of air. I pictured myself in heaven, welcoming my father as he stared in amazement at the home in paradise I had secured for him.
“You did this for me?” he would say.
“Yes,” I would reply. “I did it for you. Me, the daughter you refused to see. Me, the daughter who has brought you into paradise.”
He would stand and stare for a moment, his eyes locked on mine. He might cry, perhaps even sob. Eventually he would open his arms and embrace me. For the first time in my life, I would know what it felt like to be safe in my father’s arms.
†
“Are there any volunteers for jihad?” the mullah asked at the end of the meeting.
I held my hand up high. The room had fallen into a reverent silence as he waited for other hands to be raised, but I didn’t even notice the people around me. My head was full of noise.
It was only when I felt my mother’s hand rest softly on my back that I remembered she was next to me. Her hand felt warm. I opened my eyes to look at her, and through her veil, I could see that her eyes were wet with tears.
I looked around me. I was the only one on the women’s side of the curtain with my hand raised, and all eyes were on me.
The meeting ended soon after, and the mullah told me to sit and wait while he spoke with the men who had volunteered. Instead of listening to what he was saying to the men, I sat there wondering where this jihad might take me. Perhaps I would be sent to fight on the border with India. Perhaps I, too, would be called on to give my life in battle. I was not nervous or worried. I was simply determined. Whatever it cost me, if it brought my father and mother with me to paradise, it would be worth it.
When the mullah finally appeared before me, I looked at him properly for the first time that day. He was younger than most clerics, and his eyes were kind.
When he spoke to me, his voice was gentler than it had been during the daras. “I’m so happy that you’re going to give your life. But you must remember that this fight is not for ourselves but for Islam. We fight to save Islam, just as Muhammad and the caliphs did. They all fought and gave their lives. They were all martyred. I don’t want you to think about the moment you will die. It will be very quick. I want you to think about the reward that awaits you in heaven. You will hear the sound of waterfalls, and whatever you want will be yours as soon as you think of it. Any clothes, any kind of food—all of it will be yours. Your next life will be so much better than this one. It sounds good, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “It does.”
“So don’t worry about anything. We’ll teach you everything you need to know—how to use a rifle, how to wear the suicide vest, and how to detonate it. You’ll need to be careful to kill as many infidels as you can. Remember that the more you kill, the bigger your reward will be. So we’ll help you learn how to pick the biggest crowd.”
“But what if there are Muslims among them?” I asked, feeling anxious for the first time. “What will Allah do to me then?”
“Don’t worry about that, either. Theirs will be a martyr’s death, just like yours. They’ll go to heaven, just as you will. You’ll save many lives this way. Do you have any more questions?”
I had thousands, but none I could ask. Anwar had been clear about how important it was not to think too deeply about the Qur’an. Perhaps the mullah would say the same thing to me now. Thinkin
g would only make things worse.
The mullah got ready to leave. “We’ll call you in two months, when we’re ready for the next wave of recruits. Then we’ll take you to the camp and train you. You won’t see your family in this life again after you leave, so use these weeks well.”
We said good-bye, and I stayed in the meeting room, listening to the crowd drift away from the courtyard. I watched the way the sunlight tracked across the room, growing ever softer as it did.
It felt strange to have committed to something so momentous, to have made such a significant decision on an ordinary Friday afternoon.
“Everyone has to die sometime,” I said quietly. The familiarity of the words reassured me. I believed them, and I was ready for that day to be sooner rather than later.
After the meeting, I was surrounded by jubilant women. They clasped my hands and exclaimed over me, whispering their blessings as they left. It was a time to celebrate—that was clear. But I did not feel full of joy. I felt the way I did when I realized there was no way Allah was going to provide me with a replacement dress for the one I had given away. I was humbled, yes. But unburdened as well. I had been foolish to think that a dress would appear in my closet, and I’d been just as foolish to believe I could be generous or devout enough to win either my father’s affection or Allah’s rewards.
Everyone has to die sometime.
At least this way I knew my death would be worth something.
9
My father was delighted that his daughter would be engaging in jihad—so delighted that the subject of my marriage was dropped. Not that he ever said this to my face. He and I were hardly ever in the same room, let alone in a position to have a real conversation about marriage, jihad, or anything else. But I knew he was happy—my mother told me so.
If my mother felt differently, she hid it well. Right from the moment I volunteered for jihad, a close bond had formed between us, even closer than usual. She’d laid her hand on my back as soon as I volunteered, and in many ways, it felt as though she had never removed it.
She and I had always spent a lot of time together, whether it was in the workshop or cooking together in the kitchen. My mother did not play favorites, but there was no denying she had a closer relationship with me than she did with my other siblings. My two elder sisters had both married and left home by this time. My younger brother was seventeen and had always been the apple of my father’s eye. My younger sister was close to everyone in our house—to both of our parents as well as to my brother, me, and the two women who came every day to clean the house. For reasons I was never able to understand, she was free in ways I could only dream of being.
“I don’t want you to worry,” my mother said one morning not long after the daras. “You remember what I always tell you, don’t you?”
“Everyone has to die sometime?”
“Yes. Maybe tomorrow I will die too. What would happen to me then? I would face judgment. Would my good deeds outweigh my bad? Or what if I died while I was unclean? Nothing could save me then. Isn’t it better for you to die this way, with no husband and no children, knowing you are doing Allah’s work and you will be swept straight into paradise? We are all born in Islam; we have to die in Islam. When you give this life for Allah, it is no loss—only a benefit.”
I heard nothing from the militants in the weeks following the daras. As time passed, I almost forgot what I’d agreed to. I concentrated on my studies, started a new sewing project, and struggled to help some of the orphans understand calculus. I felt good—almost at peace.
There was no hatred in me. I did not sign up for jihad because I despised America or because I wanted to kill Christians and Jews. As far as I knew, I had never met a Christian or a Jew. I even admired them a little—or at least I admired the tools and machines and medicines they’d given the world.
Of course, I had not forgotten the lessons from the madrassa about how Christians and Jews persecuted Muslims and how they’d killed my people so brutally in Bosnia, Chechnya, and Palestine. But even so, I didn’t raise my hand out of hatred. I chose jihad because of Allah. I chose it because of love. I chose it because I was desperate for my father’s approval.
†
My mother was standing in the courtyard when I returned home from school one afternoon. Two months had passed, and even before she spoke, I knew what she was going to say.
“They called. They will come to collect you next week.”
For the briefest moment, I felt relieved. It felt like the instant a match flares and catches flame—a burst of emotion, a flood of good feeling. At last, the waiting was over. The end was about to begin.
But when I woke early the next morning and walked through the house to begin my first prayers of the day, whatever peace I’d experienced the day before faded. My limbs felt heavy; my stomach twisted as if it were gripped by an invisible vice.
The feelings of dread grew stronger throughout the day.
Somehow, during the two months of waiting, I had forgotten that when I left for jihad training, I would never again return home. Every time I looked at the things around me, from the guava trees in the courtyard to the rickshaws that filled the city streets, I wondered how many more times I’d see them before I died.
I tried to tell myself not to think this way. After all, dwelling on such things would only make me weak. So all through the day, I dug my fingernails into my palms, forcing myself to picture the next life and how beautiful it would be. It almost worked, but as soon as I came back home and saw my trophies on my shelf or the family photos on the wall, the questions came back louder than ever.
Will they remember me? Will they miss me? Will it be as if I never existed?
The only thing I could do was pray.
For well over two years, I’d been offering prayers eight times a day. There were no new prayers to be said, no extra rituals to observe. So I made the prayers last longer. What usually took me ten minutes I’d spin out for an hour. I took extra care as I washed and prepared myself and then repeated every prayer until my mouth felt too dry to speak. I clung to my prayer mat as if it were a life raft and I were alone in the middle of the ocean.
My relationship with my mother was changing too. Her health was deteriorating, resulting in periods of fatigue and breathlessness, but there was more to it than that. Her attitude toward me shifted. She held my hand more often than usual and offered to take me anywhere I wanted to go. She even said she’d cook me anything I requested to eat. I knew that I was going to die. Would she be far behind?
“I don’t need anything,” I said every time she offered me food, keeping hold of her hand. “I just want to stay here with you.”
I thought a lot about Auntie Selma during that week. Had she felt as apprehensive as I did? I couldn’t imagine that she did. She seemed so brave and strong, so happy to be giving her life in jihad. So I did what I thought she would have done and prayed some more. Better to spend time with Allah than to waste my last few days at home eating or walking around the city.
Yet I still felt no peace. Despite the mullah’s promises, I felt sure Allah would cast me away. Even if I somehow took the lives of one hundred infidels, I could not imagine him granting me the kind of riches the mullah said would be mine.
As I prayed, I tried to picture myself kneeling before him, just as I had done before Anwar. Only Allah would be on the throne, and instead of begging for the chance to go to school, I’d be begging for the chance to remain in heaven. I would beg him to show me mercy, to allow me to remain with him. I did not need a mansion with soft, white pillows or a garden with high walls. If Allah would only let me stay with him, I wouldn’t care how humble a corner of heaven I was given. That would be enough.
†
I woke to the sound of the azan, the call for the world to pray. I knew that nobody else in the house would answer it. My mother was too weak, my siblings were too comfortable in their beds, and my father . . . well, I could not remember ever seeing him up to pray at
3:30 a.m. I was glad of it too. I could not imagine sharing the prayer room with only him.
I had been getting up with the cockerels for so long that I was barely conscious as I moved. I slipped out of my room, past my sleeping little sister, and along the corridor to the bathroom. How many more times would I get up for morning prayers before I was gone? And where would I be taken? Would it be far from the city? Would it look like a military camp or a school yard?
I told myself that I wasn’t scared or troubled. I told myself that I was ready. I could die in an accident tomorrow, I thought. I could get knocked down in the street, and what good would that do me? Better to die and receive Allah’s rewards than to die and face his judgment.
In the bathroom, however, I saw something that drained my confidence. Blood. Starting my menstrual cycle meant that I was unclean. Unclean Muslims could not touch the Qur’an, pray, or even touch their prayer mat. I also assumed that unclean Muslims could not go to heaven, and they certainly couldn’t start jihad training.
I was troubled—too troubled to go back to bed—so I continued on to the prayer room. Sitting on the floor, with my mat rolled up beside me, I felt a deep sorrow growing within me. I slouched onto the floor, too sad to do anything else for a while.
I wondered whether, since my tongue was still clean, Allah might listen if I prayed to him in my own language, Urdu, rather than Arabic. “O my Creator, in a few days I will be going for jihad training. I am giving my life to you because you have created me. Please, I’m begging you, don’t send me to the fires of hell on judgment day.”
The words were like dirt in my mouth. How could I talk to Allah as if he were just another person in the room with me? How could I hope to barter with him like this?
As I was praying, my mind began to drift. I wondered about heaven and hell, and whether Allah would be merciful if I, an unclean woman, were to die at that very moment. Where would Allah send me? Had I done enough?
Soon I was dreaming. In my dream, I was in a graveyard. I knew that I had died and my death had not been a glorious act of jihad. Terror coursed through me—I was afraid I would step on the graves and hurt the people still trapped in them. Everything around me was soaked in darkness—I could practically taste it. I was desperate to leave and searched in vain for a way out.
