They are in prison with no bars yet others like to think that they are free when they are not because freedom entails doing what you want when you want and they do not have that. They must first report and be granted permission to do whatever they want. If that isn’t prison, what is?
The biggest lesson I have learnt in my existence is that people’s points of view differ, and what you perceive as the truth might not necessarily be the truth and it’s okay to have an opinion of someone or something in your head, but what’s not okay is to project that opinion onto other people and make them believe your opinion is the truth.
I like using coins to illustrate what I mean. When you toss a coin, the outcome is either head or tail; there’s no middle ground but still it works so well together. So wildly different yet both needed, valued and respected. A coin is not complete without both sides. I would like to think that is how we should be, you know? But that is the thing, it is my thought and not reality so let me toss my hypothetical coin and see where it lands. It’s a lot of work but let’s start with the head shall we?
Yusuf is the head. He’s the protagonist of our story anyway, and before I go any further, I would like you to know that he is a devout Muslim who does not go to the mosque to pray or fellowship with his Muslim brothers because he is dogged by a stigma: he is a terrorist’s grandson. I prefer to see him as Yusuf the doctor, teacher, friend and talented human being, but sadly the right to be treated as a human being was denied him even before he was born because his grandfather succeeded in his terrorist plan to blow himself up in a park and kill other people in the process.
You know, we never really think about what happens to the families and friends of terrorists after the attack. Do they live normal lives or half-lives because of shame? Maybe some of them are praised by their families and others who support the terrorist act? Well, in Yusuf’s case, after it was revealed that it was his grandfather who detonated the bomb, a mob descended on his father as though he was the one responsible. They showed him no mercy. His scream, the fear in his eyes and his eventual murder will never leave some people’s hearts and minds because he was innocent, but others thought that the sins of the father follow the son and that’s why he had to die.
Yusuf was deprived of the chance to grow up with his father because his grandfather made a choice that was not fair or right. But who spoke up to put a stop to what was happening to his father? Everybody watched as his father was stripped, paraded around naked, beaten and cursed because of something he had no hand in. If this is humanity, then maybe we would be better at being animals because among those who watched his torture were his friends and neighbours and none of them showed mercy.
I know you’re wondering where Yusuf was and how he escaped harm. Well, he was safely ensconced in his mother’s womb. His brother was not so lucky: he was killed by a “mysterious” gunshot wound. Can you believe that? His mother almost died while giving birth to him but she fought hard and succeeded. Yusuf is alive, striving every day to atone for his grandfather’s sin but it was just so hard. Some days he struggled. He had thought of taking his own life several times but did not. He could not let them win.
He lived and became a doctor and a teacher, determined to make a difference but it was difficult to shake the stigma. Some patients did not want him to treat them, and it makes me wonder if it’s because they think terrorism is communicable or hereditary. I don’t get it.
There was a time Yusuf was arrested because it was thought he would bomb a mall because he was carrying his son’s black backpack. Really? Because every Muslim carrying a black bag is a terrorist or was it because of his peculiar history? The tragic thing is that the traumatic cycle continues with his son who saw the brutality meted out to his father because of his bag. Being the extraordinary human that he is, Yusuf forgives even before his traducers apologise. He leads with love and is one that believes that two wrongs will never make a right and still sees the humanity in people despite everything.
Yusuf had received overtures to be radicalised. He ignored such overtures but was caught between a rock and a hard place. He could not report the overtures because he would not be believed yet he could not leave the country because he was a high-risk individual. He too was a victim of his grandfather’s actions but nobody seemed to care.
And that’s the story of Yusuf, our head. In spite of the hand he was dealt in life, he and his family decided to move beyond their experiences and live a happy life.
Today Yusuf, his wife and son want to try the new trains. As is required of them, they report their movement to the security personnel. They are in a prison with no bars yet others like to think that they are free when they are not because freedom entails doing what you want when you want and they do not have that. They must first report and be granted permission to do whatever they want. If that isn’t prison, what is?
They were lucky enough to be given permission because it’s Christmas and they’re just glad to be out and about. They look great in all their Christmas finery even though they do not believe in the season. They bought their tickets and settled in for the journey not knowing what lay ahead.
Seeing his son play with other kids at the train station gave Yusuf hope. Hope that little Azman would not suffer the segregation he did. Hope that maybe someday his bloodline would be free of judgement, that one day they would be free to do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. For the time being though, he enjoyed the moment. His joy was short-lived as a woman passed by and hit his son. Yusuf felt bad but didn’t confront her because that was not who he was.
The woman is ironically named Peace: the irony being that she was on the train to cause mayhem. She was there to bomb the train. Here, ladies and gentlemen, is our tail. Remember the coin?
Peace’s trauma is different from Yusuf’s but in a sense is the same, because even though they do not know it, they are intertwined and connected. The day Yusuf lost a grandfather and a father, she also lost everything. Her parents were victims of Yusuf’s grandfather’s dastardly act. She had to live with her grandparents who carried their own burdens from the irreparable loss and were too old and broken to raise her.
She went to the best schools and generally lived a good life but nothing could make up for the lack of parental care. She railed at the world for taking her parents from her and nothing would placate her. In place of a heart, she had a cold mass of tissue in her chest. She was cold and unfeeling. Her family was scarred by the event that took her parents and blamed Muslim terrorists for it.
Peace had always been fond of her mother’s younger brother, Uncle James. Their grief made them even closer. At ten, she convinced him to burn a nearby mosque and as she stood and watched it burn, she felt an odd excitement at the power she had.
In her teens, Peace sought and found like-minded people who believed in a new world order and their role in birthing it. Her newfound friends preyed on her pain and fed her anger because that’s what people like that do. They find broken, vulnerable people and give them false hopes and mould them into whatever their movement needs, creating an invisible army of pliable people waiting to carry out instructions. So Peace did her bit, believing she was avenging her parents’ deaths.
Peace wanted children though. It is hard to reconcile this cold-hearted person with her desire to have children. She wanted to bring children into the world, not as it is but a world which she and her ilk would rid of all the ills they had identified. Stupid, right? Well, not to Peace. Her pain and resentment made it difficult for her to think reasonably. Unlike Yusuf, Peace was free as a bird. Free to do whatever she wanted to. However, her own prison bars were the pain and resentment she refused to address.
The plan is for her to bomb the train and kill as many people as possible. Because of porous security measures, it was easy to smuggle her deadly package on board. Sitting down facing Yusuf, she has no idea how closely connected they are but she’s just waiting to carry out her assignment. Azman came up to her and touched her saying he was sorry for standing in her way. For a moment, she felt warm inside. It was sad that he too would have to die. It was for the greater good.
She saw Yusuf and his pregnant wife Farida smiling at her as Azman held her hand, and for a moment she thought she might have a change of heart. For a moment she thought she might change her mind. At that instant, the train started moving and the die was cast. It was too late to turn back. She consoled herself with the thought that their deaths simply meant a translation to a place happier than this wretched earth. Unlike her, the baby in Farida’s stomach and Azman would have their parents for company. She had had no such luck when her parents were taken from her.
So, ladies and gentlemen, this is how it came to be that for about an hour, both sides of our coin were in the same place. As Peace went to the bathroom to prepare for the attack, she had no idea that there was another player in the game. Ali was his name. He was on board the train with a vest bomb under his clothes.
Ali stood up in the aisle of the cabin, showed his vest bomb and ordered everyone to get out their phones and start recording. In panic and fear everybody obeyed and started to record. I guess Ali wanted to go viral in death, his own definition of bowing out in a blaze of glory. People were praying, crying, screaming, yet recording.
Oblivious of what was going on, Peace burst into the cabin with her crude bomb, screaming at the top of her lungs. Everyone and their phones turned to look at her. All did not seem right and it took her a few seconds to make out Ali and his vest bomb. Confused, Peace and Ali started at each other. They went back and forth in a scene that was part horror and part comedy. You would think that because their objectives were similar, they would get on with it, right? Wrong. They argued and argued. Their differences were in the details. Ali wanted to be recorded but Peace didn’t.
Yusuf took in the horror of what was playing out before him calmly. He knew what he had to do. He hugged his wife and kissed his son and stood up. His bravado was cut short summarily as he was rewarded with a bullet to his leg. It did not stop him though. As he lay on the floor bleeding, he spoke to Ali and told him his life’s story. As he was speaking, his wife was sobbing. Peace too was sobbing as she realised that they were both actors in the same story even though they did not know it.
As all the dramatis personae on the train listened to Yusuf and wondered why he wasn’t broken or angry at the world for making him live like an animal, for making him bear the weight of all their insecurities. Peace was tempted to ask but she did not. She was looking at a descendant of the man responsible for the mess her life was. For years she had cursed him but seeing him in flesh and blood did not elicit the strong emotions she thought it would.
After countless thoughts, she asked him how he was able to live so positively despite everything. Yusuf’s response was that he did not want to relive the pain and the greatest gift he could give his family was by being the best version of himself he could be.
He looked at Peace and Ali and told them that if they went ahead with their plans, they would be subjecting their families and friends to the same trauma he went through and it would never stop because it is a never-ending cycle filled with so much pain.
Ali thought for a moment and then said he had nothing to lose and that death was just his luck. Besides when he died, he would be free and in heaven with his family with no more pain. Why then should he continue living a life not worth living? Sound reasoning, isn’t it?
Yusuf’s entreaties did nothing to sway the bombers. They separated the hostages and blew themselves and the passengers up. They achieved their intent.
Yusuf died as a saint who projected love and peace despite all he went through and I hope we all follow his footsteps and earn our wings for paradise. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the end of my story.
THE END.
A masterpiece.
Thumbs Up
Nice
Keep the fire burning dear
That’s a good moral lesson and continue aiming higher.
My boss
Such a good execution
Keep it up