A Message of Hope- "Allahu Akbar"

 Allahu Akbar

Written: Feb.25/15 for an English class

Posted: Nov. 15/ 15

By: Gabriel Janas 

*All rights reserved to the author*

 Foreword: In the wake of the recent terrorist attacks on Paris, France (on November 13, 2015), the bombing of a funeral in Baghdad, Iraq (on November 13, 2015) , the bombing in Beirut, Lebanon ( on November 12, 2015), and the student massacre at Garissa University College in Kenya (on April. 2, 2015) I have been troubled by feelings of grim despair about the state of the world.  I have long ago given up watching or reading the news as it can drive any sane person to bouts of depression with all the atrocities human beings continuously commit on one another.  Just like 9/11, some news is inescapable regardless of the precautions taken to avoid any such news at all.  I found myself pondering a great many things in my grim thoughts today.  I wondered if the world was gearing up for another massive world war. I thought about my time in Paris in 2006 and made my own personal connection through my memories of the streets and the shops of the city to the events unfolding on the ground. I learned about the bombings in Baghdad and Beirut along with the massacre at Garissa University College and wondered why I was just hearing about these events, and why the media was hardly covering these stories with the same level of interest as the situation in Paris. My thoughts even strayed to the situations of unrest in Ferguson and Baltimore this past two years as the people there continue to fight for their right to be treated as human beings regardless of skin color, and ending police corruption and brutality against African Americans. I thought about all these things and felt the cold hand of despair squeeze my heart and take my breath away like a  great wind passing through my body and out of my mouth, to be forever lost in the world.  I even let the fear and paranoia set in for a minute and questioned those people around me based on their religious affiliation. What if what happened in Paris happens here? What if it's my family or friends that get caught in the madness or even worse, what if they are the one's behind it?  It was in this moment that I realized that the terrorist have won if they are capable of making me feel such fear.  They have won if they can make me question the motives and associations of those people whom I call friends and fellow human beings based on their religious beliefs or what part of the world they have come from.  I can't let them do that though. I'm too stubborn for that and I know what I believe to be right.  I was raised better than that.  I read a few news reports saying that people are blaming innocent Muslims for the attacks in Paris based solely on their religious and cultural affiliation.  That's just plain wrong and stupid.  That's the fear talking.  These people, the regular Muslim people rushing into Europe as refugees from their war torn countries, to the Lebanese or Iraqi family living down the street from you aren't the one's to blame.  They hate the people who committed these crimes against life just as much as you or I do.  They deserve to be treated with the same respect you would give to your own mother. Don't let the fear and paranoia cloud your vision.  They are human beings as much as you or I.  Regardless of the struggle, whether you are fighting for racial equality or the freedom to practice your own religion and live your life in peace, we are all human beings at the end of the day. We all breath the same oxygen, walk on the same planet, and bleed the same color.  We just come in different shapes, sizes, shades and have varying beliefs.  We are human at the end of the day.  That's why I'm writing this post. I haven't written anything for my blog in awhile.  I've been busy with life and other projects, but I feel like today is an appropriate day to put up something new, something that gives hope.  I needed a bit of hope today when my thoughts turned too dark.  I ran across this piece of writing I did for an English class back in February. The whole point of this fictional story was to demonstrate how perception, bias, and the actions of a few people who have an extreme view of the world can change the perception of Western society against the regular people that practice the same religion.  Though the story doesn't end well for the protagonist, I am reminded to have hope once again as I read it. Being a dabbler in all religious faiths I believe that whatever supreme being you believe in or the universe itself is ultimately a place for good. People are the one's to bring evil into it.  This story is a reminder of that belief.  If I want this world to be a better place I should have a little more hope, and trust in my faith and the power of God. So if you need a little hope in the world today please think of the character Jacob in this story.  Think of the way he trusted Allah to see him through, and the kindness he showed to those who helped him attempt to find freedom from persecution and death in his own country, and how he refers to his fellow human being as a 'brother,' even though this person wishes to do him harm.  Jacob had peace in his heart and in his actions towards his fellow human beings.  Who are we to do any less towards our fellow human beings, regardless of who they are or what they believe in?

Raising his face from his prayer rug, Jacob sat upright on his knees and raised his ebony hands up to his ears as he recited the sacred words with the fifteen other men in the room.

“Allahu Akbar,” they intoned in unison.

            Prostrating himself down onto the prayer rug Jacob admonished himself mentally for his lack of focus on his evening prayers. It was sacrilege to pronounce that ‘Allah is the greatest’ during prayer and not feel the intention of his words within his own heart. He was going through the motions of prayer, but his faith had been shattered.

            Raising his dark force from the mat Jacob again intoned the scared words and prostrated himself no – so – humbly once more as he thought back to all that had befallen him since coming to America six months ago. He had arrived in America as a refugee looking to escape the war and disease that had taken hold and spread across his home country of Mali and into the city of Bamako where he lived. He had lost his brother Abdul to the gunshots of militants as they overran the defenses of the city. A month later he had lost both of his sisters, Nadia and Jalila, to the plague that had swept across the city as all water and sanitation had either broken down during the initial fighting or had been contaminated by the rebels during their month long siege of Bamako. After watching his sister’s lifeless bodies burn in the mass graves that lined the outskirts of the city, filled with those ravaged by plague, Jacob had sot refuge at the American embassy two days prior to the rebels overrunning the inner defenses of the city. He was just able to make it on one of the last trucks to leave the embassy thanks to the little English that he had learned in school as a boy. Jacob thought back to the sight of the rebels storming the loading docks as his truck pulled away from the compound with twenty others crammed into the back with him. He remembered thinking that Allahu is indeed great for having spared him that day.

“Allahu Akbar,” he intoned once more with no passion on his lips.

            Fleeing Bamako, the convoy that Jacob had been on had made a long journey through Mauritania to Morocco. Arriving at the American embassy in the city of Rabat he was detained along with the other men and women of his group for questioning about the events that occurred in Bamako. Jacob was assigned to a case worker that he simply knew as Mrs. Walters during his month long debriefing at the embassy. It was during this time that he had first heard the promise of freedom and tolerance that was to be found in the land of the United States of America, and with the suggestion and recommendation of Mrs. Walters, he applied for refugee status and a voyage to America to start his life anew. For three months he toiled away as a janitor in a small school down the street from the embassy, saving his humble wages in preparation for his journey. When the day finally came and all his papers had been approved, he thanked Mrs. Walters with all the gratitude his heart could muster and set off to a new life and a new beginning. As the plane took off from the tarmac he again remembered thanking Allah for his money and fortune.

            “Allahu Akbar,” Jacob intoned, his body rising and galling in mechanical motion as he remembered events unfolding and felt the anger and hatred in his heart grow.

            Arriving in the city of Los Angeles by way of Spain, France, and Canada, Jacob was shuttled to the Moroccan embassy. Once there he was set up with a residence, which he shared with three other refugees, and received work as a janitor in a Christian Church. The next few weeks were a struggle as Jacob adjusted to the pace and language of his new environment, but they also brought with them a sense of peace and comfort which he had not experienced back in Mali. Five weeks after landing in Los Angeles his life, and the lives of many Muslims, changed in the speed that it took for a bird to flap its wing. The cities of New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, San Antonio, Las Vegas and Los Angeles were hit by a series of bombings by a group of individuals claiming to be of the Islamic faith. In the span of a week the United States government had declared martial law over the entire nation and all those who practiced or were believed to be connected to the Islamic faith had been rounded up like criminals and put into camps for questioning.

            “Allahu Akbar,” Jacob intoned one final time with no love left in his heart as he stood up and began to roll his prayer mat up.

            After he had been thoroughly questioned by representatives of the United States government about his activities in Mali and his affiliation to the group claiming responsibility for the attacks, Jacob was put on a bus to Texas. Once there, he was put to work in a factory in the town of McAllen with no pay and the promise of release and transport back to Los Angeles once everything had been ‘cleared up’. A little more than a month had passed for Jacob since he had arrived in this place and no resolution to his situation had arrived.

            Walking out of the room set aside for daily prayer, Jacob and the other men were escorted by armed guards to the mess hall for their evening meal. Walking across the gangplank that overlooked the factory floor Jacob observed groups of his brothers and sisters in orderly groups working to press hot molten metal into cool sheets of steel on the factory floor. Passing another group of men being escorted into the prayer room by armed guards he snarled at the sight under his breath and felt the hatred in his heart fan anew.

            “We are little more than slaves,” Jacob thought. “They keep us in this place, they work us to the bone, with no breaks, or fresh air, and they supervise us like we are criminals because we chose to pray to Allahu. They think that we are like those men who have bombed their cities, but they do not understand that we are not the same. We do not pervert or disgrace the teachings of Muhammad.”

            Lost in his dark thoughts, Jacob fell back behind the last guard as the group entered the mess hall. The guards escorting the men turned away and headed out of the hall which had guards stationed at the two entrances to supervise the detainees. Walking up to the rear of the dinner line Jacob was startled out of his thoughts by the sensation of cool air dancing across his ebony skin. It had been over a month since he had last felt the breeze of the cool night tough his skin and for an instant Jacob forgot where he was and languished in the pleasant sensation of the breeze. As quickly as the sensation had come, it was gone. Hearing the sound of a door slamming shut Jacob turned his head to the source of the noise. A guard had come through a door, tucking away a pack of cigarettes into his pocket, which was unmanned and was the source of the magical breeze that teased Jacobs’s skin. A powerful sense of longing filled Jacob’s being right then. A longing for freedom. A longing to feel the breeze tickle his skin just for a moment longer. So strong was this feeling that Jacobs feet had begun to move before he even had the time to register the complex wave of emotion that filled his heart with a sense of hope and love he had not felt in over a month.

            Walking to the door with the need born of a man who has gone without water for days only to stumble across an oasis in the desert, Jacob walked up to the door and through the other side into the cool air of the Texan night, oblivious to the cries that sprang up behind him. For an infinite moment he stood there letting the breeze wash over him with his ebony face aglow in the light of the moon. Jacob stood there and thought of home, of Mali. The urge to return seized him like a wildfire and quickly and with unnatural ferocity spread to every corner of his mind and body. In this instant he knew that he wanted to return to his native land. It had been a mistake to come to America to escape war. War was everywhere, even in the land of people who believed themselves to be free. The only freedom that was left in this world was the freedom to be home; to be in a place that shared your faith and did not lock you up because you shared that faith with other man who perverted its true meanings.

            “I will go home,” Jacob said out loud to himself. “I will go home as soon as everything is cleared up.”

            The clicking sound of two guns being armed behind him awoke him from his thoughts of home. The sounds of the word “freeze” in a heavy Texan accent pulled him sharply back into the present. Turning around with his ebony hands raised in a show of peace Jacob saw two heavy set military men leveling heir pistols at his face. Behind them, in the door of the factory stood two more guards with guns trained on him and a group of his brothers and sisters crowding around behind them to catch a view of the commotion.

            “You trying to escape boy?” The heavy set guard on Jacob’s right side asked in an angry tone.

            “No,” Jacob replied calmly in broken English. “Peace. I come outside for air.”

            “You’re not permitted to be out here,” the man on the left said.

            “I only want air,” Jacob replied again. “I come for air. I think of home.”

            “Home?” The heavy set guard with the mustache asked. “You want to go home boy? Yah can’t. Not one of yah is escaping on my watch.”

            “No escape,” Jacob said in confusion, his English faltering further. “I come for air. I come to think of home.”

            “You’re not going anywhere boy,” the mustached guard replied jabbing his gun at Jacob for emphasis.

            “Peace brother,” Jacob said as he raised his right hand toward the man in a soothing gesture.

            The loud retort of a gun going off rang out through the night. Jacob felt a sudden piercing pain next to his heart as the bullet ripped through the muscle and bone in his chest. The night air filled with the screams and cries of shock as his body collapsed to the ground, but he could not hear them. A loud whistling had filled Jacob’s ears and visions of Mali and his family danced across his eyes. For a few seconds he felt the stinging pain of his labored breaths, then a radiant warmth filled his heart. Right then he knew he was going home, but no to the home he had imagined.

            With his last breath Jacob uttered the sacred words, “Allahu Akbar.”