Fan Fiction ❯ Rebus Knight ❯ Survivors of Jihad ( Chapter 1 )

Rebus Knight..........................by ConfirmTheOriginOfFire

A raucous Palestinian boy finds that the projected "glory" of rioting, fanaticism, and killing isn't something he is willing to trade in his life for.

Note: This story is guaranteed to become a very strong, violent, disturbing, emotion-filled story, and perhaps the PG-13 rating is not high enough. It will, at times, express some strong anti-Semantic, anti-Israeli attitudes that I myself do not share with the main character. I'm doing some perspective work here, and any "Go to hell, you racist"-type flames will be an utter waste of time. (Just to let you know, I plan to do an Israeli-perspective story of this type. I don't believe in one-sided coins.) If you are a radical anti-Palestinian, go ahead and flame me, but you can never shut me up while I am here in America.

Story, characters, etc. Ó 2002 by ConfirmTheOriginOfFire. All rights reserved.

-Chapter One-

THE SURVIVORS OF JIHAD

The Israelis had many, many names for him.

Dirty bastard.

Bloody murderer.

Hell demon.

Filthy terrorist.

They bounced right off of his rock-hard hide. No Israeli's words could hurt him when he had the higher word of his family, friends, people, Allah. But he could hurt them. He had that shirt full of rocks that he'd picked up on the Jordan River's bank, near his refugee camp. And he was occasionally able to obtain, through stealing or otherwise, some gasoline, which he mixed up and bottled to create crude explosives which could be easily thrown by him and the other boys his age. It was such a beautiful sight, to see his creation burst and leap into flames, searing the unfortunate beings nearby.

When he turned fifteen, one of the older boys might give him a hand-me-down weapon. Every so often, one of the adults would steal, find, inherit, or buy a top-notch gun, and pass his old one to a younger comrade. He would accept it, then give his old one to an even younger boy. This would continue until it reached a boy who hadn't had a gun to begin with, and he would be newly equipped. Kashim hoped the cycle would reach him soon. Then he'd really be able to get out and teach the Enemy a lesson.

But the fighting was growing more intense, and there were fewer commodities and monies of all sorts among the Palestinians, so bottles of gasoline and new guns were getting harder to come by. Even rocks were getting harder to find. Kashim had no idea what the Israeli authorities were doing with the rocks they picked up from the streets after the riots and uprisings had taken place. They probably threw them back in the river, or put them someplace where they figured Palestinians couldn't find them. But it wasn't like they could hide all the rocks in Israel, and fifteen extra minutes of searching always yielded an equal harvest of projectiles as before.

Today had been especially kind to Kashim. He found almost twice as many heavy rocks as usual, many with viciously sharp edges, and he had heard a rumor that the Hamas terrorist down the street had gotten hold of a new gun. No one was supposed to know he was Hamas, but it was too obvious to everyone, and he eventually stopped trying to hide it. Even his older guns were the envy of many, and his current one a deadly weapon to rival an Israeli sniper. Kashim's adult cousin was in good standing with the Hamas man, and was hoping to obtain his old weapon. If he did, Kashim might get his cousin's gun. But alas! His thirteen-year-old cousin was waiting for one already. He would probably get the old rifle.

"Oh Kashim, have you been out collecting rocks again?" asked his seventeen-year-old sister Amira as she entered. She didn't sound happy about it. With the tables all covered with his arsenal, the answer was obvious. "Um, no," he said.

"Liar. I shouldn't even bother asking. Kashim, you know I don't think it's a good idea for you to always be joining the riots. Just because you're here, and you're Palestinian, doesn't mean you have to do it."

"Well, I have to do it. I'm here, and I'm Palestinian, and I have to do it. Bottom line."

"But-"

"Bottom line."

"I-"

"End of story."

"You-"

"Period. Listen, Amira, there's no use talking about this. Nothing you can say will ever change my mind."

"Mother doesn't want you to go either."

"Wow! You think I haven't noticed?" His voice was dripping with saracsm, yet his expression remained calm and serious. "You women. None of you seem to know about this one little word written in the dictionary, the Qu'ran, the newspaper . . . everywhere! It's called Jihad, Amira, and if I don't follow it I will pay on the Judgement day!"

Amira walked right over to him and stared him straight in the eye. "Now you listen," she commanded quietly but dangerously. "Jihad, Kashim, doesn't have to mean war. It doesn't. Anywhere in the Qu'ran Sura about Jihad, does it say anything about killing innocent people? No! Now tell me, Kashim, tell me what Jihad means. Tell me what it means!"

Kashim grew quiet and looked away. He couldn't bear to look her in the eye anymore. "Jihad means struggle and strife."

Amira sensed what he was thinking of. She decided to utilize it. "Yes. And we had our own Jihad a few years back. You, mama, and me. When our papa died, remember?"

"Of course I remember!" he exclaimed bitterly. "Merciful Allah, woman, do you think I wouldn't remember something like that? I'm not brain-dead, you know."

"I know. But we struggled. We strived. Our mama and me had to go out and get jobs. And we survived. We still are surviving. Kashim, we are survivors of Jihad! They call this war the Jihad, but I know the truth . . . Allah feels shame for the Palestinians!"

Without thinking, Kashim leapt up and slapped his sister across the face. He stomped off to another room before he could consider what he had done. But he did hear her calling after him as he left, not sounfing hurt in the least:

"Allah feels shame for that too!"