The Life Hereafter

He liked calling himself a pacifist . Although he knew he was more of
a masochist and more of a misfit. But truths rarely sell and the
right delusions can cure any reality.

That evening he was gazing longingly over the barbed wire watching the
shimmering sun fade, again. Getting posted on the Jewish , Arabian
front did not befit his nature, he thought. But no one really lived
according to their nature these days -for living meant sacrificing
ones own nature for God's will.

The mild Mediterranean winds interrupted his day dreams with sounds of
a man trying to make his way to the other side. The infiltrator was
clumsily crawling, cutting and slashing away at the barbed wires .
Swimming slowly through a metallic sea of fishhooks. Then a shot rang
out throughout a valley getting devoured by darkness.

It must be the snipers - patient, sadistic predators. That was the
third casualty this week.

Perhaps a bullet through treacherous traitors was the only way of
stopping the exodus of draft evaders, deserters and defectors. Those
ingrates could have embraced a normal Arabian poverty stricken,
disease ridden death. But the secular side held many a glittering
temptations.

A verse ricocheted through his head with the same intensity as the
night they dragged and drafted him into the Army of God : "O
Believers! What is the matter with you? When you are said: 'March in
the way of Allah', you tend to the earth. Are you pleased with the
life of the world leaving the Hereafter?". Life was a test indeed -
why the deaf and blind refused to accept it - escaped him. Nowadays
the restless youth found little solace in Gods words. Nowadays
stifling pain through some spiritual self satisfaction was not
enough. As far as he was concerned - living or killing - he was
destined to die a spiritual man. Sometimes pain would not have
anything less than delusions.

Meanwhile amongst the coiled steel wires the infiltrator was still
alive and painfully attempting to extract himself from the entangled
bloody mess he had been reduced to- but the more the one struggles the
deeper they sing their hooks. The valley was now reverberating with
laughter from both sides of the border. But it was a strange laughter
- it was almost forced - perhaps pretending to be cruel and jaded
makes you a popular soldier.

Sympathy swam over him. He tried to convince himself that in a world
caught on a fishhook - emotional reactions only yielded bitter poetry
and only the callous could conquer. He told himself that the badly
mauled body deserved to be reduced to a spectator sport.

Then suddenly almost spitefully he broke from his reverie and moved
out of the shadows - rolling like a wave set on freeing his fish
struggling in the nettled net.

The surprised soldiers followed his every move through their sniper
scopes- waiting. They were awaiting the initiator - for perhaps every
act of viciousness needed inertia. Fingers twitched nervously by
their triggers as agonisingly long seconds ticked by, widening the
gulf between what was supposed to happen and what was happening. Then
something broke.

With a crash holy warriors and brave patriots were reduced to guilt
ridden rats . Rats scurrying after salvation, secretly praying for
their victim's survival - earnestly wishing things were different. A
man's conscience can spur strange turn of events. The collective
conscience was smarting with guilt.

As our dreamer walked towards their bleeding target music played in
his head. He sensed his highly unorthodox, anarchic nature and
strangely revelled in it. People like him provided excellent
justification for the need to condition would be patriots and
warriors.

Reaching the bleeding body he caught hold of his collar and
mercilessly tore him away from the hooks . A cry of pain issued from
the mangled body, a loud clanking of metal , sound of tearing cloths
followed by a sigh as the body went limp from unconsciousness. The
deed was done - now it was all a matter of escaping the scene of the
crime before the valley exploded in a guilt ridden conflagration of
staccato music.

As he lifted the body on his shoulders burst with relieved cries of
victory on both the sides. He hurried away from the border feeling the
heat of fury of guns awakening with a defeaning roar. The rats were
raging against their cages again.

He carried the body to the stream - it was softer than he had
imagined. Then the helmet slipped off revealing luxuriantly long hair,
rouged lips, eyeliners and an arresting fragrance. A woman. He lay her
down.

Life lay bleeding beautifully. The rising moon was mercilessly
exposing a fragility tainted. Now he really wanted to save her. Was
she not tempting?

Maybe she was tempting, or maybe he was seeing a woman after a long
time. He clumsily dressed her wounds and sprinkled water on her face,
desperately wanting her to see that he was trying to save her.

The fake eyelashes fluttered and her soft brown bloodshot eyes peered
through. She groaned and sat up, resting her back to the tree by the
stream. The torn fatigue revealed a latex bra and silver chains. He
stared awestruck, patiently awaiting knighthood but she was too busy
assessing the damage. He offered her water .

She looked at him indifferently and then gasped crying , "I am
bleeding" .

"Do you want me to get help?" he asked

"No ..." she said with fear in a pleasantly throaty voice .

"Why did you ....? "

"I needed work ..." she answered undoing her uniform and the bandages
to reveal more latex and bare skin - but seeing him eye it curiously
hurriedly added "I used to be a teacher ..."

He looked again at the tear wading through the layers of cheap
cosmetics and he understood.

"The purists are hard on working women" he said.

"They rounded up all my sisters," she continued referring to her
coworkers, "... some they married off to be reformed others they sent
to the Royal Palaces ... "

It did not come as a surprise, what the spiritual condemned as immoral
could be easily sanctified if it served their own expansionist
ambitions. That was the problem with the abstract and the divine - you
could justify anything as long as you philosophized or lied about it
often enough.

"So why run away, don't you like the steady, settled life of a
housewife..." he inquired.

"I love sex ... I love men ... I love life, indiscriminately ..." she
answered as though pain and impending death had made her bolder. He
was taken aback, she was quite unusual for him.

A verse echoed in the back of his head "The availing of the worldly
life is very little in comparison with the here after ...". He perhaps
loved life too -perhaps even as indiscriminately and as wantonly as a
whore.

He looked around embarrassed, wondering what to ask next when he
blurted out:

"You are rare ... I love women too," he confessed, she smiled "but one
must always get it approved by God, and ones parents , for without
marriage it would be immoral - are you not afraid of diseases ?" he
added quickly.

"Death and disease would be better than the hell they have created for
us," she said pain flashing across her face.

He understood the moments when life in this world became a
burden. God, country, society and love demanded self sacrifice - but
what if you live after sacrificing yourself ? What strange sacrifice
they demand - again, and again and again.

They say sinners in hell are punished and then reborn to be punished
again. Life is hell. Perhaps what makes it worse is hope. No matter
how many times you say it is not to be, no matter how many times you
tell yourself that happiness is in the hereafter, life's miseries are
fleeting, hope returns - stubborn, alluring, tempting, satanic
hope. Hope of happiness in this world, hope was such a tiring
addiction.

"Yes, life is grand if you do not weaken ... and I would rather die
than submit... " he said bitterly , almost resonating with her on the
same wavelength.

Her bleeding was worsening but so was the artillery fire.

"Are you sure you don't want me to get help?" he asked anxiously.

"No, besides this religion needs warriors ... not immoral, hell bound
sluts like me," she replied with a smirk.

Something sympathetic snapped, "Don't say that - I need you , we will
leave this place together ... a new beginning, aesthetic living ... "
he said with helpless despair.

It was her turn to be surprised, "Don't worry , you will find someone
...Do you believe in love?" she asked.

"It is hard to believe in anything after what we are made to believe
..." he hesitated, "... what does an orgasm feel like when you are
...umm...with someone ... " his voice trailed off, as he grew red.

"I die ... and am reborn everytime ..." she replied smiling , her eyes
glazing over with distant memories. By the sound of it the fighting
seemed to be intensifying.

"You have been to the other side before ?" he asked with urgency in
his voice and she nodded in approval .

"What is it like? Is it anything like they say it is ? " he inquired
with pressing need and then without waiting for an answer, continued,
"... I would like to be on the other side, I would like to be around
music and women, I cannot take anymore of this... ". His features
twitched as conflicts surfaced on his face. A face that screamed of
unrestrained desire . Desire for pleasure untainted by some spiritual
disdain for life.

A burning need for happiness. Happiness with people celebrating
humanity. No more pain, no more misery and shame.

Then without warning he collapsed on all fours and crawling as one who
had trudged an eternity in the desert heat he heaved closer. Meekly,
lovingly he rested his head in her lap. She sighed as he lay there
staring at the stars. He was dreaming his champagne dreams, of
strawberry fields lavender and cream. He dreamed so hard and so long
that reality cowered in fear.

Her tears mixed with the sprays of the stream bubbling nearby,
dampening his face. She ran her fingers through his hair, anticipating
and biting her lower lip she smiled at him with wonderment in her
eyes. Then she lowered her head to plant a fond peck on the forehead
sending tiny shivers up his spine.

He stared at the heavens. A part of the horizon occasionally lit up but
if you focused away from the crimson side of the sky, you could see
the moon besieged by the darkening clouds. Then the breeze blew in an
aroma that overpowered the rancid smell of charred bodies and
stingingly, sulfurous gunpowder.

He suddenly realized that this is all he had ever wanted. "Please
..." she whispered in a voice laced with longing. He tried to hide his
surprise before he boldly reached up for her face and kissed her on
her mascara laden eyelids. They kissed. For a moment they were content
with devouring each others lips as they clung to each other.

He felt her hands clawing away at his clothes with a pressing need.
When her fingers tugging at his buttons
failed he assisted with the tearing urgency of a madman.

The guns roared in the background almost drowning the sound of two
hearts pounding a dirge.


He felt her body go limp once again as she rasped a sigh
for the last time. The moon glowed warmly upon a face relieved after
years of anticipation. But before submerging in a sea of dark clouds
it cast one more marble white beam on wasted youth and broken dreams.

Then there was rain, lightening shredded the heavens and he rose with
feelings like a knife to cut open the sky's vein.


He lifted her in his arms and headed for the border. He grabbed a
canister of diesel fuel off of an overturned armored vehicle as he
carried her back to where he had found her.

Soon he was bleeding over the sharp barbed wire biting into his bare
body - in the middle of no-man's land. It had begun to rain hard. The
bullets flew obliviously. Then a flash of lightening alerted the
warring parties of the presence of a seemingly deranged man soaking in
the rain, busily dousing a corpse in fuel.

All search lights cut through the sheets of rain to focus on the naked
stranger setting fire to a razor wire shrine. Her body caught fire as
he danced around the bonfire of brambles tearing into him. He was
singing.

Singing some theme from his dreams. One superlative song and
existance stood surprised but the whole world stilled to listen and
the gods in their heavens smiled.

Then facing the Jewish side he stopped and stood there as though
struggling to recollect his thoughts. Hate filled bearded faces filled
his vision, and he began reciting the scriptures "O People, these Jews
are the biggest enemies of believers, ["Ashada al nasi adawatan li
alladhina amanu"] - for they are surely the grandchildren of monkeys
and pigs ["Ahfadu al qirada wa al khanazir"] ..." cheers erupted on
the Arabian side only to be stemmed by his cries of pain. Apparently a
bullet from the Jewish side had broken his knee cap. He collapsed with
one knee bent and collecting her charred remains he turned to the
Arabian side his form silhouetted against the blaze.


He then shouted out a blasphemy against his own prophet. Someone from his
own side pumped lead into him - bullets went tearing through his
thigh, penetrating his cheek and breaking his collarbone. That was
before both sides began target practicing on him.

Minutes passed and he was still alive and stubborn hope was returning-
somethings will never change, things may get rearranged but something
will never change. And just when we shelter under death life comes at
us sideways. Then all that one can do is to stand there looking
backwards half unconscious from the pain. What's a boy to do ?

Rubbing her remains on his wounds he calmly propped the barrel of his
gun against his chin and pushed hard at the trigger. Memories lost
like tears in the rain.