No Mercy

 

Sarah Ibrahim

 

 

I began exercising my rights as an American citizen in earnest when I was 12 years old. During lunchtime at school, a few kids in my class placed thumbtacks on my teacher’s chair (an old trick). She was understandably very upset when she sat on them. Not having DNA and fingerprint testing at her disposal, Ms. Hana issued the ultimatum that unless those who had committed the act came forward, she would be forced to punish the whole class. We had until the end of the day to produce the guilty persons. The next day Ms. Hana came in and said that we would all be facing detention that day since she had not managed to find out whodunit. I raised my hand and respectfully said that I was sure I was voicing the opinion of many in saying that those who had no part in the act felt the group penalty was unfair. Ms. Hana said that perhaps next time those who were guilty would think again about getting their friends in trouble. I was unsatisfied with her answer and at the end of the day packed my book bag and proceeded to walk out of the classroom as usual.

 

“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

 

“I’m leaving. School is over. I refuse to be held accountable for something I didn’t do,” I replied.

 

My dissatisfaction was duly noted, and I was unceremoniously shepherded back into the classroom and given an even more intensified punishment for daring to argue. I was put in the corner and told to put my hands over my head. As I stood in the corner, humiliated yet defiant, my classmates gave me looks that said, “Why did you speak up? Why couldn’t you just accept it? Detention is no big deal.”

 

Similarly, the Afghani people must now stand and collectively raise their hands above their heads. The difference is that they do it in surrender. The accusation: Guilty by association. Their punishment: Death, mutilation, homelessness, malnutrition and illness. They live under an authoritative military regime that harbors a mass murderer and so they must pay. I quietly raise my hands above my head as well. I am just as guilty as they are. I live in the country that harbored Timothy McVeigh. I gave taxes that paid for his education. I too am guilty by association.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

I am silent. My heart is too heavy to say anything. The gravity that pulls me down to the ground with my knees up against my chin, pulls the tears from my eyes. You see, the Afghani people are not silent. It is hard to keep a hungry child quiet. It is hard to silence the cries of a mother who has buried yet another child who has died of thirst. I look at the tears falling into my hands. I wonder if tears can be collected for drinking.  

 

* * * * * * * *

 

I write not about religion, nor do I write about the guilt or innocence of a man who was never given a trial to begin with. If I did write about such topics I would be writing in vain since I am no “expert on terrorism” like the journalists Steve Emerson and Judith Miller* who so insightfully saw the “fingerprints” of “Islamic Fundamentalism” mere minutes after the tragic Oklahoma City Bombing. I cannot claim to have the same sense of justice as our former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright who concluded that half a million dead Iraqi children is “a price worth paying”.

 

So I choose instead to write of something that must stir any heart that rests in a human body. My grandmother is a wonderful story-teller, and she particularly likes telling us, her grandchildren, stories that relate to our Arab heritage. She once told us the story of a powerful king in ancient times who was characterized as being just and fair. His name was Mo’tassem. He had strong economic ties with the country neighboring his. One day he received reports that cries were being heard from a garrison in the neighboring country. The cries were a woman’s who was repeatedly saying: “Wa Mo’tassemaa”. This Arabic phrase translates into a desperate plea for help to the righteous king. After some inquiry, it was found out that she had been kidnapped and was being kept in the garrison against her will to satisfy the lusts of the soldiers stationed there. The story goes on to say how the king risked his good ties with his neighbor to save this one woman whose cries could be heard from so far away.

 

The cries of the Afghani people can be heard from even farther away. They manage this by the sheer number of people pleading for help. They entreat the world to show one ounce of mercy to lives that have seen nothing but pain and destitution. So why aren’t we hearing their cries? I am tempted to go look up some numbers about Afghanistan so that I can say x number of people have died, and y number of people are homeless, and z number of people are sick, and the list would go on. I resist the urge because I realize it would be a failed attempt to quantify a human disaster. I don’t put the numbers down because I couldn’t explain to an Afghani woman that her dead husband was in this column of figures, while her dying child was in another. I don’t put the numbers down because I am afraid that another government official will go on record as saying that the numbers are “a price worth paying”. We are bartering in blood. I heard someone commenting on a radio program that Americans have to decide how many Afghanis need to die before we can consider our need for revenge satiated. He wanted a number. That’s all they are: finite, discreet integers. I have to run to the toilet. After all, I cannot throw up the healthy, balanced, nutritious meal I just ate on my clean carpet. It would ruin the look of my nice warm apartment.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

I go to buy something at a store and the cashier asks if I would like to donate something to the world trade center relief fund. “Of course,” I reply “but if I can, I would also like to donate something for the Afghani relief effort.” I get the answer I am expecting. Sorry, we are not collecting any money for Afghanistan. I ask myself why I would ever expect anything different. We sign multi-billion dollar federal bills and collect money to clean up a national disaster while we cause another one someplace else.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Revenge. What a universal concept. “Let’s go get’em, the bastards.” “They wanna kill Americans and scare us? Well, we’ll show ‘em who’s boss!” Now is “the time to show unity,” seems to be the national call. Stand with our president as he goes after the bad guys. Stand with our president as he launches a campaign of terror. Stand with our president as he launches a war that will make the death column of the past few weeks grow longer and longer. The president asks me: are you with us or are you against us? I don’t know, is my answer. The tears of the Afghani people are blurring my vision and impairing my judgment.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

On the news there is a report of how soldiers have written the names of those who perished on Sep. 11 on the missiles that are being dropped on Afghanistan. I wonder if the same was done on the atom bomb dropped on Hiroshima. I can’t help but think that I would hate to have a piece of metal with my name written on it pierce a body and kill it.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

The American people are angry. Understandably so. The Afghani people are bearing the brunt of that anger. That I do not understand. From a few thousand miles away, where the sounds of bombs falling cannot be heard and the screams of dying people can be ignored, perhaps we can justify this outrageous war. Many people will do so in an attempt to sleep at night. Others, like me, will go to bed with a little less hope in our hearts and a little more sadness.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

We are now being fed a diatribe of righteous indignation and are told that war is our only option in the fight against terrorism. Not only is it the only option, it is the only patriotic option. Whoever speaks out in opposition is labeled a traitor and put in the “them” category. So be it. I hereby, officially, register my opposition to the war effort against the people of Afghanistan. I register my opposition to a bombing campaign that will “regrettably” result in civilian casualties. I do not want my tax money to kill a child. Is that so much to ask?