Вот, написал тут один наш студент. Его Ислам зовут. Читала я, братцы, это эссе, и думала вот о чем:
Ругаем мы всяко мусульман после терактов, а что чувствуют и как видят это те, кто к терактам не имеет никакого отношения, но вину за теракты мы все же каким то образом, пусть косвенно, но перекладываем на них...
PS. Это первый драфт. Он, конечно работал еще над ним, исправлял ошибки, оттачивал орфографиююю.
Но мне очень хотелось, чтоб вы прочли именно то, что увидела я...


My religion is Islam. This is easy to guess for anybody, even for people who don’t ask me anything about religion. It’s enough if they find out my last name. With this my name and this my religion I am very busy thinking about my connection to my religion and what my faith means to me and also to other people., because I am very busy answering questions and trying to explain all this to so many people. Some of them even listen to me and really want answers. Others just want to attack me or make fun of my religion. Some of them know a lot, some know a little and some know nothing about my religion, but all of them know what the whole world knows, and that is the reason for their questions or attacks and that is why I am very busy thinking so much these days about my religion.
The attacks by terrorists on the morning of Tuesday September 11, 2001 are the reasons of course.
These attacks made everybody think more about religion, I think, and especially about the religion of those 19 terrorists and their organization, Al Qaeda. Everybody has heard that the suicide murderers and their teachers say that their, which is my, religion promises 72 virgins to these “martyrs/shahid”. Everybody has heard about or even seen the web sites showing people in Pakistan, Iraqi and Saudi Arabia, people who said “In the Name of God”, in Arabic, as they chopped off heads, with Islamic banners on the wall. Everybody has heard that Osama and other people say they are leading Moslems in a holy war/jihad against Christians, Jews and Americans.
So many people who learn my name ask me, so fast, what do I think about “these Moslems” or “jihad”. Of course I also ask myself: how is it possible that these men and women are doing so many horrible crimes in the name of my religion.
I remember most of all the night after September 11. Our school was closed that day. We saw the horrible pictures all day on the TV. I tried to call my Mom and so many relatives in Bangladesh. My Mom said, “Thank God you’re ok, thank God” and she cried. I cried. We couldn’t answer each other’s question: “How is this possible?” We asked it the way we asked about the floods and typhoons that came and killed millions in Bangladesh.
My neighbor Joe came when it got dark outside. It was usually so cozy in our living room with the TV, snacks, little tables and lots of pillows on the couch and chairs. But our home was like a strange place that night. I felt strange, like I had no job, nothing to do, no ways to make any plan, no way to even think about a future. Now I think that maybe that is how homeless people feel.
Joe finally asked me: “How could your people do this?” Or did he say, “How could you people do this?” I’m not sure, really. I want to think he said the first, because I like him and he is almost 90 now and very lonely. But I’ve heard the second too. I hadn’t asked myself that question before Joe asked me. I hadn’t thought of the hijackers as my people. I thought of them as hijackers, terrorists, killers, evils and crazies, as members of Al Qaeda. But I’m not any of those, so of course they are not my people.
But the question didn’t come from my thoughts. Joe knew that I’m not an Arab, too. He knew I wasn’t in any of those things that the hijackers were. But they were young men, like me, and also like me they were Moslems.
My religion, our religion united the 19 hijackers and me: that’s what Joe thought and that’s what many people thought, or think. I had to think now about what my Islam means.
My easy answer was, “They say they are Moslem but they are not.” Joe listened and quickly continued: “Oh, what, were they Jews? Or maybe Buddhists?” Joe wasn’t smiling and nobody was looking at the TV now. I felt so alone. Even I felt afraid. I was thinking, am I still everybody’s friend? Why are they staring at me? What did I do?
The hijackers made the name of my religion so famous. But they showed the world an Islam that is their own invention. When I started to hear Joe’s questions that night, and during the next days when I heard many more questions, my life became like a big question for me. What was real? What did I know about my own religion? What did my Huzur, my religious teacher, really teach me? Before a month passed I felt so sad and angry, disgusted, when I saw pictures of crowds in Dhaka, screaming and carrying posters of Bin Laden. Some of my relatives look like the people in those crowds- they have big beards, and wear the religious clothes like caps and long shirts we call “punjabis”. In school I heard one colleague say: “Look at these crazy people…!” I thought for sure he understands that they are crazy because of their posters and what they mean, not because of their clothes and beards and what they mean.
But I started to think more and more about my religion. Islam came to me from my parents and all older members of my family. I leaned when my Aunt was sick and I was about three that it was good to say and repeat and repeat some special words when everybody was sad. I learned “Sorry” and “Forgive me” as ways to more quickly end beatings and get hugs again. How much my family loved me I learned many times? Once, before I even went to primary school, I came home after sunset. Everybody was crying for me until they were sure I was ok; then the beating started
I didn’t like feeling small, alone, weak and helpless, forced to stand on the darkest, southern edge of our pond/pukur, close to the jungle, crying until a big brother would come for me. I ran away twice, during afternoons when nobody was looking for me. I ran away and came back. Nobody even knew what I had done.
Now I was asking myself about my religion. I felt like running away when I heard other Moslems actually supporting Osama. In summer 2002 I was in a modern air-conditioned shop in Dhaka near our biggest mosque, buying post cards for my friends. I couldn’t believe it when I saw the shop boy carrying Osama posters to the cashier for one man, maybe 20, dressed in blue jeans. I smiled at him and asked, “So, do you support Al Qaeda?” He looked at me, not smiling, and just said “Well, I’m Moslem”. When the driver of a bus I was on traveling from our famous sea beach Cox’ Bazaar made a snack stop, I bought bananas and cookies from a little shop which was a mini Macy’s. I didn’t want sunglasses, cassettes, Viagra or a cuckoo clock, but I did want a pen. I still have the pen the man held out to me. It has pictures of Bin Laden on it. I asked that smiley salesman if he liked Bin Laden. He smiled and said “We all like Bin Laden, we’re Moslems.” I felt cold, lonely and afraid, there in the summer sun with so many noisy little kids and busy Moms all around me. Was I a Moslem, really? Who was crazy here?
I didn’t doubt my religion, because I know that my Mom and Dad gave me their religion. Their Islam is their religion and mine. I feel safe and strong with the peace of love from my Parents and my Religion. My religion is about letting go of fear and hatred and pride and lies and anger. We—my people, Moslems like me—try to do what my friend Patricia says Catholics like her try to do: “let go and let God”. We give up, we surrender to God and we admit we are Nr. 2 and God is Nr. 1. When Patricia was explaining this to me when her Mom was in the hospital, I was thinking about when my Uncle was so sick and I was bringing him to the village hospital along a dirt road in a rickshaw with a tired, old driver. I never had met any Christian at that time, but the prayer Patricia told me about, with “Thy will be done/On earth as it is in heaven” was coming out of my lips again and again even as I was secretly hoping that my wish would come true and my Uncle would be Ok.
My religion helps me to find myself, wherever I go. I am sure of our earth, of all people, of a heaven and a hell, made by God. And I am sure as a Moslem that I don’t really know anything about God. But I believe. And as a Moslem I know that it’s ridiculous to fight about our beliefs and opinions. My Mom always said, “You can argue about anything you want, but first make sure you know what you’re talking about.” She was smiling as she said that, even this summer, when I tried to convince her that I’m still not ready to get married. She put her right hand across my mouth, not with a slap but so gently, reminding me.
Jihad? My neighbor Joe asked me: “What about your jihad?” Or as it “this” or “their” jihad? My own memory now is so full of this word and questions about it, I’m no longer sure how he asked. My answer: “Jihad, yes. Always.” Joe just looked at me, his mouth open. I didn’t torture him long. “I love jihad, Joe. Jihad means “trying hard” to do better, to make people happy, to make God happy, and to make the world happy.” Joe didn’t smile, not yet.
But he would, much later. And I hope many more people will when they understand: no terrorist is “my people”, no terrorist is “a Moslem like me”, no terrorist is making jihad.