Kevin’s Fate

Mohshin Habib

June 2018

Art & Literature, Story

English

“Please!”

A 32-year-old man was sitting on open sandy surface. His untrimmed face was sweating, two hands were fastened together backwards with yellowish plastic rope. Mordant sunshine was producing sweat on his forehead like hot, salty dews that creeping down into his eyes. It was scalding.

A tall, full-black robed figure, face covered with black kerchief, was standing right in front of him with an automatic rifle brandished, pointing at the sweating forehead of the sitting man. The sitting man was trying his last, begging for his life moments before being shot. “Don’t kill me please, I have a 4-year-old kid. Leave me please for her sake,” he begged.

The armed man said nothing in reply. He moved his right leg slightly. It looked like a robot wearing Halloween outfit that moving by order.

“Her name is Sophia,” The sitting man was trying to bag empathy from the robed figure with the thought that after all, the robed figure with gun is also human being and he might have love for kids.” She is so lovely,” he said again.

“A zombie kid, baby ghost,” this time the ‍standing man said in English with Arabic accent. He slightly downed his gun, pointing at the chest of the sitting man. “Infidels,” he muttered.

The sand underneath was getting warmer. The sun was moving up over the head as sweating was more violently increasing. The sitting man was fighting for eyes to keep opened. He was struggling to see the eyes of the robed man and said, “You know, we are not infidels. We are also people of the book.”

“Stop! Stop lamenting! You Westerners are responsible for all the killing. It will be a sin to let you go.”

“I do not fight against you. I am not your enemy.  I came here to rescue the wounded civilians. It has been a charity work.”

The man now in a cold voice said, “You are responsible in all respect. You people invented nuclear weapons, chemical weapons and all kind of lethal weapons.”

“But sir,” the sitting man tried to make him honored by calling him sir. He heard, during his last three months living in an Arab state capital, that to call someone ‘sir’ is not only generosity, but also highly respectful expression to someone, specially for the masters those rule the populace; those are powerful, or wiser in the society. The call makes them honored. “Had there no modern weaponry, killing would be continued by swords, pole arms and innocent civilians would rather die in Brazen Bull or by impalement.”

“You are wrong as always you have been.” said the man.  “Not at this level of mass killing.”

” No sir…it is not true…”

“Stop, you bastard!”

At this moment, the sitting man saw three more robed figures were approaching. They were laughing and talking loudly among themselves in an unknown language. It seemed it was Arabic. One of them was carrying a Dragunov SVD sniper rifle, another man had a semi-automatic pistol in his hand and the man behind the two was carrying camera-like substance in his hand.  All of them had same attires like uniform. As they came closer, one of them, who led the tiny group,  said, “Assalamualikum.”

The sitting man felt difficult to pronounce the answer what he heard several times from the locals. He replied in English, “Hallo.”

“You are unwilling to reply properly, huh” the man said.

“No sir, I can’t utter your language,” the sitting man desperately replied.

“So, you are not a Sunni, even not a Muslim, right?”

“My brother, but I’m also a member of the people of the book.”

“That does not matter.”  The man said neglectfully.

“I beg you to help me save my life…”

“Don’t worry, we, I mean our group never kill anybody without trial.” You would be freed if not guilty. The trial is starting now, you will be now before a Sharia Court.”

A glimpse of hope appears. The sitting man had no idea how Sharia law works. He, however, thought the system would be better than be punished by any individual’s vagary. It might had have justice system in the light of human rights.  All three of them sat approximately five yards away in front of him. The leader sat in the middle, took the position of a Judge. They recited some Quranic verses together.

They talk among them for a minute or so. They had been helter-skelter in every movement. One of them suddenly asked the same question again in broken English, So, tell us in a word, you are a Muslim, yes or no?

“No.”

“What’s your name?” one of them asked.

“Kevin, Kevin Rein.”

The man in the middle said, “Okay Kevin, the trial is over. The verdict is crystal clear. We have nothing to do with it.” All three of them stood up.

Kevin looked at the leader,  “Am I free to go, sir? I will never come back here.”

The leader was pulling out a long, sharp dagger from a scabbard in his waist and was saying, “I would be glad to make you freed. But there is no way out. Great Allah clearly instructed us what to do. Allah said in Quran, ‘and kill them where you find them, and turn them out from where they have turned you out. The holy Quran clearly says, the punishment of those who wage war against Allah and His messenger and strive to make mischief in the land is only this, that they should be murdered or crucified or their hands and their feet should be cut off on opposite sides or they should be imprisoned.”

Dog tired Kevin realized that they were going to cut his body off or  going to beheading him. In a feeble voice he said, ” Better send me to prison. I beg you.”

 The leader walked behind Kevin saying, “The Shariah court verdict has to be done.” The long sharp knife in his hand was glittering in the midday sunlight. The man softly touched his grey hair from behind. Another man now opened his camera just in front of Kevin. He was prepared to click it. Kevin felt dozy.  He saw Sophia was trying to snatch a camera from her dad. Her mother Linda was smiling in seeing her demand.

The man behind Kevin now strongly tightened his grip.  Kevin heard men bellowing, “Allahu Akbar!”