THE GREEN BIRDS
Bassam.
My one and only brother, he just died this morning. His body scattered
(terpecar2) to piece. A bomb did the job; blood, flesh (daging),
bones, a complete mess. But, my mom-a woman with strong face and a beautiful
pair (sepasang) of eyes- was as happy as when my father, Khalid, met his
Creator three years ago. No tears (air mata). Just a lovely smile and long
prayers at night. Don’t ask why- I seriously have no idea. When all in this
world believed in something such as “mom always love their children more than
anything”, but here it seemed to be different. My mom didn’t look that way. Was
it true? Did my mom hate my brother- and sincerely (sungguh2) let
him blew himself up (meledakkan) to pieces?. But, wahat about my
dad?. Did she hate him, too?
Both my dad and brother were
handsome men.they had nice-treated beard (beard: janggut, jenggot), quite tall,
and loads of strong spirit to kick Israeli troop (pasukan/tentara). Both also
got reported and covered in Al-Jazeera mujahid, CNN. Al-Jazeera called them:
another suicide bomber. They sometimes dubbed (memberi julukan, ex: they dubbed
me “mbah darmo”) such palestian ‘soldier’ as terrorist-a title never given to
the obvious (jelas,nyata) terrorist, Jewish government. Of course it made me confused.
Different meaning exist between mujahid and suicide bomber. Which one was
telling me the truth?
My mom said it was useless (tak
berguna) hopping for the world to be fair- who was the bad guy, who was the
good guy, they would never let us know. She again tried to convince
(meyakinkan) me: all we have to do is fight back. No matter what label the
international media would decide to use for our fight fo freedom; just fight
and fight. Whenever I asked her where
she got the energy, my mom would just look away and fix her eyes up at the sky
and mumbled (berkomat-kamit). I often didn’t capture (menangkap) her words, and I would ask ger brother go
easily. My mom smiled. She replaced the word energy with Allah. Allah did it- He gave ger the power. Not like
rain-drops, but through her beloved husband, Khalid Ahmad.
My father? My mom would mention his
name with the fullest of love as if he was still beside her now. But, was it
true? I could never be certain. Did he really love my dad? If she did, why then
she smiled when he got blown up to pieces? I dare my self to ask such question
to her. I knew I would not get any clear
answer if I was keeping it at all to myself. But before I do so, I had asked
for her permission and forgiveness. My mom seemed to not catch “it” right-until
I spelled what I had in mine. After I had finished the line, my mom looked a bit
pale (pucat). May be she was shock. May be she thought it was about the time to
tell what’s going on around her. I was 9-year-old at the time. But I was not a
child anymore.
“I love them, husain. Never doubt
that for a bit,” she sounded so sad. I started to feel guilty. But, when I said
that she has no pressure to continue, my mom refused. She then told me about
Heaven, Allah, and Mujahid. What Rasulullah said about mujahid, how noble their
position are, how Allah loves them much. That’s why Palestinians were very
eager to go against the Israelis. Even stones-not bullet(peluru)-were enough to
fight with, and then meet your fate(takdir/nasib), see Him in heaven, as
quickly as possible.
“Besides, I never lost your father’s
love, Husain,” she confessed. Syifa has always believed that Khalid bever left
her. He’s not really dead. He’s still alive. My eyebrow were becoming closer,
my forehead wrinkled. How come?
My mom stepped into our house. I
stood up and followed her. My mom entered her room. I decide to wait. Not long
after, she came out with a pieces of paper on her hand. My mom sat on an old
chair we had and handed the letter over to me.
“What’s
this, Ummi?”
“It’s
from your father.”
“A
letter?”
“Read
it.”
“Are
you sure? It is not personal then? It’s for me?”
My mom nodded (Nod/mengangguk tanda
setuju). She then insisted me again to start opening and read it. “It’s also
for you. You will find the answer to your questions like “what-kind-of
answer-this-letter-would-give”, I started to read the letter, line by line.
To Syifa…
How are you today? Ah, silly
question, isn’t?. you know perfectly well: I’m not good in making letter. You
do remember the past, don’t you? When the time to write or speak to our
neighbor or else, to negotiate or else, you were and always will be the expert.
I really can count on you.
But, now, I must do it my self. I
don’t use special technique. I was just counting on my tiny skill. I don’t know
about those writing theories. I would just be honest and write everything
crossed in my brain.
Syifa, today is my final. After this
morning, insya Allah, I would never see you again in this world. I don’t
believe I’m writing such letter to you- al least in the beginning of our
married. I always have beautiful dreams for us. For our children. For our
future…and still do. I never get rid of those thoughts in my mind. As your
husband and a father to our beloved sons, I would make the dreams come true
with my syahid. It feels funny I make promise when I soon would be a breathless
meat. But I believe that you believe: my death is the sweetest way to guarantee
our afterlife. I don’t know if there’s another way or not. But, in this world,
how my dreams would be real? Our land is torched. Our life is torched. We,
Palestinians, are sick with the Israelis-that’s for sure. We must fight. We
must face our nightmares with braveness. Even if the risk is getting injured,
or wounded by bullet or even death.
Jihad is my choice. No one forced me
to do it. I realize that I must fight back. I never asked those Jews to disturb
us. I never asked them to insult our prophet, Al-Qur’an, Al Aqsa, and Islam-but
they did, do, an will. For once in my life, I feel really angry and sure could
do anything to make Israel
pays what they’ve done. I know that you know what I know you perfectly know.
But our kids, Bassam and Husain have no idea what their father were doing in
the past. People would name me bad. I want to explain them that what I do is
for our happiness. Allah loves mujahid. He gives His mercy and heaven to us if
we dare enough to defend Islam.
Syifa, may be you still worry and
feel sad about my death. My life may be over soon in this world. But, I will be
still alive beside my God. Your God, Ours. Allah Azza wa Jalla would take care
of me, insya Allah. Don’t be sad too long. If you want to cry, I would do the
same if I were you. But don’t do it more than three days. On the fourth day,
start a new day with our children. Teach them about Islam. Teach them why
Moslem should help other Moslem. Teach them that death is only about time. We
all would die. All living creatures will-even angels and the devil. It’s not
important when we die. It’s how we die.
Last, I only want to say: I love
you. I always be with you. I’m not dead, once more. May be not by your side.
But I do live somewhere else. With the green birds that bring all mujahid
souls, angels, so close to Arsy, and Allah. It would be nice. I shall wait you
there, Syifa. Tell to our children: I’m ok. They don’t need to worry about me.
They don’t need to worry about my promise. Insya Allah….I still remember and
shall keep it until the time comes-the right moment to fulfill my words to our
family.
Allahu
Akbar
Khalid
Ahmad
I closed the letter. My mom hugged
me and whispered me the birds were real. They really came, picking up my dad
and Bassad, then brought them to reside besides Allah.
Malang, 25 Juli
2015
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