Jihad and Chicken Pox

I was hardly thirteen and had two problems. Firstly, I was continuously embarrassed by the hard thing in my thighs that always gave away itself in lose Shalwar Qameez, and secondly what to do during long vacation that are to follow the 8th class board examinations, as in Dera Ismail Khan, where my father was posted, there were not much choices.

The first problem was solved by my father, when he handed over to me some boxer shorts, and told me to wear it at all times, while for second problem I thought it better to defer it till the end of exams. Meanwhile, I searched for the options, as I wanted these vacations to be memorable.

I had a friend in school whose name was Waheed. We were friends for almost last two years and got along very well. It was a great friendship of a hardy Pathan boy of Mahsud tribe of Waziristan, and a Bhatti Rajput from Wazirabad. When I discussed my problem with him, he told me that he is planning to go to Khost in Afghanistan for Jihad and insisted that I should do the same. I immediately agreed, but told him that I needed to ask my parents. Being a thirteen year old, I was more than certain that my father will also warm up to the idea. I still remember that in my equation of life my mother was no where despite all her love and devotion. Now, I do not believe myself that this was the way how I thought of women in those days.

I approached my father with my idea of utilizing vacations, and got what I deserved; a good bashing with a red face and a strong worded lecture. I did not speak with my father for next couple of days, and was very upset while conveying this news to Waheed. After about two days, he took me to person named Rasheed in suburbs of the city, who was a member of Harkat-ul-Mujahideen. Waheed told him my problem, which he listened carefully. Then he asked me what languages I can speak. I told him that I can speak Punjabi, Urdu and Saraiki and a fair bit of Pashto. Then he asked me whether it is true that I was among the top debaters of my school and had represented my school in inter school debates. I nodded in agreement and stared at Waheed, who could be the only reason that he knew all this.

Then he made speech about Jihad, and how it is the duty of every Muslim to participate in this. Then he went on to explain the role and place of parents in Islam, and how one should always respect them. He further explained that submission to parents is compulsory as far as this submission does not hinder in fulfillment of our religious duties and that include Jihad also. He then handed me a pamphlet that addressed the question of parents’ approval in matter of Jihad, and also gave me a badge of Harkar-ul-Mujahideen, which remained with me for next couple of years. He told me that I would be a great asset to the Islam as my oratory skills can be used to motivate people about Jihad.

Now equipped with newfound wisdom, all my confusions were gone, and I was waiting for the exams to finish. We had planned that after the exams, we will pack all our stuff and will just disappear from home with Rasheed. We discussed all the details and the day was chosen, which was after two days of the last paper.

During the last two papers, I was feeling stomach pain, which I attributed to dahi bhallas of Bhatia bazaar, of which I was very fond. When I reached home after the last paper, I was having fever. By the evening I also noticed red rash on my abdomen. My father took me to a doctor, who diagnosed chicken pox, and told my father to keep me away from other children. Waheed came to see me, but my father did not allow him for his own good. After about two weeks, when I was fully recovered, I went to Waheed’s home to find that he has gone missing.

Waheed came back after about one month, and told me that it was not a very good experience as nobody allowed him to fight because of his age. He was given responsibilities of helping the cooks there, which was not a very fascinating job. Time passed by and we went on our own ways. I went to college, made new friends who made me interested in usual teen age things instead of AK-47s. Waheed also joined the college, but he kept disappearing frequently and for longer durations.

In 1992 I received his last telephone call in Abbotabad, where my father was posted in 1991. He told me that he will come to Abbotabad and will meet me on his way to Kashmir, where he is going for Jihad. That’s the last time I spoke to him. In 1994, I came upon a story of a group of Mujahideen in Urdu Digest, which was surrounded by Indian Army. Almost all were killed and list of names included my dear friend.

Today, when I have my first born son Hassan in my arms, who was born last month, my heart fills with joy and I have tears in my eyes. I thank God for Chicken Pox; I thank my parents for the love of letters they cultivated in me; love of letters, which taught me to think clearly and without prejudices. I thank my wife, in whose love I found that this world is a beautiful place and will remain so if we keep loving and respecting our women.

I had met only one Rasheed, and I only know only one victim of his Jihadi Islam. God knows how many other Waheeds have paid with there lives, and are still paying?