Fiction?

I pile the fire wood neatly by the side our hut. The older children laugh playing some secret game. My three old clings to me. My husband rests in the hut. He tilled all morning. Hard work in an unyielding ground.

I stand up brushing the sweat from face. I stretch my aching back. I am with child, but only a few months gone. I squeeze a splinter in my palm. I hear a rumble, and a quiet pud-pud. I shade my eyes. I look into the distance from where the sound comes. The sound has stirred up the hot dust.

A different sweat pricks my scalp. I shout to the children: Run, run. They stop their game and look me alert like deer. I scream, “Junjaweed!” They run. The oldest holds her sister’s hand and runs one way, the boy the other. He turns back and runs to catch up with his sisters. I stand paralyzed watching them.

Soon the dust cloud arrives, camel riders and jeeps. Shooting starts. Flaming torches fly into thatch huts. The torrid air is filled with fatal screams.

I shout for my husband. My husband in sleep haze, not understanding, comes to the door. A car, covered in red dust glides towards me. The car stops. A well uniformed man steps out of the car. His hand goes to his hip. The man draws out his gun and shoots. I kneel by my husband cradling his bloodied head. The man picks up my three year old by one arm. I do not hear my plea. He walks with the wriggling child and throws him into my neighbour’s burning home.

I almost throw myself into the fire to get my son. Two men, black with white teeth, laughing, grab me. Another pulls me back by my hair and throws me on the ground. The three tear my clothes off me. They take turns to hold me and rape me. I feel waves of the hot rippling air of the fires around us.

Soon, it is all over. The invaders are gone, our village is burnt. Our men are dead. I run about searching for my other children. I turn over child corpses. Some speared, some shot, and others still burning.

Perhaps they did escape, my three children.

I find them, one by one — dead.

Fiction — no. Fact — Dafur.

Thailand

The Land of Smiles,

A country of grace and beauty.

On a bright clear Sunday, 5 Jan of 2004, a hundred million paper cranes drifted down gently from the sky, cranes of peace and harmony.

Sixty three million people, minus perhaps 5 million disgruntled Muslims, “origamied” paper cranes of all sizes. 100 million carefully folded cranes with peace messages written in them. One special crane had Mr. Thaksin Shinawatra’s signature. Children and adults scrambled for them as the finder of this crane would enjoy a scholarship. It was also King Bhumiphol Adulyadez’s 77th birthday.

But the critics called the gesture a gimmick. The Muslims of the Southern Provinces called it an un-Muslin act. The media had their choice of words for it — they called it “50 military planes bombarded the provinces with paper cranes.”

Various ethnic groups — Malays, Chinese, Laotians, Cambodians, Indonesians, and Sri Lankans — have lived here over many years overlapping each others customs and cultures. Various religions are practised — Buddhism, Islam, Christianity, Hinduim, and Taoism with a generous splash of Animism. They have all live here in relative peace with the majority Muslim population.

Now religious harmony has been disrupted, it is not to come easy in this border region of Thailand and Malaysia.

So what is the problem? Insurgents they say — Afghani Jihads, Al Qaedas, Jamiaah Islamiahs, multiple Malaysian Islamic radical groups, and, for good measure, Tamil Tigers could be the cause, some think. A quiet and peaceful juncture for the training of terrorists perhaps, quiet provinces providing a trading post for smuggling drugs and arms in and out of the country.

Bombings of police stations, drive-by shootings of politicians, and arson has resulted in the deaths of more than 500 in recent years. Violence for violence in the burning of mosques is not the answer. Violence against the police and soldiers, security, politicians and Buddhist monks has escalated. The misguided act of security officials in piling of protesters into trucks and suffocating more than 80 has incensed the situation further.

A new awareness is needed, all is not well in this southern melting pot. The concentration of five million Muslims is not getting enough attention from the central government.

Steps more concrete than paper are needed in Southern Thailand.

End of an enigma, end of a puzzle but still a man of many lives. Having cheated death several times; surviving a plane crash, several assassination attempts by the Israeli Intelligence Agents and a serious stroke, Yasser Arafat decided to call it quits on 11 November 04. Prior to his death it was a week of much sadness and waiting for good news in the Muslim world. Even after death the fight continues. One is not allowed to die of old age any more, it’s a mystery death. The cause of death is to be investigated.

Timing became a big issue. With only days to go before the celebration Eid, Yasser Arafat’s serious illness was in the balance for Palestinians and Muslim sympathizers. The question was whether they would celebrate Eid, the end of the fasting month or would they end up mourning the loss of Yasser Arafat. They waited for good news. Should shops stop bringing in stock for the festivities and expect the celebration flurry of buying or should they expect a shut down? Would the month long fasting end in mourning instead of celebrating? But it all ended on a sad note.

Yasser Arafat had been confined to his quarters in Palestine, under house-arrest for more than two and a half years He doggedly refused to leave the country and his first trip out was one from which he was not to return alive. Even in death he is dangerous man. It was his wish to be buried in West Jerusalem. The occupying Israelis would not permit it. Earth had to be brought from the al-Asqa Mosque to line the tomb for burial. Mourners were not allowed free movement either. Thousands in parts of Gaza and the west bank had to stay put and mourn at home.

One had to admire the speed with which his body was taken from Paris to Cairo for a public mourning and then to Palestine to be buried there according to Muslim tradition. The vast wrecked grounds of Yasser Arafat’s last abode was cleared out for the tomb and for the helicopter pads that were to bring his body and the dignitaries. Space was made for the invited guests, red carpet was laid out, and flags and bunting strung out. The burial was to be attended only by invited dignitaries. But no sooner the body arrived all plans were changed by the people. Authorities had not foreseen the loyalty and determination. Barriers could not stop them. They surged through the gates and over the walls of the large compound. Hundreds climbed up the nearby trees and higher buildings. The people of Yasser Arafat grew to an unstoppable mass.

Now the big question is who will take his place. Yasser Arafat had not trained a successor.

Election has to take place within 60 days.

But how? The nation is spread out under Israeli occupation, by Israeli security and check-point controls. There is no freedom of movement in the Gaza strip and West Bank to organize an election.

Checkmate!

Time to reassemble the pieces on the chess board. Palestinians, and Israelis, and Peace-makers are to come together. Time to put in an extra piece on the board, a jail beside the castle. Mr. Bargouti who is in an Israeli prison serving five consecutive life sentences is also a candidate.