SACRED EXPLOSION
by L. K. Clark

There was no casket to take home with me. The only thing left of Dan’s was his watch, stuck forever at the moment of his death. The police identified its owner by the inscription I’d had it engraved with as my wedding gift to my husband: “Dan—You make my hours worth living. —Lori.”  Two police officers brought it to the hotel room with their report. The crystal, which was still intact, was fogged over from the inside. They had wiped the worst of the debris away, but had overlooked the inscription. In those fine lines, Dan’s blood remained.

*****

 Issam Aziz. That’s what they called him. A cuddly bundle of smiles to each of his ten brothers and sisters. Bunny soft curls, twinkling chestnut eyes, plump round cheeks—so precious and winsome. A gift of joy to family, neighbors, and friends. “He’ll grow up to be a credit to our people one day,” his grandfather, a Palestinian Muslim, predicted.

*****

It was supposed to be great, an once-in-a-lifetime experience. When a business opportunity in Jerusalem opened up for Dan, whether we would go or not wasn’t even a question. The research I began the evening after Dan announced the trip to me dissolved any doubts I had about the prudence of making such a trip given the turmoil of the region. More than one website I visited assured me that, as guests, the people would treat us with warm hospitality and kindness. I believed them.

I wanted to find out as much as I could about the tourist sites in and around Jerusalem. Dan and I were new believers. We both felt that a visit to Israel would confirm our new faith. I mean, how inspiring was it going to be to walk the very same route Jesus followed on the day of his crucifixion? Besides, Dan and I hadn’t taken any trips worth mentioning for quite a while. Putting three kids through university kept us homebound.

We were looking forward to our time in the western part of Jerusalem, the location of both Jewish and Christian sites. We wouldn’t be visiting the eastern, Muslim, sector, though it wasn’t because we had anything personal against Muslims. In fact, our son Ray had a Muslim friend from Iran when he was in university. The guy seemed pleasant enough and respectful when Ray brought him home for a visit. But, since Dan’s business contact was in the western part, our trip would be confined to that region.

For Dan’s sake, I checked out business customs in Israel and found they weren’t very different than they are here. Business attire was mandatory. No problem there. Dan, as one of the top people in his firm, was used to dressing in suits every day. There was a ban on smoking in public places; that was fine with us, too. We were both non-smokers and hated the smell of cigarettes.

Basic courtesies were expected. Shake hands before and after meetings. Avoid suggesting meetings on the Jewish Shabbat. That was good. Who wanted to do business over the weekend anyway?

The one kind of weird thing I read was that Israeli businessmen often exaggerated and made unreasonable demands, expecting negotiations to begin at extremes, then work their way toward a mutually agreeable solution. When I told Dan about that, he huffed out his irritation and said, “Great. Just perfect. I hate bartering.”

I laughed. Personally, I love trying to talk someone into a deal on my terms. “You would laugh, Lori,” he said. “You want to go to the meetings in my place?”

“No thanks. I’d rather sit around the pool at the hotel and read. The picture on their website makes it look fabulous.”

“Yeah, yeah. Soak in the rays while I’m suffering. No problem.”

We both laughed. After twenty-four years of marriage, we were still each other’s best friend. I think I loved him more at this point of our marriage than at first.

I made up for the bargaining news by telling Dan about the local restaurants. The city offered Israeli cuisine, meals recreated from Bible times, Middle Eastern dishes, and a wide variety of international eateries. He was a connoisseur committed to new taste sensations.

Armed with a guidebook and pages printed from the Internet, Dan and I felt prepared for anything.

*****

By age three, Issam was savvy to the way of the world around him. Life consisted of both affection and brutality. Beatings and ridicule by his parents taught him shame and humiliation. “The Jew is our enemy,” his father and brothers taught him.

~

“Let’s play shuhada!” one boy cried out. This time it was five-year-old Issam’s turn to play the part of the shaheed, the martyr. Several boys scurried to hide behind a nearby wall. This became the Jewish bunker. They rat-a-tatted loudly, shooting their make-believe guns. Issam ran out in front of the wall and cried out, “Allahu Akbar.” Then, after an exaggerated death dance, he fell to the ground. Two of his young friends ran toward him. One grabbed his ankles, the other his wrists. Issam’s bottom hit the ground several times on the way to the burial sight, but he managed to squelch his “ouches;” that was something a dead martyr wouldn’t do. During the mock funeral, when the others boys extolled the shaheed’s bravery and greatness, Issam sat up. The boys giggled and cheered.

~

“Arin has dishonored our family. She must die to protect our name.” Arin, fifteen-year-old Issam wondered, how could you act so dishonorably as to be seen holding hands with a boy? You were my favorite sister. Now I spit at the thought of you. Of course Issam’s father was right in his judgment. The male was supreme and left with the duty of cleansing his family of stains and blemishes such as Arin. 

~

By sixteen, Issam understood: his life held no value as an individual. What he felt and wanted were insignificant. His ego had taken its place in umma, Allah’s community. “I denounce my sensuality, Allah,” he prayed. “I’m not important. Let me live for you.”

***** 

From our landing at the Ben Gurion airport to our tour of the Old City, we were entranced with Jerusalem. On Mount Zion, we visited the Coenaculum—the upper room—where Jesus ate the Last Supper with his disciples. We visited the Jewish Quarter, the Mount of Olives, and Temple Mount, the location believed to be the place Abraham went to make his sacrifice with Isaac. Muslims call the place the Dome of the Rock. They claim Mohammed ascended to heaven from there and gained a view of paradise.

When Dan had to spend one whole morning and part of an afternoon at business meetings, we agreed to meet at an open plaza in the Jewish quarter when he was finished. He’d grab us a table at a café. Afterward, we could do more sightseeing.

I was nearly to the café, just across the street, and I could see Dan. But a strange-looking young man caught my eye. I don’t mean that he looked out of place because of his clothes. He just seemed to have an overpowering intensity; I could see it in his face and stance. He lifted his gaze from the people sitting around the plaza: shoppers, old men slumped over backgammon boards, and passersby. For a moment, our eyes seemed to meet. He was maybe twenty or thirty yards from me, and I had the feeling he was looking directly at me. But that was ridiculous; he was too far off for me to tell where he was looking. Then, as he turned his head to the sky, I saw that he was smiling.

 Moments later, my life and everyone else’s in that square changed.

*****

“Individual happiness, earthly pleasures and comforts; these are the choices of those who love the world.” Issam memorized these words of the imam. “Israeli society is selfish. They are not like us, eager to die for what we believe. No, they love life and are unwilling to die for their country and God. Their women are profane. They dress like harlots, with their make-up and uncovered hair and tight pants. They think that freedom is their right, not like our women, who know their boundaries well.” 

~

“‘The god of Muslims is inferior.’ These are the words some western infidel had the foolishness and audacity to proclaim about Allah. What do you boys think of that?” A devout Muslim teacher challenged Issam and his friends. “They mock the Prophet, they slander your lifestyle. They think that their God and religion are superior. What are you going to do about that?” Issam and his friends knew what they would do. They would defend their religion and stand up for their god with pride and arms. Jihad was important. Through it, Islam would spread, resulting in a just and pure society.

~

Issam was ready to fight for Islam and for the liberation of Palestine, but not quite willing to make the final sacrifice of becoming a martyr. It was a difficult step to take, to give up your life for the cause. But when his childhood friend, Ibrahim, died in the process of arming a car bomb, Issam’s devastation led him to offer himself to the same terrorist group his friend had belonged to. They would ready him for the supreme act.

*****

The young man vaporized. He was whole one moment, then he wasn’t. His body had exploded into a billion pieces, leaving nothing where, one second earlier, he had stood.

My gaze darted to where Dan was sitting. No. To where he had been sitting, only a few feet away from the strange young man. His body had joined the disintegration and melding of all the people nearby. Hands, feet, even—to my horror then and my horror, I think, for as long as I’ll live—heads were flying through the air. I stood there among dozens of other people who had the distinct good luck to be on the opposite side of the road from the plaza. I was with them, but I was utterly alone. My husband, my love for decades, had disappeared in the blast of that explosion. I would never, ever, see him again. I collapsed onto the curb and wept.

*****

“Martyrs don’t die. Did you know that?”

Issam only gazed at the man.

“What I’m telling you is the truth. Martyrs remain alive; there is no death for people like you who give their lives for Allah. You’ll be in a state of perfect bliss; you’ll pass directly to Allah’s reward for you. A river of honey and another of wine await you.”

*****

I was too shocked to remember much of what happened during the following two days. The one thing I remember with crystal clarity is calling Kyle, my—our—oldest child, to tell him his father had been the victim of a suicide bomber. I didn’t tell him that I had seen him blown to so many pieces that his body couldn’t even be identified. How would we have a funeral?

I almost didn’t make it through that conversation. I left it to Kyle to tell his sisters. I couldn’t bear it.

*****

When Issam spoke with another from his terrorist group, he let his final reservations slip. “I’m being asked to blow up innocent women and children. I don’t hate Jews that much.”

“No, no, no,” the other man replied. “You mustn’t consider the lives of the individuals who will be affected. The one and only thing that counts is the sacred command of jihad. As a shaheed, you will become a liberator of your people. Everyone will consider you a hero.”

Issam pondered the man’s words and knew they were right.

*****

We held a memorial service for Dan at the church we’d been attending for the months before our trip. I don’t know what anyone said about Dan. I just remember sitting at Pastor Howard’s home with him and his wife a day later. “Why?” I asked him. “Why did this happen to Dan? To me?”

“I don’t have an answer for that, Lori. We live in a fallen world. Horrible things happen to people every day.”

That didn’t help. Really, nothing anybody said helped. No one could change what had happened. No one could erase the images that filled my mind whether I was awake or asleep. “God,” I prayed again and again, “help me. What am I going to do without Dan in my life?” I waited for an answer, but none seemed to come.

*****

When, at twenty-one, he made the final decision to become a shaheed, Issam’s life became a rush of worship, joy, and freedom from the material concerns of the world. After months of intense preparations and religious study, he attained the honored title “shaheed,” the living martyr. “I will not fail or turn back” was his oath to Allah. He had chosen the highest, sweetest way to enter eternity. He was confident he wouldn’t experience pain. He had memorized whole passages of the Koran to bolster his resolve. What he was going to do was right. He was no longer concerned about killing innocents. “The Israelis kill us—even our women and children. In war, innocents die.” This was what the leader of Issam’s martyrdom cell asserted. Of course, Issam believed the same. 

*****

One evening, I was sitting alone (like I did every evening then), watching television. Dan always enjoyed watching Cable News, and it kind of grew on me, too. It was nice to feel like I knew what was happening in the world. That night, they had a special report on the strife in Palestine.

A reporter was gathering facts for his story by interviewing various people. One of the interviewees was a suicide bomber-in-preparation. Oh, excuse me. He wasn’t a suicide bomber; he was a “sacred explosion.”

Cable News: “Why do you insist on the term ‘sacred explosion’ instead of ‘suicide bomber’?”

Young Palestinian man: “Suicide is forbidden in Islam. Mine is a sacred mission.”

Cable News: “Surely you know there will be innocent victims who will die when you become a sacred explosion. It’s even possible that other Muslims may die. Does that thought bother you?”

Palestinian: “I know that innocents might die. If such people die during my mission, they must forgive me. Allah himself will ask them to forgive me, because he has called me to this mission.”

Cable News: “At what point will the need for sacred explosions end?”

Palestinian: “There will be no end until we have driven the infidels from our land. No compromise, nothing short of complete victory will stop us.”

Cable News: “Are you afraid of dying?”

Palestinian: “For me, there is no fear. I and all living martyrs constantly worship Allah. We are joyous that we will soon enter eternity and the rewards will be ours.”    

I screamed and threw the remote control at the television. It bounced off the screen. The back and batteries flew up before landing on the carpet.

How could that young man be so nonchalant? Did the Palestinian who killed Dan think the same way the one on TV did?

I knew he did. I’d read about these suicide bombings before, when they were but a distant horror in some faraway land. I even remembered reading that such things were contrary to Islam. That the handlers of such young people teach them a lie. They don’t know it’s a lie, though, until they’re dead.

*****

“You will become one of the most effective weapons in the world,” his trainers told him. “You will have control of where and when you’re going and be able to target your enemy with amazing accuracy. No missile can come close to achieving that kind of success.”

Even if he did not succeed for some reason, Issam’s death would not be for nothing. The goal—the primary objective of sacred explosions—was to strike terror in the hearts of the enemy. In this, Issam vowed to succeed.

*****

“So do you have anything special planned for the weekend, Lori?” Kate, one of my best friends at work, had wandered into my office with a cup of coffee.

“Um. Not really. I’ve got a ton of submissions to read through for the next issue. I need to catch up.” I’ve always enjoyed reading and was thrilled to land my dream job as editor of a small literary magazine six years earlier. Losing myself in the stories submitted to our journal was the outlet that kept me going through those dark months after Dan’s death.

“I’m worried about you,” Kate said in a serious tone. She leaned forward, planted her elbows on my desk, and propped her head up with her palms. “You work late every night and usually on Saturdays.”

I looked into her eyes, but didn’t say anything. I was angry and depressed and didn’t want to lash out at Kate. Of all my co-workers, she was the one who seemed to understand that my heart wound was going to take time to heal.

In a low voice, she said, “Come on, Lori. Talk to me. I’m your friend.”

Though her eyes held compassion, I turned my gaze from her, focusing instead on a pile of unopened mail. Even though I spent hours in the office after everyone else left, I was still behind with my work. Reading was an escape, but so often words or phrases I read prompted memories of Dan. Then, like virulent venom, thoughts of the monstrous suicide attack that took him from me filled my heart and mind.

Kate waited for my answer. She was stubborn that way. Three or four minutes of silence must have passed before, with a cracking voice, I said, “I don’t think I can do this any more. How am I supposed to move on when I feel like half of me has been ripped away and destroyed?”

Kate rose to come to my side and circled me with her arms. “Just cry, Lori, cry.”

I did.   

*****

Fasts; night prayers; asking forgiveness; preparing a will and a video of himself

encouraging—urging—fellow Muslims to follow his example were all parts of Issam’s preparations. Shortly before the last trip he would make in a car, he performed a ritual ablution and prayed. He was confident of this: though his life was nothing up to this point, he would soon become a hero. Before he left the hideaway, he wrapped his penis in aluminum foil. In that way, he would be ready for the seventy-two virgins promised him. With the first drop of blood he shed, all of his sins would instantly be expunged. He would not face judgment as others do. And, when the Day of Resurrection finally came, he would be allowed to intercede for seventy people; they, too, would enter heaven.

With a Koran in the pocket over his heart, he strapped himself with the explosives.

“May Allah be with you. May Allah give you success so that you achieve Paradise,” his leader said.

“We will meet in Paradise,” Issam responded.

*****

I talked with Pastor Howard often. After a year, he felt I’d made progress. He tried to encourage me, saying, “Lori, I think you’re doing fine. The kind of feelings you’ve experienced—shock, denial, anger, depression and withdrawal, and acceptance of Dan’s death—are all normal responses to loss. You seem to have worked through all of those stages.”

I was sitting opposite him in his church office and had my eyes fixed on my hands. I lifted my head to look him in the eye.

“But I’m lying.”

His eyebrows lifted at my revelation. “You are?”

“Yes. I mean, it’s true what you said, that I’ve gone through those stages of grief. But there’s one part I’m stuck on, and it’s still eating away at me like rust on metal.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“I’m still angry. Of course I’m not angry with Dan anymore or with myself. But in my mind I see that smiling, evil face and I can’t forgive that suicide bomber. And you know what makes it worse?”

“What?”

“That interview with a would-be suicide bomber I told you about. He said that, if innocents died, they must forgive him. Allah would ask them to forgive him. I know he was talking about Muslims, but a wave of revulsion hits me like a freight train every time I think of what he said. Dan was innocent. I’m innocent. We did nothing against those people. I don’t want to forgive him. I don’t want to do what he or his god wants me to do. I hate that bomber and I hate his god.”

Pastor Howard leaned back in his chair. My gaze once more dropped to my hands, but I felt him looking at and considering me. “Lori, there’s someone else who wants you to forgive that man.”

I looked at him again, but didn’t speak. I was afraid of what he’d say next.

“Do you know what Jesus said about forgiveness?” he asked.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t. I’d only been a believer for a short time before Dan’s death, so hadn’t read too much of the Bible up until that point. Afterwards, confusion, anger, and pain kept me from it. I shook my head.

“He said that, if you forgive others when they sin against you, you’ll be forgiven by God the Father. But if you don’t forgive the sins of others, the Father won’t forgive you.”

“But that’s not fair!” I blurted out. “I’m not the one who murdered all those people; who murdered Dan.”

He leaned back in his chair. “If God was trying to be fair, he wouldn’t have forgiven any of us. We’ve all sinned.”

I knew that was true, but…

“He forgave us because he delights to show us grace. And he wants us to treat others the same way.”

As soon as he said that, I knew it was true. Being a Christian was harder than I expected.

*****

When the moment came for Issam to enter the busy square, he did so with a broad and beatific smile on his face. His eyes met those of a woman—a non-Muslim woman—some distance away. He wasn’t sure, but she seemed to return his smile in a hesitant way. “Allahu akbar,” he whispered. “Allah is great. All praise to him.” Then, his steady hand reached down and pressed the button. Many, unwillingly, departed with him from this life.

~

Issam’s sponsoring terrorist group took care of his family after his mission. Not only were they honored as the family of a sacred explosion; they were given twenty-two thousand shekels. Having such a child was a blessing indeed. Their son’s act of courage and sacrifice was praised in mosques, on posters, and in newspapers. Young boys reenacted Issam’s walk to glory. His family rejoiced with friends and relatives. The sweets and beverages Issam had noted in his will were served to the hundreds who came to congratulate the family. It was a joyous time. 

*****

I struggled with the whole concept of forgiving the bomber for several weeks. If I forgave him, did it mean I was betraying Dan?

The bomber’s god was a god of hate, I told myself. And his people follow his ways.

My God is a God of love.

So why, I wondered, could I hate so fiercely? It had to end. Not forgiving him only hurt me. I couldn’t let the bomber destroy my life any more.

So I made—make—the choice to forgive him. Everyday, because it’s still hard.

I still miss Dan so very much.

###

L. K. Clark is a freelance writer who lives in Bulgaria with her husband. Her articles have appeared in numerous publications. Her short stories cover a broad range of topics, including acid attacks in Bangladesh, Uganda's ongoing war, locked-in syndrome, honor killings and suicide bombers.