Randy Singer - Fatal Convictions

Hassan stopped, circling back to the right. He saw a small convenience store half a block away-close enough that he might be able to get there first. He sprinted toward the store, bounding up the steps just before the fastest of the Sunnis arrived.

Hassan burst into the store, panting, one of the boys right behind him. Before Hassan could say a thing, the shopkeeper barked at both of them. “Don’t bring your roughhousing in here.” The man was heavyset with small dark eyes, curly hair, and a two-day growth. “You knock over something, and you’ve just bought it!”

“We’re just getting something to drink,” the Sunni boy said, catching his breath. He slung his arm around Hassan’s shoulders, and Hassan felt the sharp point of a knife in his ribs. Fear paralyzed him for a moment, and the older boy pushed him toward the back corner of the store.

“How much you got?” the kid whispered. He had cold eyes and dark, curly hair. He was wearing braces, and the metal gleamed when he smiled. It gave Hassan the chills.

Hassan reached into his pocket and retrieved the lirat. His attacker looked at them and frowned. Another Sunni entered the store.

The braces kid snatched the lirat from Hassan’s hand, his knife still pressing against Hassan’s ribs. The kid stuffed the money in his pocket and put his arm around Hassan, pulling him close. “We’re goin’ now,” he said under his breath. “Give me any trouble and I’ll start slicing off body parts.”

Terrified, Hassan left the store in step with his captor. The other kid joined them outside. A block away, Hassan saw other Sunnis pushing Mukhtar into an alley.

Once the kid with braces had pulled Hassan a half block away from the entrance to the store, he waved the knife in front of Hassan’s face. “You ever seen a dog neutered?” he asked.

Hassan shook his head quickly.

“If you ever run from me again, or if you tell anybody about today, you won’t have to see it, ’cause you’ll know what it feels like.”

Hassan nodded, his eyes wide with fright. He could hear Mukhtar begging for mercy in the alley. Then he heard the thump of fist on bone and Mukhtar begging for them to stop.

“Get out of my sight, you Shiite dog,” the older boy hissed at Hassan. He pushed Hassan backward, and Hassan tumbled to the pavement. Both boys kicked Hassan and made barking noises as he scrambled to his feet.

Hassan turned and stumbled away from his assailants. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard wails of pain from the alley. He stopped-torn between fear and his loyalty to Mukhtar.

“Get out of here!” the kid with braces yelled. He took a step toward Hassan, who tripped backward, turned, and started running. The tears stung his eyes and rolled down his cheeks as he sprinted away, too terrified to stop, too intimidated to try to get help for Mukhtar. His friend’s screams faded in the distance as Hassan made his way to the safety of the Shiite neighborhoods.

Mukhtar would not return to school for two days. He told his parents he had been mugged by two grown men looking for money. When Mukhtar did come back, he and Hassan started taking the long way home, avoiding the Sunni neighborhood altogether. Though Mukhtar said he didn’t blame Hassan for running away, their friendship was never the same.

Whether or not Mukhtar blamed him, Hassan blamed himself. The night of the assault, he lay awake in his bed, thinking back to his mother’s description of hell. Her face had been stern and somber, her eyes so intense that Hassan had to look away. “In hell, there are flames so hot that the skin will melt from your bones. You will wail and gnash your teeth, but there will be no relief from the fire and the unquenchable pain. Once your skin is burned from your body, another layer will appear, and the process starts over again.” His mother paused, and it seemed she was on the verge of tears. Hassan wanted to hug her, tell her it would be all right. “I don’t want any of you to ever be in such a horrible place,” she said.

At the time, Hassan had wished he could assure his mother that he would live in such a way that hell would never be an option. But now, after turning his back on Mukhtar, Hassan realized for sure that he had been destined for hell all along.

His works would never save him; Hassan knew that much. His only glimmer of hope came from another lesson-the story of Imam Hussein and those who followed in his footsteps as shahids-martyrs for the faith. “No matter what you have done wrong in this life, you will be forgiven with the first drop of your blood that is spilt. To die a martyr is to never die at all.”

And shahids, Hassan knew, were not just saved from the great horror of the Day of Judgment; they were given the crown of virtue and a place in Jannah along with seventy-two black-eyed women.

It was, Hassan had thought when he first heard the concept, quite an impressive list of benefits, though he couldn’t understand why any shahid would want to be bothered with seventy-two women. But by the fourth grade, Hassan’s thinking on the seventy-two women had begun to change as well.

The night of the assault, he tossed and turned, as if roasting over the flames of hell already. He wanted to tell his parents what had happened, but he knew they would confront the other boys and their families. The Sunnis would bide their time, but sooner or later they would exact their revenge. Visions of the knife flashed through Hassan’s head.

The house had been quiet for hours before Hassan finally fell asleep.***

Hassan sat on a powerful black horse, the tents of his family and friends scattered around him in the intense heat of the desert. He held a sarif-a heavy, two-sided Muslim sword-in his right hand. His chest glistened with sweat and rippled with muscles. The heat shimmered over sandy dunes, engulfing the armies that surrounded the camp in a mind-warping haze. There were thousands of them-Jews, Americans, infidels of all nationalities. But mostly, there were Sunni Muslims, hordes of them on foot, some with knives and spears, others with bows and arrows, all with bloodshot eyes. A handful of other warriors came out of their tents and mounted horses, joining Hassan as the opposing armies closed in.

Hassan looked to his left and right, nodded, then reared his stallion back and led the charge. The eyes of his enemies grew large with fear, some throwing down their weapons and turning to run.

Hassan rode through them all, swinging the sarif left and right, each deadly arc severing the head of another infidel soldier. The warriors following him started chanting, “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”

The battlefield turned chaotic. Swords and spears and arrows flew all around Hassan as his Shiite brothers dropped from their horses, soaking the ground with their blood. He felt a stab of pain as an arrow pierced his own chest, dropping him from his horse, and he looked down to see his own blood flowing. The hordes surrounded him, raising their spears to finish him off, their eyes demonic in victory. And then… a blinding light, just before everything became calm. He looked ahead and saw the golden carpet and the magnificent throne of Allah.

Paradise!

Heavenly power coursed through his veins, healing every wound, his heart beating with joy. He had done it! A martyr! He had become al-shahid!

He stood now as Allah held the scales, Hassan’s bad deeds weighing down the left side, his heart sinking within him. But then Allah reached his right hand above the other side of the scales and gently opened his fingers, releasing drops of precious blood, followed by a broad smile. He set the scales down and, as Hassan knelt before the throne, placed the crown of virtue on Hassan’s head.

A chant began from all sides, first as a low rumble and then as a booming echo, filling all of paradise. “Islam zindabad! Allahu akbar!”