The abstract material that I intend to reproduce in my story today is rather intriguing. I have collected it from my friend Idrees Moulai, an adventurous freelance journalist. I have not been able to make out whether the material is Tom’s intermittently written letter to his mom, or is it scattered material from his recollections for his diary! Or, does this material constitute notes for his book that he may have planned to write after the conquest of Iraq! I do not know. Let each one of us make our own judgment.
Idrees Moulai has recently returned wounded from the badly devastated Iraq, and is convalescing in Mid-West Hospital in Karachi. He had proceeded to Iraq on his own for covering a war which he convincingly believes is a savage invasion of Iraq by American forces. An eminent sprinter, Moulai took to writing for English newspapers and the magazines after his graduation from S.M. College, Karachi. He was actually trained and motivated by the vice-principal of the college, Mr Abdul Sattar Kohati, a six and a half foot giant educationist, a respected administrator and famous football player of his time.
Looming clouds of American invasion of Iraq motivated Moulai for war coverage. A few days before America embarked upon the mad onslaught, Idrees Moulai landed in Iraq with his gadgets. On the tenth day of the invasion, Moulai ditched himself in a forlorn trench near the village Umul-Mout in the proximity of the town of Karbala. He witnessed most gruelling ground battles from his trench that he won’t forget for the rest of his life. It was from the God forsaken trench that Moulai collected scribbled pieces of abstract notes abandoned by Tom, a marine. When Americans dropped daises and bunker-bursting bombs, Moulai moved away from his trench. While crawling to a safer trench he was hit by the splinters. It was awful. He thought his each limb was severed and blown away. He fainted. When he regained consciousness, he was in Zaid Hospital in Dubai. After a few days he was flown to Mid-West Hospital in Karachi.
“I have returned, surprisingly intact,” Idrees Moulai startled me with his telephone call. He said, “Come and see me in Mid-West Hospital.”
I abandoned immediate tasks, and headed for Mid-West Hospital. Moulai, though heavily bandaged, was his usual self, unyielding, and defiant. He talked about death and dying in uncivilized world and the civilized world. He talked about primitive man’s discovery of fire that provided modern man with firepower for fellow being’s annihilation. He talked about ancient man’s greatest invention, wheel that equipped modern man with tanks and armoured vehicles for killing.
As I sought his permission to leave, Moulai handed over Tom’s abstract notes to me, and said, “See if you can make head or tail out of this material.”
It turned out to be a tedious job. After putting scribbled pieces together in cohesion, following is the extracted text from the abstract material that I share with you, today.
“Hi mom! I am your son Tom. This is my third day in a trench close to the town of Karbala. They revere the place. People here say Hussain, the grandson of their Prophet Mohammed had laid down his life along with entire male members of his family, including a six-month infant, in the name of Allah, their God.
“I wonder what is the difference between Allah and God! I think Allah is God of Muslims, as Bhagwan is God of Hindus.
“Ill-equipped people here are defending their country in an ancient way. All of a sudden a bunch of men in traditional attire appear from nowhere, raise slogans, ‘Allah-o-Akbar’ terminate a few of us, and then disappear beyond the sand dunes. People say they are fighting in the way of their God, Allah. It sounds puzzling. I have no illusions. At least I have not travelled all the way from Houston to this desert country to fight in the name of God. We are here because our President desired us to be here.”
On an inverted cigarette packet Tom remarks, “Have I travelled all along from my country, thousands of miles away to kill the followers of Allah, their God, in the name of my God?”
Tom then addresses his mother, “Mom, I am no more a naughty boy. Never before have I seen so many men, women, and children die together. We have poured and propelled bombs from sky and the earth on this desert country. I don’t think the world has ever seen or heard of incessant massive bombardment before. We, no doubt, are a mighty country. Aren’t we? Years after the war is over if they ploughed their fields they shall unearth the skulls and the limbs of their forefathers. No blade of grass shall grow on their soil.
“Days here are long, dreary, and noisy, and the nights appear fire emitting serpents. I don’t know how long are we going to stay here! Friends say carrying oil all the way to States is a stupid idea. I think we’ll stay here for the rest of our life. We have learnt the art of taking control of other people’s countries from the British. They are with us in the dessert. We’ll share the booty with them.”
On a relatively clean piece of a paper Tom writes, “Is it worth giving our lives and taking other people’s lives for?” He then quotes from the Holy Bible, “What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul.”
The abstract material that I intend to reproduce in my story today is rather intriguing. I have collected it from my friend Idrees Moulai, an adventurous freelance journalist. I have not been able to make out whether the material is Tom’s intermittently written letter to his mom, or is it scattered material from his recollections for his diary! Or, does this material constitute notes for his book that he may have planned to write after the conquest of Iraq! I do not know. Let each one of us make our own judgment.
