Terminal Compromise, Winn Schwartau [sight word books txt] 📗

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nonexistent so Ahmed developed as a devout Muslim, dedicated to

his country and his religion.

When the War began he thought about enlisting immediately, but

the University counselors convinced him otherwise.

“Ahmed Shah, you are bright and can offer Iran great gifts after

you complete your studies. Why not wait, the War will not be

forever, and then you can serve Allah with your mind, not your

body.”

Ahmed took the advice for his first year at the a university

student, but guilt overwhelmed him when he learned about how

many other young people were dying in the cause. From his par-

ents he would hear of childhood friends who had been killed.

Teheran University students and graduates were honored daily in

the Mosque on campus. The names were copied and distributed

throughout the schools. True martyrs. Ahmed’s guilt compounded

as the months passed and so many died. He had been too young to

participate in the occupation of the American Embassy. How jeal-

ous he was.

Why should I wait to serve Allah? He mused. Today I can be of

service, where he needs me, but if I stay and study, I will not

be able to bid his Will for years. And what if Iraq wins? There

would be no more studies anyway. Ahmed anguished for weeks over

how he could best serve Iran, his Ayatollah and Allah.

After his freshman finals, on which he excelled, he joined the

Irani Army. Within 60 days he was sent to the front lines as a

communications officer.

They had been in the field 3 days, and Ahmed had only gotten to

know a few of the 60 men in his company when the mortars came in

right on top of them. The open desert offers little camouflage

so the soldiers built fox holes behind the larger sand dunes.

They innaccurately thought they were hidden from view. More than

half the company died instantly. Pieces of bodies were strewn

across the sandy tented bivouac.

Another 20 were dying within 50 yards of where Ahmed writhed in

agony. Ahmed regained consciousness. Was it 5 minutes or 5 hours

later. He had no way of knowing. The left lower arm where he

wore his wristwatch was gone. A pulpy stump. As were his legs.

Mutilated . . .the highest form of insult and degradation. Oh,

Allah, I have served you, let me die and come to you now. Let me

suffer no more.

Suddenly his attention was grabbed by the sound of a jeep cough-

ing its way to a stop. He heard voices.

“This one’s still alive.” Then a shot rang out. “So’s this

one.” Another shot. A few muted voices from the dying protested

and asked for mercy. “Ha! I give Mercy to a dog before you.” A

scream and 2 shots. They were Iraqi! Killing off the wounded.

Pigs! Infidels! Mother Whores!

“You, foreskin of a camel! Your mother lies with dogs!” Ahmed

screamed at the soldiers. It brought two results. One, it kept

him a little more alert and less aware of his pain, and two, it

attracted the attention of the two soldiers from the jeep.

“Ola! Who insults the memory of my mother who sits with Allah?

Who?” One soldier spun around and tried to imagine which one of

the pieces of bodies that surrounded him still had enough life to

speak. He scanned the sand nearby. Open eyes were not a sure

sign of life nor was the presence of four limbs. There needed to

be a head.

“Over here camel dung. Hussein fucks animals who give birth to

the likes of you.” Ahmed’s viciousness was the only facial

feature that gave away he was alive. The soldiers saw their

tormentor.

“Prepare to meet with your Allah, now,” as one soldier took aim

at Ahmed’s head.

“Go ahead! Shoot, pig shit. I welcome death so I won’t have to

see your filth . . .” Ahmed defied the soldier and the automatic

rifle aimed at him.

The other soldier intervened. “No, don’t kill him. That’s too

easy and we would be honoring his last earthly request. No, this

one doesn’t beg for mercy. At least he’s a man. Let’s just make

him suffer.” The second soldier raised his gun and pointed at

the junction of Ahmed’s two stumps for legs. Two point blank

range shots shattered the three components of his genitals.

Ahmed let out a scream so primal, so anguished, so penetrating

that the soldiers bolted to escape the sounds of death. The

scream continued, briefly interrupted by a pair of shots that

caught the two soldiers square in the middle of the back as they

ran. They dropped onto the hot desert sand with matched thuds.

Ahmed didn’t hear the shots over the sounds coming from his

larynx. He didn’t hear anything after that for a very long time.

Unfortunately for Ahmed Shah, he survived.

He woke up, or more accurately, regained semi-consciousness more

than a week after he was picked up at the site of the mortar

attack. He was wired up to tubes and machines in an obviously

well equipped hospital. He thought, I must be back in Teher-

an . . .then fog . . .a blur . . .a needle . . .feel

nothing . . .stay awake . . .move lips . . .talk . . .

“Doctor, the patient was awake.” The nurse spoke to the physician

who was writing on Ahmed’s medical chart.

“He’ll wish he wasn’t. Let him go. Let him sleep. Hell hasn’t

begun for him yet.” The Doctor moved onto the chart on the next

bed in ward.

Over the next few days while grasping at consciousness, and with

the caring attention of the nurses, Ahmed pieced together the

strands of a story . . .what happened to him.

The Iraqis were killing the wounded, desperate in their attempts

to survive the onslaught of Irani children. All must die, take

no prisoners were their marching orders. In the Iraqi Army you

either did exactly as you were told, with absolute obedience, or

you were shot on sight as a traitor. Some choice. We lost at

Abadan, the Iraqi’s thought, but there will be more battles to

win.

Ahmed was the only survivor from his company, and there was no

earthly reason that could explain why he lived. He was more dead

than alive. His blood coagulated well in the hot desert sun,

otherwise the blood loss alone would have killed him. The medics

found many of his missing pieces and packed them up for their

trip to the hospital, but the doctors were unable to re-attach

anything of significance.

He was a eunuch. With no legs and only one good arm.

Weeks of wishing himself dead proved to be the source of rest

that contributed to his recovery. Was he man? Was he woman? Was

he, God forbid, neither? Why had he not just died along with the

others, why was he spared! Spared, ha! If I had truly been

spared I would be living with Allah! This is not being spared.

This is living hell and someone will pay. He cried to his par-

ents about his torment and his mother wailed and beat her breast.

His father listened to the anger, the hate and the growing

strength within his son’s being. Hate could be the answer that

would make his son, his only son, whole again. Whole in spirit

at least.

The debates within Ahmed’s mind developed into long philosophical

arguments about right, wrong, revenge, avenge, purpose, cause

and reason. He would take both sides of an issue, and see if he

could beat himself with his alter rationales. The frustration at

knowing one’s opponents’ thoughts when developing your own coun-

ter argument made him angry, too. He finally started arguing

with other patients. He would take any position, on any issue

and debate all night. Argumentative, contrary, but recovering

completely described the patient.

Over the months his strength returned and he appeared to come to

grips with his infirmaries. As much as anyone can come to terms

with such physical mutilations. He covered his facial wounds

with a full black beard that melded into his full short cropped

kinky hair.

Ahmed graduated from Teheran University in 1984 with a cruel

hatred for anything Anti-Islam. One major target of his hatred

was President Reagan, the cowboy president, the Teflon president,

the evil Anti-Muslim Zionist loving American president. Of

course there was plenty of room to hate others, but Reagan was so

easy to hate, so easy to blame, and rarely was there any disa-

greement.

He thought of grand strategies to strike back at the America.

After all, didn’t they support the Iraqis? And the Iraqis did

this to him. It wasn’t the soldiers’ fault. They were just

following orders: Do or Die. Any rational person would have done

the same thing.