A mother's daughter

9 years have passed since I got stranded in this country in war. Since the other volunteers were killed in the mortar explosion, I have no way to reach my hometown anymore. Anyway, living here, it makes me realised how lucky I was back in the modernised “religious” country. Now, this is my home. I have a caring, brave husband – a soldier fighting for the freedom of this country, and a cute 8-years-old daughter who we named Jamilah, a perfect name for such a beautiful girl like her.

“What did you learn at school today Jamilah?”, My husband began the conversation as we were having our dinner – nothing but a crumb of bread.

“Our teacher told us of how faithful people are brothers and sisters. Every faithful person should love another person as he loves himself”, she answered excitedly. How cute she is.

“Wow, really? That is wonderful. And do you know how many people are there, who have the same faith as us in the world, dear?”

“Hurmm ... a million??”

“No. Hahahah. That is too small. Guess again”

“What? There are more than a million faithful people out there?”

“Yes dear. There are more than a hundred million of believers out there!” my husband responds with the same enthusiasm. I just chuckled watching the father and daughter.

Oh, how truly grateful I am to be in such a family like this. It makes you forget all the problems in the world. Even I am placed in a country with no guarantee of being alive the next day, nor any earplugs to stop myself from hearing the sounds of those mortars and bullets in the air, I am truly – really grateful.

Although I am a foreigner in their country, they treat me so well as if I am one of their own. It must be caused by their faith and obedience to God. I recalled telling the story of how my hometown in the modern “religious” country is. To be honest, it is a bit shameful to tell my little girl that, for  20 years of my life, I was living in a country so selfish and oblivious to the sufferings of the people in this country and the rest of the countries in war. People here are threatened every day by those who are invading our land, while back in my country the people are spending money to buy these invaders’ products, funding their occupation to this nation.  Women here are struggling to protect their honour, while the women back in my country are showing their body to men in the streets by wearing “trendy” clothes. Everyone here are fighting with their lives, trying to spend every single breath to , but the people back in my country still have time to enjoy games, movies, and gossiping, all those precious time that should’ve been used to help their brothers in sisters in jeopardy.

How could I tell her of my shameful hometown? So all I told her is how we play happily every day, and how we pray for the countries in jeopardy of war, and how we have concerts and talks to show our support to these invaded countries.

Anyhow, I believe her father would be able to give her the knowledge she needs to become a true fighter of freedom, a true martyr for the sake of our religion – unlike the past me, unlike the people in those “modernised” countries.

“Now Jamilah, do you want daddy to continue your bedtime story of The People of The Cave from yesterday?”

“Sure mommy!! Daddy, so did they slept for a whole day, or was it three days??”

“No Jamilah, it was 300 years!!”

The actions of the father and daughter in my house never cease to set me off my worries. How delightful.

Suddenly, we heard hard knockings on the door. Rough voices from the other side are yelling at us to let them in. Without sparing another split second, I grabbed Jamilah and hid together in the hidden door behind the closet. A moment later, I heard the sound of our house’s door broken. I heard the voices of my husband and the invaders. I heard yellings. Then I heard ... gunshots.

Then ... I heard nothing but silence.

My heart was racing frantically. I clasped my mouth. I tried my best to hide my tears. Oh my God, what just happened?!!

Anxiously, I came out of hiding. I can barely feel my feet. I barely have the energy and hope to breathe. I walked slowly to where we were having our dinner.

Then, we were greeted by the sight my beloved husband - my sunshine who shone my life all this while - lying on the floor, in a pool of blood.

My heart almost stopped at sight.

Jamilah ran towards her father, while I just dropped on my knees. I could not contain my tears anymore.

“Daddy!! Daddy!! Wake up daddy!! Come on daddy wake up!!”

Hearing Jamilah’s crying voice, screaming and calling for her daddy, shaking her father’s dead body, hoping to wake him up ...

“Daddy!! Wake up Daddy!! Daddy please wake up!! You promised me to read the bedtime story to me!”

“Daddy, you promised me daddy. You promised to finish the story! Please daddy! Wake up!”

“Jamilah ... your daddy ... “ I could even contain my own tears, how could I be telling her not to cry?

“Mommy, why daddy won’t wake up? Daddy promised to read the story to me tonight!”

“Why mommy, why did they kill daddy? Why did they have to kill him? Daddy never did anything wrong!”

“Where are our brothers and sisters in faith mommy? Why are they not helping us?”

“Do they really pray for us mommy? Then why did daddy died?”

My little girl, if only you knew, how the others live out there in their separate peaceful countries.

How can they be helping us if they are too busy enjoying themselves? How can they be really praying for us if they don’t even pray? How can their prayers have any meaning if they are living in a lifestyle so far from god? How can their prayers help us if their life’s goal is nothing but indulging with the life’s pleasures instead of searching for god’s pleasure?

My little girl ... if only you knew ...