Insha’Allah - Son of a Lion

My name is Umair Bin Osama.  Umair means intelligent and I think I do my best to live up to this name given to me by my parents.  What most westerners think is my middle name, “Bin,” actually translates to “the son of” and Osama is the name of my father, which means “lion.”   I like my name; it is a strong Muslim name.  I get a lot of trouble from friends for being the son of Osama though.  Although my father is not the hated Osama Bin Laden, he shares the name which is enough to cause my friends to poke fun.  I like Muslim names, they taste much better coming out of my mouth than bland western names like Billy Johnson, those names have the taste of unseasoned hummus. 

Today I get to live up to my name, I have Qur’an studies and mathematics lessons with my friends.  It is taught by some of the town elders at the school house about fifteen minutes away from my home.  This is one of the few things look forward to during the morning hours when the Americans are busy being an annoyance around our neighborhood.  I’m sixteen years old and live in Afghanistan’s Helmand province.  We are constantly being aggravated by the western military units who have searched and questioned me more times than I can truly remember.  They too seem to find some humor in the name Umair bin Osama.  My uncles tell me the American’s are afraid of me because I’m quite large for having only sixteen years and I am in the “dangerous age range.”  The American military is very quick to stop any young man in our province and question them about their plans for the day.  Twice last week they made me late to my Qur’an studies.  Their questions are sometimes condescending and pointless but the translator usually apologizes for the troubles they cause and assures me that I will get to my studies on time; from their track record, this promise is often a meaningless one. 

I try to be kind not wishing to cause any more harm, unlike some of my friends who spit and throw rocks at the Americans as they pass.  I don’t blame them though; those same fingers they press in our chests as they question us are used to pull the triggers that kill our families and friends on a weekly basis.  Sometimes I wish they leave and let us sort out our own problems instead of multiplying them by ten.  Amir, the older cousin of my good friend has the most hatred toward the Americans.  He is always claiming that one day he will get them back for what they’ve done to his family; he’s had several confrontations with the soldiers when they attempt to search him.  Once Amir’s story is translated to the American’s they usually understand his anger toward them, yet still they hold him like a prisoner for hours out of spite is seems. 

Amir’s mother and father and younger brother were three of the seven civilians who were killed last year in an air strike.  The bombs hit the field behind their house causing damage to our province and collapsing their house.  Amir’s father was killed instantly because he was in the field but his mother and young brother were left to suffer in the crumbled house with no sympathy from the Americans.  Amir was traveling outside the province and was not even aware of the bombs so close to his home.  My family and I, with the aid of the neighborhood, helped clear the rubble in an attempt to find survivors of the blast.  Amir’s mother and brother were still alive when we got to them.  It makes my stomach queasy when I think about their bloody bodies which were mangled and twisted among the stones and dirt.  His young brother, only seven, was unconscious when we got to them, but his mother was making sounds that I can only wish to forget.  With only our hands to move the stones it was useless and they both expired right before our eyes.  I can still hear vividly the cries of the women and see the image of my hands which were covered in a dark brown, chalky mixture of blood and dust.  This was one of the worst days I can remember and I cannot image how hard it was on Amir. 

Although this terrible event was very close to my own home, similar events happen in our province and in surrounding provinces a few times a month.  I don’t know if I have become numb to the death and violence that surrounds us or if my studies of the Qur’an have prevailed and Allah is keeping me peaceful.  Without my family I don’t know if I could remain hopeful with the change that is happening in our country.  Sometimes I want to tell the American’s to leave, “Get out of my country, get out of my province, stop killing my friends,” but it’s not use.  Many people show them hatred and throw rocks at their vehicles but it does no good and only causes more trouble.  I don’t think they understand that they are creating more jihadists and more so called terrorists with ever bomb they drop and every bullet that escapes the muzzle of their rifles.  These bombs and bullets kill brothers and fathers and mothers and crush families, sometimes the remaining family has no choice but to seek revenge for the killings of their innocent loved ones.  I don’t blame the people who join the fight against the Americans, I don’t know what I would do if my family was harmed and I was the only one remaining.  It could give a different meaning to the name Umair Bin Osama; all those jokes my friends make might become much closer to the truth.  Insha’Allah I never have to find out.

2/13/2012

3 months ago  /  2 notes