13-year old me in 1997-98, during a visit to my house (under construction at the time) in Lahore.
It has happened to me, and it can happen to anyone.In plain sight of my unsuspecting family, I was radicalised during my teenage years. It did not matter that I lived a privileged life — not all terrorists fit the stereotype of poor, illiterate people who have nothing to lose.
The events changed my life, and would have ended it were it not for divine intervention. What I realised was that anyone can be systemically brainwashed to the point of committing violence. How did it happen? How does someone growing up with a silver spoon connect with an ideology of anger and hate?
Where it all beginsIn the late 1990s, my family moved back to Lahore from Saudi Arabia. I was enrolled at an elite boarding school, where I would meet our 9th grade Islamic Studies teacher, a stocky man with a flowing orange beard, always dressed in a spotless white shalwar kameez and a black waistcoat.
He claimed to have fought against the Soviets in the 80s. He regaled us with stories from his time as a Mujahideen fighter in Afghanistan. His lectures had little to do with our syllabus, and included colourful, emotional sermons on the devilry of Hindus, Christians and Jews, as well as Sufis, Shias, Ahmadis, and whoever he considered to be heretics, polytheists and kafirs.
He often said that a ‘momin’ is one who carries the Quran in his right hand and a sword in his left; the sword to cut off his enemies’ heads.
For him, fighting the enemies of Islam was our divinely ordained duty. If we did not strike the heretics down wherever we found them, we were no better than men who ‘wear mehendi on their feet and bangles on our wrists’, that is, we were no better than women.
He termed this blanket call for violence in the name of honour as ‘jihad’. For 13-year-old me, this message was inspiring. I was also insulted by his labels — I was not at all womanly, and I certainly did not own any bangles.
He instigated my sense of honour, and this was enough to spur me into action.
jihad. He suggested donating money. If I could spare 10 rupees for Allah,
I could buy a bullet that would tear through a kafir’s chest in Kashmir. I started giving him whatever meagre sum I could, before spending the rest of my pocket money at the canteen. Rs50, Rs10, Rs5 — he had promised me I would receive a portion of the bullet’s 'sawab' .
Then, I wanted to learn more. My teacher offered me books if I was willing to pay for them. I could not read Urdu well, so I delved into the English translation of the Holy Quran and the Sahih Bukhari (a collection of hadith). But balancing daily reading school work wasn’t enough for a teenager infatuated by the idea of martyrdom. Eventually, I found myself before my teacher, expressing my decision to go fight the infidels in Kashmir.
He did not respond immediately and put me off for another few weeks. I went to him several times until he agreed.
The plan was this: on the last day of school, I would leave for the training camp in AJK. I was to bring Rs700 and meet my teacher at his house. We would then go to the bus station at Minar-i-Pakistan, where I would be joined by a travelling partner.
Once I reached the camp, I was to write a letter to my parents informing them of my decision, and of my desire to embrace martyrdom in the way of jihad.
Divine interventionAs fate would have it, my grandmother fell gravely ill the night before I was to leave. It was perhaps the last day before the Eid break, or the winter break, and I reached my hostel room to see my family already there, waiting for me. My belongings were packed and ready and we immediately left for the hospital. My grandmother had contracted an incurable strain of Hepatitis C from a routine injection at the hospital, and survived the next few months in extreme pain. Greatly distracted by her illness, my parents decided I would commute to school from home for the rest of the school year.
I began living at home.
The tragedy wreaked havoc on my mother's emotional state, and it became a difficult time for my family. In such a state of sadness and loss, I could not leave them. In any case I had little time to myself on campus to consider meeting my teacher.
Somehow, someway, I kept putting off my trip to his house.
By the time my summer vacations ended, I had shelved my plans of leaving for jihad completely. well there is more at that link and it is worth reading..
Topic: Faiths, Faith Heads and Violence