By: Verdah Bismah
Read Deception - Part I & Part II & Part III & Part IV
She held her breath and ventured out of her prison. Her feet felt hardwood floor and her hands groped a panel wall. The thought that the man-beast could be toying with her – watching her every move, planning his attack, standing just beyond her reach – sent shudders down her spine. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was being observed: that eyes followed her every move, that ears heard her every whimper.
But she had no choice. She felt around the room, occasionally bumping into things along the way. She pieced together that she was in a living room of some sort: sofa, TV, a small coffee table. And then she came to a shelf. Using her sense of touch – her hands were her eyes now – she learned that it was filled with purses and bags. By the feel of it, they were all feminine purses, loot from previous victims, no doubt.
She continued her search till she came to a door with six deadbolts. The front door! She felt all the strength rushing back into her body, the faintest notion of hope often results in an adrenaline rush. She was going to get out of here, she was going to escape, she was going to be fine. However, her ecstasy at finding the door faded as soon as she realized that the bolts were locked, even from the inside.
In her sudden (but expected) fit of rage, she bumped into something, a small table – more like a stool, from the feel of it, and heard something crash to the floor. A dial tone, a lifeline, a telephone. She dropped to the ground and picked it up, just before hearing heavy footsteps outside the front door.
She felt around the keypad, hoped her fingers were accurate, and dialed 9-1-1. Something slid into the first bolt, opening it.
“911 emergencie, comment peux je vous aident? 911 emergency, how may I help you?”
She tried to speak, but no word came out of her throat.
“Hello?… Bonjour?”
Desperately, she began pressing random buttons to make beeping noises. She forced her throat to formulate words, create some sound, anything.
“Listen, this line is for emergencies. I have something that can tell me where you’re calling from…” the operator went on to give the French translation.
She was running out of time.
The second and third locks had been opened by now. She called 911 again. This time, another voice answered.
“911 emergency, please hold. 911 emergencie, attendez sil vous plais.”
She hung up. Then, a distant memory came to her. Someone writing down a number. A number that she had disposed of in her purse. Her purse! She flung the telephone off her lap and crawled over to the shelf. She felt around for her purse – feeling around for the bus tags that were supposed to get her mugged, the same bus tags that could now, ironically, save her life – and dumped its contents out onto the floor.
The fourth lock gave way.
She grabbed the business card and traced her finger across the back, feeling for the grooves that were made when the ink pen had pressed down onto the thick paper.
The fifth lock clicked open.
Once she crawled back to where she had flung the phone, she held her breath and dialed the numbers she had come up with. This was her only chance.
The sixth lock turned open and the door swung into the room. Footsteps – the man had stepped in. She only wished she could see his reaction to what he saw: her on the floor, phone in hand, her purse and all its contents scattered around her.
Suddenly, the cell phone in his pocket began to ring.
She screamed, as realization hit her.
“Didn’t I tell you? You can’t trust anyone.” He laughed and slammed the door behind him, each of the deadbolts clicking into place.
***
The End
By: Anonymous
The revolt spreads as I write this poem,
and our numbers are like the ocean’s foam.
Indeed over fourteen hundred years we have grown,
as we can find our Ummah wherever we roam.
Yet, this story is of those back home.
It started by the preaching of a false word.
So many believed when they heard.
Everything after that became blurred.
It’s nothing, but absurd!
From all those sent for test on earth,
countless fell into this trap from birth.
In time they would grow,
but Deen they would not know.
Deen only taught them to pray,
their perception of Allah turned grey.
Deen only taught them Tawheed,
in a society that thrived on greed.
Deen taught them the rights and provide,
but they spent time in fights and divide.
Their followers are like an endless flood,
of brothers in Islam, and brothers in blood.
They spread corruption on land in His name,
and put the reputation of the Ummah to shame.
The deception so huge, I don’t even know whom to blame.
Who is more unjust than the one falsely claimed?
They were deceived by a few, who wanted material gain.
Who is more unjust than the one who caused this pain?
I pray to Allah for this fog to clear,
so that towards true Islam my loved ones would draw near.
I hope that one day they understand the proper view,
and insha’Allah, that day we can all start as new.
Presenting VVV Poetry Competition winners…
1st Place with 273 points is Zainab Asadullah for The Right Words
2nd Place with 244 points is Rabia Khokar for Atonement
3rd Place with 243.5 points is Maryam Khalid for Beauty of Form
Congratulations to all the winners and a special special thank you to all the participants!
By: Verdah Bismah
Read Deception - Part I & Part II & Part III
Some sort of being had entered the room, and from the heavy thuds of the footsteps, she figured it was a man. There was really no rationale behind her assumption – it could just as easily have been a very large and heavy woman – but her mind automatically told her it was a man. They were always male; both the kidnappers and the saviors. At least, that’s what books and movies had taught her to believe.
A grunt, and a loud thud. Then, rough hands moved across her body. He, whoever he was, started beating her.
First, she begged: pitiful whining, somber pleading, and every single combination in between. Then she swore. Every single expletive that she knew, and even some she didn’t know the meanings of, came rushing out of her mouth in an attempt to make it stop. She even tried praying again, calling to a God she wasn’t even sure she believed in. After that she tried imagining that she wasn’t even here.
No, this was happening to someone else, some other person. Maybe it was that girl from high school who had gone out of her way to make her life miserable, maybe it was her best friend, or maybe it was her mother. It could be anyone, really, as long as it wasn’t her. She wasn’t the one tied down to a bed, being beaten by some sort of man-beast. No. She was sipping mocha in the classist part of town; she was taking pictures and documenting the ugly beauty that they called this world.
However, her fantasy had to end and she was jolted back to reality when her torture climaxed into pain. She could ignore being tied up, she could even ignore the sea of red that she couldn’t see but definitely felt – her blood; but she couldn’t ignore the pain.
Hours passed by, or maybe they were months that had turned into years. Pain takes away one’s perception of time, she already knew that, and wondered if it were possible that only minutes had gone by. Whatever amount of time it had lasted, he finally stopped and left. She had been untied when he had entered the room, and he’d forgotten to tie her back up again. There really was no point in binding her, from the looks of it; he had figured that she would hardly be able to move. She touched her eyelids and felt the thread that held them closed. She wished for a miracle, she wished for death.
Too weak and broken to get up, but too scared to stay in the same place, she took what she thought was probably her one chance to escape. Whoever this guy was, he would probably kill her soon, or put her under conditions that would make death seem welcome. She moved her body to the edge of the bed and tried to slide off gracefully onto the floor. Instead of a hard floor, or carpeting, she landed on what could only have been a mattress.
She walked as best as she could, which was more akin to a crawl, several feet in each direction. Everywhere, the floor was covered with mattresses. She moved in a straight line, wanting to feel for a wall. Again, more mattresses. She figured that she was trapped in a room whose floors, walls, and possibly even ceilings were covered with mattresses; more than likely for soundproofing.
Her screams had never made it out of this ten by ten hell.
Her heart was beating so fast, it would be ironic if she died here because of a heart attack. She calmed down as much as she could, and painfully mounted an inch by inch search of all the walls. Eons later, she found what she was looking for: the latch to the door.
It was unlocked.
***
By: Zarak Aslam
Ah, how time flies. Subhan’Allah, Islam Awareness Week 2012 came and left like a well-known stranger. The dawah spirit permeated the air for three days from the fourteenth to the sixteenth of February. Couldn’t make it? Well, rest assured that it was splendid. Alhamdulillah.
On all three days, elaborate setups were erected to catch the eyes of those passing by. Perhaps this brings to mind the usual image of multiple tables profusely decorated with profound dawah material. However, this time around, that was only part of the fantastic picture. This year, the setup was taken to the next level. This year the setup was redefined. This year, was the year of the Dawah Maze. What is the Dawah Maze? It is a piece of awesome. In other words, a reusable set of two foldable walls that can be arranged in a zig-zag manner and internally adorned with dawah material (oh, and the walls can also be combined to make a giant display). This year, the maze’s theme was the “Names of Allah” and visitors had the unique opportunity to traverse it while reading about the various Names and Attributes of Allah, the Sublime. Props to the IAW Interactivity team and the engineers who helped bring this innovative idea to McMaster’s IAW. Masha’Allah and Alhamdulillah.
As for the events, they consisted of an incredible performance by the renowned Muslim spoken word artist Boonaa Mohammed and a very relevant lecture by our very own Nazir Khan. Boonaa did not disappoint with a live presentation of “When the World Changed”- an original combination of rhythmic spoken word poetry and Quran recitation that related parts of the life of the Prophet Muhammad (may Allah honor him and grant him peace) as well as key themes of the Islamic message. The recitation and translation were enough to soften the heart and emphatically illustrate the reason why the Quran is the word of the All-Knowing and the Mighty. IAW’s second major event was titled “Islam and the West: Clash of Civilizations?”. Attendees were treated to lecture regarding Islam, and the fundamental misconceptions concerning this religion’s role in Western society. Personally, I was not able to attend but am sure that Nazir Khan presented the accurate facts and realities of the matter in an informative and enlightening manner. Alhamdulillah and masha’Allah.
Overall, this year’s IAW set a standard, at least on a personal level, for future IAWs, not only at Mac but at any university willing to spread the inarguably beautiful message of this Deen. Insha’Allah and Alhamdulillah.
Verse vs. Verse
