My
name is Erythrocyte. I know it's quite a mouthful to pronounce, and most people would get it wrong. So, I prefer to be
called a Red Blood Cell.
I
used to live in a human body; an honorable Syrian male teenager, circulating
through out his body. Due to my elastic biconcave shape, I managed to travel
almost every branch of his capillaries, delivering oxygen to and picking up carbon
dioxide from the tissues.
But
today I’m just one amongst several millions erythrocytes that are
now forming a smudge of blood on the Quran
pages. I was told that I’m usually capable of living up to 120 days, performing
my task. But somehow I got expelled from the circulatory system earlier than I
expected. What a shame.
How
did I end up on a page of a mushaf,
you ask? Hmm, let me tell you my story.
As
you probably know, I have lived in my host's body for about 100 days now. Since
I was first formed in Kamil's bone marrow, I have witnessed more than several
occasions that have made my acquaintance, The Heart, beat like those of
racehorses’. When The Heart beats more than 200 beats per minute, then I'll know that something is not right.
Life
was not easy here in Syria. Ever since The Syrian Revolution started a couple of
months ago, many Syrians now live in hiding. Like refugees in their own land.
You
would snort in disbelief or laugh skeptically when you heard how it all
started. How a couple of school children were said to playfully write,
"The People Want The Government Overthrown", who were later on
captured and tortured by getting their nails removed til some of them were
dead.
The
catchphrase was later on shouted allover the Arab countries who were long
suffered under the dictatorships of the so-called democratic leaders.
My
Host; Kamil, you see, was a very special teenager. When most people his
age would get drunk, smoke weed, explore their sexuality, and enjoy
their
youth, he would risk his life participating in demonstrations against
the cruel Basyar
Assad. Ughh, that bastard.
He
knew about all the risks. He knew that during the first 42 days of the revolution
alone, almost 4000 Syrians had gone to meet their Creator. He knew that more
than 9000 people had been captured and some 413 of them had died while in jail.
But he insisted. What a stubborn boy he was.
He
said he had a clear vision. A vivid goal. A hopeful dream, that his country
would someday be peaceful and habitable. Everybody would live happily,
performing their respective roles as Khalifas.
He really hoped that, if not for himself, then for the future generations.
But
he also knew, that he was fighting a good fight. He knew that if he died, he
would die protecting his family, his country, and himself. He knew that he
would die as a syahiid, as the fatwa
from Rabitah Ulamak Syria said he would.
So
on a sunny Friday morning about a week ago, he snuck out to the city after he had prayed Duhaa. He had taken his ghusl and made his wuduk earlier, as most of his people would before going out to march,
because they were convinced that they would never to return home ever again. Not alive, at
least.
I
didn't blame his pessimistic attitude. I understood his tendency to expect the
worst. He did not exactly have anything to lose, lately, since his hometown in Homs
was surrounded by Basyar's army.
Food and water had become scarce. Death had become a normal sight ever
since the snipers swarmed the city, shooting innocent bystanders.
Both of his younger brothers, dead. Bullet in the head. His mother, captured and raped
in front of him before she was killed mercilessly. His father, thrown in jail
without so much as a citation of rights.
Now
he was determined to fight back. After reciting a few verses of the Quran that
morning, he put the mushaf inside his front pocket, before making his way to join a group
of martyrs who were at that time gathering behind a building that used to be a
post office.
I
remember that day vividly, because I had to work harder than usual. His heart
pumped heavily. He was nervous, I guess. He knew he didn't have much against
the soldiers. Only a couple of small rocks and a slingshot.
He knew
he didn't stand a chance, but he thought that it was the least he could
do. When he was little, everybody kept talking about how good his aim
was with the slingshot. So he thought maybe he would use that to his
advantage. That ought to count for something in the eyes of God, right?
He
then took a deep breath, pulled the slingshot, aimed it at one of the soldier's eyes, and with a
brief loud yell of 'Allahuakbar', the
slingshot made a thwiiiit sound as he released it. A soldier suddenly screamed his lungs out, rolling on the ground side to
side, shrieking. He put his hands where his left eye had been just a moment
ago. Blood oozed between his fingers.
A
series of gunshots were then heard soon after that, as a response. One
of the bullets had hit Kamil right in the middle of his chest, which
instantly rendered him immobilized on the ground, gasping for
air. During his last few breaths, he managed to cry out, 'laailaahaillallah muhammad rasulullah', before the internal
bleeding and pneumothorax took his precious life.
And just like that, my wonderful 100 days of sheltering in an ahlil jannah's body finally ended. I splattered out proudly from his blood vessels onto the mushaf, and ended up being right there on top of verse 111 of Surah at-Taubah, that reads:
إِنَّ اللَّهَ
اشْتَرَى مِنْ الْمُؤْمِنِينَ أَنفُسَهُمْ وَأَمْوَالَهُمْ بِأَنَّ لَهُمْ
الْجَنَّةَ يُقَاتِلُونَ فِي سَبِيلِ اللَّهِ فَيَقْتُلُونَ وَيُقْتَلُونَ
"Verily Allah has purchased from the believers their lives and
their properties for (the price) that theirs shall be Paradise. They fight in
Allah's cause, so they kill (others) and are killed.."
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sumber ; http://effysaiful.blogspot.com/2012/03/cerpen-syria-my-name-is-erythrocyte.html
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sumber ; http://effysaiful.blogspot.com/2012/03/cerpen-syria-my-name-is-erythrocyte.html
