Chapter 1

The room that the young child entered was familiar to him. He had been there almost every day of his two years in Malaysia. His mother, an American from the Midwest, had abandoned her country to work among the ancient ruins of the old country. She believed that the boy, the product of a mixed union, would be subject to less prejudice and stigma in the ancient, predominantly Islamic (the religion of the boy’s Kenyan father) than in her own homeland. The child’s father, who abandoned both mother and son months after his birth, was back in Africa. The mother. prideful of her independent streak, saw less problems for her muwallad (Arabic for "mixed ancestry") in the Far East than in "Jim Crow America." - her words to those who would listen.

She always left him with the neighbors in the small village in which she had immigrated and always felt safe leaving her child among the people she had grown to love as her family. Her young son attended school with the village children but, for most of his day, he visited the old man everyone revered as the village elder. The villagers referred to him as the Mullah and bowed politely as he passed among them, muttering greetings in Arabic - not Malaysian - to all he met.

The elder had grown especially fond of the young American boy he called "his little Abu". The child never knew what the word meant but he liked it well enough and enjoyed the affection the old man showed in his eyes and betrayed in his voice when he spoke his new, strange name. He called his teacher "Grandfather" which the old, bearded man didn’t seem to mind. While he was the leader of the people - not just in the village but far and wide in the countryside - he always tolerated little Abu as if he were his own grandchild. To the villagers, he seemed to see something special in the tiny American with the brown skin that he saw in none of the Oriental village children. They knew he was of some importance to their Mullah and they never questioned his judgement in matters of faith or choice.

Today’s visit to the old man’s hut was special. There was a strange new addition to the humble furnishings of the one-room Grandfather lived in during the day and taught the adults in at night. As Abu entered, Grandfather stood with a smile off to the side, awaiting Abu’s spotting of the new addition. It didn’t take long. His alertness and attention to detail had been one of the things that the Mullah had always admireh in the young Aaerican and, with his quick mind, seemed to be the main qualities that made him such a prized pupil to the man.

"Grandfather! Whax is !253cI>thate3c/B>|/I>?" Abu excitedly asked pointing at the little box against the far wall of the room.

"What do you think it is, Abu?" It has become a Socratic game between the two that few direct answers were given to questions and the answers would be a process of discovering the truth as they playfully queried each other.

"Is it a game, Grandfather?

"No, my child, it is not a game. It is a teaching machine." The old man paused, while Abu’s face lost its gleeful smile that it might be a game and became sullen. But, as it always did, the smile quickly returned when learning was mentioned. If there was one thing the young boy loved almost as much as play it was the wisdom he received at the feet of his Grandfather.

"What will it teach us, Grandfather?" the excitement returning to his voice.

"It will show us the world outside this village, Abu, and how our Muslim brothers and sisters are persecuted by the infidels." The old man again waited for the child to digest, with his quick mind, what he was being told. The Mullah watched, seemingly for a full minute, as the child’s face went from a look of wonder to a quizzical, puzzled look and, finally, to one of anger.

"Who dare persecutes our brothers and sister, Grandfather?", a look of fierceness that the old man had seldom seen was etched on the tiny boy’s face.

"Why do you care, Abu? They are far away from our village?"

"Because our brothers and sisters are ours to protect and defend no matter how far they are from us, Grandfather! You always taught me that".

The old man paused before answering. Then began: "If your brothers and sisters are being attacked in a far away land, Abu, what is your duty?"

"My duty is to fight for them, Grandfather. To slay their enemies and purge the world of the infidels." The words came from the tiny frame as close to a growl as his young voice could mimic.

Again, the Mullah waited before replying, allowing the anger to mature within the young soldier. He wanted the child to feel the hatred build and seep into his marrow and course through his heart and burn onto his mind before speaking. Finally, he replied: "You are right, Abu. We must avenge these wrongs against our brothers and sisters. One day, it will be you who will be the instrument of this retribution. On this, I swear to Allah, may His name be praised."

The young boy was pleased to hear these words come from his teacher. He had heard them before but never with the conviction and strength of voice with which they were spoken that day. He felt pride, as he always had, for these were words that were spoken only to Abu and were, as Grandfather had told him, never to be mentioned outside the walls of his home. It was like a secret code that only they shared.

Abu said, proudly, "I will never fail you, Grandfather, or the Prophet, Mohammed, praise be unto His name. This I swear."

A smile eased over the sun-worn face of the old man. "Of this one thing, Abu, I am most pleased. In you, the hopes of many will live to bloom and grow. You will be the New Light of the world and will right the wrongs that have befallen our people for centuries. Now, let us see what evils must be purged from this unholy world."

The old man went through the steps of starting his small diesel generator and, slowly, the black and white, grainy glow of the tiny television screen began to illuminate the dingy room. The images were not sharp but the sounds were exciting to the young child as he intently studied the phosphorus picture as it came alive before him.

Just as he had started to focus his little eyes on the fascinating pixels gyrating in the strange flickering light before him, Grandfather said" "First, it is time for prayer." With that, he turned down the television’s volume and tossed an old burlap bag over the screen to block it from view and distraction. To pray to Allah, one must be quiet of mind and heart and, even though the young child was filled with a bubbling stew of emotions from the morning’s talk, he had already learned the gift of silencing his spirit. As he spread the rugs for he and his Grandfather, he initiated his almost unconscious process of calming and reflection. It pleased the old man to see how well he had taught his protege the art of placing nothing between his heart from Allah.

As they faced the east and knelt to the Holy Shrines, the old man lead the prayer. The young boy, still not completely aware of the meaning of some of the words had, nevertheless, parroted the standard prayer to perfection. He pleased his teacher as, each time they prayed together, his words grew closer to the true sounds of the ancient Arabic dialect. He knew that, soon enough, the meaning of the words would come to touch the student’s heart and soul. Now, he would be content with mimicry.

After prayers and the rugs were rolled and put, reverently, away, it was time for the real purpose of the day’s lesson. The old man removed the cloth from the television and turned up the volume just enough for he and his young apostle to hear. He didn’t wish for others in the village to be drawn by curiosity to the unique sounds coming out of the window or, worse, ask to enter and watch the wonders of the mysterious machine for themselves. For this was the only television for miles and it was there but for the education of only one observer.

It was July, 1967. Specifically, July 24^th and the news, though the images were only weakly received by the outmoded set (the Mullah was instructed to not raise an antennae for it would alert the town’s people), showed images of Detroit, Michigan which, for all Abu knew, was a city somewhere in his mother’s homeland, the United States. Though he had never been to her homeland, he was born in Hawaii which, his mother had told him, was one of the "United States". To him. now, Detroit and Michigan and the United States were only foreign lands where infidels - non-Muslims - lived.

The teacher was silent as the fuzzy images of white men in helmets and uniforms were attacking black people in the streets of this far away city. Periodically, the screen would show buildings in the city engulfed in flames but, after a moment, would return to the savagery of the white-black chaos in the streets. There were scenes of soldiers and military vehicles patrolling the streets of the city.

After a few minutes, the elderly man noticed the expression on his student’s face become that of bewilderment and confusion. He knew it was time for the lesson to be taught. He turned the volume of the television down but left the picture visible. Gently, he reached to touch Abu’s chin and even more gently turned his face toward his own.

"What is it that troubles you, Abu?"

"Why are the white people attacking the black people, Grandfather?"

"The black people are Muslims and the white people are Christian infidels. They are beating our brothers and sisters for worshiping Allah, praise be unto His Name."

"But, Grandfather, why are they allowed to do this?"

"Abu, in America, the white Christians have ruled the country for centuries. They once had millions of Africans as slaves in their land. Muslims, especially our black brothers and sisters, have always been abused and mistreated in that unholy land."

"Grandfather, my father was a black man from Africa. I barely remember him but mother shows me pictures now and then."

"Yes, my child, I know. Your mother married him so she could have you and give the world a new hope. Now, she has brought you to a country where the color of one’s skin means nothing and all that is of value is the worship of Allah and His Prophet, Mohammed. He still writes you letters, does he not?"

"Yes, Grandfather. He writes and tells me to be true to his beliefs and to be a good Muslim. He reminds me that he prays when I pray and he thinks of me often. He says he left America because of the hatred he felt there."

"Abu, your father is a good Muslim. His strength lay in his homeland among his brothers and sisters and that is why he left you with us. His letters should give you strength and guide you in the coming years."

"They do, Grandfather. But what of our brothers and sisters in America?"

"They are without hope and without redemption, Abu. But, there is hope for the people which will come to them in the years ahead. When the new century dawns in the world, changes will erupt that will shake the corrupt and unclean foundations of the Christian devils and a New Age will establish Allah at the One True God. You will live to see all these things, Abu."

"Is it foretold in the Koran, Grandfather?"

"Yes, my child. And it is ordained, even now, by the leaders of the One True Faith throughout Mecca, Medina and beyond. The highest leaders of Islam know of and fully support the grand plan that will bring about the Redemption of Allah on earth. For now, the precise steps to the New Dawn must remain a secret to all. But, soon, you will know all of that which is planned for the New Dawn, my beloved Abu."

"It will be our secret, Grandfather."

"Swear your silence to Allah, my child."

"I swear, in the name of the One Prophet, Mohammed, Praise be unto His Name, Grandfather."

"May his name be praised, my beloved son."


_____________________________________________________________

Copyright (C) Ron Albright - 2010