I.M.H.O. (In My Haughty Opinion)

The Mahdi - Chapter 8

Ron Albright — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 13:14:00 GMT

Chapter 8

By the time Terry had reached his junior year of high school, he was well-integrated into the "in" crowd of Pimatau. He was on the varsity basketball team (Roy’s tutelage had paid off with a wicked jump shot), his circle of friends had widened beyond the lunch table crowd of Malachi, Mick and Mary. One thing had changed, Roy had graduated and went off to a junior college. But, despite the loss of his best friend, Terry was feeling at home in the cloistered comfort of the school and, though not making the grades Chester and Madeline had hoped for, he was perking right along with a solid "B" average.

There were other changes, as well. Chester, rounder that he always was, had been taking his grandson with him on some of his nighttime activities - mostly poker and whiskey at local handouts. Chester’s friends took to Terry quite well and, since Chester hung around with the "have nots" of the island and frequented seedy island bars never seen by the tourist set Terry never had trouble fitting in. He liked the outings with his Grandpa as they gave him a diversion from the starched and pressed students at the school.

One of the characters Terry always ran into when he was with Chester was a elderly black man named Franklin. Franklin had escaped the mainland (presumably under shady circumstances) and was living with a white woman on the island. He was an "authentic black man" - at least in Terry’s eyes - as he wore a dashiki and kufi cap everywhere. He would be at the bar Chest frequented most and, while Chester and the mangy group of club flies would play poker and drink, Terry would often have the chance to sit and talk with Franklin. He found him to be a refreshing conversationalist and totally unconventional in his view of the world.

Franklin was an unabashed communist and had even, back in his dark mainland days, had written several books on the black man’s plight in America and how communism was one answer to the oppression of minorities. As he had aged, his hate for the American system of capitalism still raged in his voice whenever he and Terry talked. He reminded Terry of his old mullah in so many ways - hate for America and its treatment of blacks, its decadence and system of values and, more to the point, the imperative that democracy must fall in order for the world to prosper. Terry was strangely drawn to the old militant, not because he was Muslim but because of his fierce defense of the black race.

On this particular night, he spotted Franklin in his usual booth. Chester ordered his usual (double whiskey) and the bartender, knowing Terry and his age, automatically fixed him a coke. Chester waved at the 4 men playing cards in the back of the room and asked Terry if he would be alright while "Grandpa made a little money" (which he never did). Terry said "Sure) and told Chester he would be over talking to Franklin. "Watch out for that old derelict, Terry, He’ll try to get you into a robe and skullcap too!" Chester let out a belly laugh, nodded at Franklin and scurried back to his poker pals.

Franklin greeted Terry with "What’s up, little brother?", obviously happy to have someone to regale with his many stories of past militancy or, at least, just to talk to. "Hey, Franklin! What’s shakin’?"

"Just my bones, young blood, old as I am you can hear them cracking when I walk!" Franklin merely smiled. Terry could never recall him ever laughing out loud. He was solemn and serious and, to Terry, that signified a man who had seen and suffered much. It gave Franklin a sort of gravitas for Terry. Over the couple years he had known him, Terry probably believed the old man’s mishmash of philosophy more than anything he learned on the subject at school.

"White man still got their boot on the neck of the black man, boy, and it ain’t never going to stop." Franklin spewed out just before downing a shot of tequila.

"It’s 1977, Franklin, ain’t the man let up a little?" Terry attempted to lighten the mood.

"No, little brother, he ain’t. Martin came and went; Malcolm came and went, laws got pass "giving" us the vote - like it was a bunch of bananas to make us happy - but nothing ever changes. We all still just niggers on the white man’s plantation. And that’s a fact!"

Terry couldn’t help but think back to the first day at Pimatau when Roy had smirked "Welcome to the plantation.." He remained quiet as the old man was just starting his engines to deliver another of his indictments of white America.

"Just look around at what is happening on the mainland, youngun! Niggers are allowed to succeed in sports, singing, and, now, even acting but you see any color in corporate America? Ain’t no brothers on Wall Street but there are plenty in the ghettos. We are fighting for the crumbs from the white man’s table and that is just what they are handing out. Now, they give us Food Stamps, Food stamps! Our mothers and babies are drowning and the white devils throw us a thread. Ain’t no progress being made - they just rolling Trojan Horses out to us and distracting us from the real tragedies in the communities. It’s like the white men and the Indians - they are buying our souls, this time, with wampum and beads. Sad, little man, sad." He took a breath and downed another shot. He leaned back in his seat and lit a Kool. Both were quiet for a moment.

Terry thought about what the old man had said. He saw the fire in Franklin’s eyes and it, once again, reminded him of his ancient grandfather’s when he spoke of the persecution of blacks, in general, and Muslims, in particular, in the United States. In Franklin, as in no one else he had met in the States, he felt a kinship.

Before Terry could manage to say anything in response, Franklin leaned for another of his diatribes that came like gusts of wind before a thunderstorm. "I’ll tell you another thing, blood: The government is behind all this drug addiction we are seeing in our young blacks. First, they beat them down with their segregation and then, say ‘Hey, little nigger. This will make you feel so good!’. And, then, since they got the brothers selling it, they got the jail full of black men. They got black men killing each other on the streets for a bigger piece of that drug pie. They got brothers forgetting their proud African heritage and reverting back to plantation thinking, slaves to the streets and the ho’s and the drugs." Franklin ended another gust.

This time, Terry quickly jumped in: "But, Franklin, some things must be changing. I mean, the rioting and unrest seems to have stopped in America. More blacks are going to college. These have to be considered positive changes. right?"

"My poor little distracted brother. The rioting has only stopped because there are no longer leaders who give the blacks any hope for a better future. They are filled with apathy. And that apathy fuels their lust for drugs and unclean women and unwanted babies. The only way for the black man to prove he is a man these days is to have as many children by as many women as he can. He ain’t trying to out-breed whitey - he ain’t that smart - he’s trying to show everyone he still has his manhood. And the next generation - these fatherless children - woe be to their lives. Children cannot be prepared for life without a man around to spank that ass when needed and show children what real men are supposed to do. It’s becoming a vicious cycle, Terry [he only called him by his name when he was particularly serious], and there has to be some changes from somewhere. Damned if I can see from where it will come." Franklin drew a long drag on his dying cigarette and slouched back into his seat again, as if exhausted.

Terry reclined back as well. There were so many things running through his mind. Change is what he intended to execute in his glorious plan but he wondered what Franklin would think about his method of change? He would never discuss it with even someone like Franklin who was aware of the injustices of the infidels but hearing his words did fuel the fire kindled by the old grandfather so many years ago.

"Well, maybe someday," Terry ventured, "change will come. Maybe someone black will become President and change everything." Terry watched Franklin closely for his response.

It came slowly. First, a smirk came across the wrinkled old face. He crushed out his cigarette and deliberately and slowly took another shot of tequila. Finally he leaned out of his seat and closer to Terry. Finally, he spoke: "A black President? A BLACK President? Nigga, please! Not in my life and probably not in yours. But it is a good dream, little brother. A good dream." He leaned back in his seat and lit another Kool. He ever so briefly smiled and closed his eyes as if trying to imagine. After the briefest repose, he managed a few concluding words: "Maybe you will be President, someday, little brother. Now, that would really be something." He closed his eyes again and resumed enjoying his cigarette.

Terry could tell their conversation was over. He, too, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He visualized, as he had done thousands of times before, his mission for Islam. He silently reiterated his vows, made first so long ago, that he would succeed. He wished he could tell Franklin of his goals but knew it was forbidden. For now, he would dream, like the old warrior across the table from him, of conquest and revolution.

Unlike Franklin, Terry’s dream had wings.

The Mahdi - Chapter 7

Ron Albright — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 11:06:00 GMT

Chapter 7

"What up, young blood?" came a voice halfway between that of a Tereak’s and an adult.

Tereak turned to see a slightly larger boy smiling a step or two behind him as the classes answered the first bell to home room.

"Are you talking to me?" answered Tereak, tentatively.

"You see any other brothers around?" answered the cocky, sauntering black adolescent as he slightly quickened his pace to draw aside Tereak.

"Hi!" was all Tereak could muster, having determined he must be the one being addressed by the older-appearing boy.

"You’re a new kid, right?"

"Yes, this is my second day" replied Tereak.

"It’s all our second day but this is your first year here at the school, am I right?" the young boy’s voice crackled with increasing confidence and a definite urban accent.

"I guess you’re right. Yes, this is my first year at Pamatau."

"I figured. You look like a scared black among all these honkies." the boy giggled as the words came out.

"Honkies?" asked Tereak.

"Dude, where you from anyway? ‘Honkies’ as in white folks. Duh."

"Sorry. I have been in Malaysia until this year. There are a lot of white people here, but I am not scared" Tereak spoke with a accentuated confidence.

"Yeah, right. Dude, you don’t need to be afraid of these whities. Believe me, they are more afraid of you than you are of them. By the way, my name if Roy, Roy Freeman."

"My name is Terak Bin Laden."

"What kind of name is that, dude?" asked the strange but somehow inviting boy.

"It’s from Africa. My dad was from Africa."

"African, eh? That’s cool. A real brother from the homeland." The boy seemed impressed briefly but then asked the question that Tereak dreaded: " You sure are light to be 100 per cent African. What’s the deal?"

"My mother is white." Tereak muttered, almost embarrassed at the confession for the first time. "I was born in Hawaii, though" as if it might make some difference in the boy’s assessment of him.

"That’s cool, brother. You have the best of both worlds". Roy was in full-blown laughter by now. You’re in my home room, I think, so I will have your back. I can show you the ropes, Te-reek".

Noticing the mispronunciation of his name, Tereak thought fast and blurted out "You can call me Terry". Americanizing his name would make meeting other people easier to meet and cut back the ensuing explanations, he thought. He was pleased with his quick thinking.

"Terry it is, my brother. Welcome to the plantation!"

As they walked up the stairs to the school, the newly Christened "Terry" wondered what Roy had meant by "plantation". But there wasn’t any time to explore the term as the all the younger students’ home room were on the first floor and he and Roy were at theirs.

"Let’s sit together in the back, Terry. That way we can watch the whities and make sure they don’t sneak up behind us" Roy snickered. "Is that cool with you?"

Terry just reflexly answered back "Cool" and followed Roy to the back of the neatly lined desks.

As the class was summoned by the P.A. system to "Stand and Repeat the Pledge of Allegiance", Terry looked at Roy. He only smirked and did as he was told by the unseen but authoritarian voice over their heads.

Terry parroted the words of the Pledge but the entire time was thinking to himself how sly he was to speak of "allegiance to the United States of America" and "God" when both were anathema to who he really was. His only allegiance was to Allah and, someday, all these infidels would discover the truth. But this was not the time.

As the housekeeping chores that were home room (roll call, more paperwork) were begun, he corrected his teacher, Mrs. Hasty, when you stumbled to pronounce his name. "Just call me Terry, Mrs. Hasty".

"Welcome to Pamatau, Terry. We are so pleased to have you" she chirped.

As she moved on down the roll, Roy leaned over and whispered "Yeah, right. ‘Pleased to have you’ my ass!" Terry unexpectedly found himself smiling back at his roughhewn new best friend and slid down into his seat with a new confidence. He had made his first friend.

After home room, Terry didn’t see Roy until lunch. He spotted him at a table outside the cafeteria with a plumb black girl and two boys that appeared to be Hawaiian. The local Hawaiian’s representation at the elite Pamatau was about as rare as that of blacks so, Terry thought, the little clique made sense. Minorities, all.

Roy saw Terry as he ambled over to the little group and shouted, "What up, brother?" loud enough for all the nearby students - ninety per cent Caucasian - to hear. Most just shook their heads without taking further notice. Roy, ever the militant, looked around defiantly to measure the reaction. He smiled as Terry arrived at the table.

"See, young black? I told you these honkies were more afraid of us than you are of them. Don’t nobody mess with us." The young black girl giggled shyly and the Hawaiian’s just laughed. One said, "yeah, you’re a bad dude, Roy." He slapped palms with his fellow islander. They, obviously, weren’t the least bit afraid of blacks or anyone else.

"Guys, this is my new token brother, Terry. Terry, this is Mary. These two heathens, motioning to the locals, are Mick and Malachi. They are cool."

"All Hawaiians are naturally cool, Terry" Mick volunteered. "Something to do with living on an island and being surrounded by surf and babes." Another sliding of the palms was exchanged between the two and, this time, the boys included Roy.

"Hi, guys. Hi Mary." offered Terry.

Malachi asked straightaway, "Roy says you are from Africa, Terry. But, dud, you don’t look like no African."

There it was again. "I am not African; my father was. I was born right here in Honolulu."

"Really?" Mick pondered. You don’t look Hawaiian either!" They all laughed and Terry had to force a smile not to appear as angry as he was inside.

"Well, Roy said it best: I have the best of both worlds. I am half-black and half-white."

"Naw, dude, the best is 100 per cent Hawaiian. We are cooler than the blacks and meaner than the haoles" Mick countered.

"Right on!" came Malachi’s response.

"What’s a haole?" Terry asked.

"What you think, bra? Whites or the assholes, whichever you please." Malachi answered with a scornful, dismissive expression. "They think they bad ‘cause they run this joint but they are all scared little mice. We take them some places on this island, they don’t come back, right bra?" he glanced at Mick.

"Fo’ real, bra.."

Terry had sat down by now during all the chest thumping and testosterone surges. He could see that he would have allies in this school and started to feel even less alone and an outside. The Hawaiians skipped right over his skin color and made him feel part of the group. They accepted him because he was not perceived as a dominant interloper like the whites had always been viewed by the locals. He was beginning to feel at home.

Lunch passed quickly with pleasant, often amusing banter between Mick, Malachi and Roy. Mary was mostly quiet and appeared quite shy but they all included her in the give and take and she held own. So did Terry who struggled to keep up with the fast urban black talk from Roy and the occasional uniquely Hawaiian pigeon English of Mick and Malachi. But he enjoyed the break from the boring class room lectures.

When the bell rang, they all split to their respective buildings and their final two classes. Roy walked part of the way with Terry and invited him to meet him back at the table after classes. They would hang at the basketball courts before going home from school. Terry agreed though he didn’t know anything about basketball except the ball was bigger than a soccer ball and you threw it in a basket or some such. But he was game for anything Roy could put before him and said yes.

Once on the basketball court, Terry noticed there was one goal occupied by a number of black students already at play. Across the court, the white kids played their own game. He mostly watched but quickly saw two things: basketball could be fun and Roy would be a good one to learn it from. He was quick and seemed to dominant even the taller black players. While watching the play, he clearly saw the difference between the black players at one end of the court and the whites at the other end. The blacks played with an aggressive, one-on-one style like Masai warriors challenging each other on ever possession. The whites would dribble and pass, slow down the game and shoot long jump shots. These were two different cultures even on the sport’s fields. Terry decided he preferred the game the way it was played by the blacks and made up his mind to get into the action at the first opportunity. If nothing else, he could release the anger and hostility he harbored in a controlled way, just as his old grandfather had instructed him.

After the game was over, Roy said "So, what you think, little brother?"

"You’re really a good player, Roy!" he enthused.

"Streets of L.A., homie. Toughest basketball in the world."

"I want to learn this game, Roy. Will you teach me?" Terry almost begged.

"Sure, young blood. Meet me here tomorrow about 7:30 and we will have a fgew minutes before school to get some basics. And, tomorrow afternoon, you can start banging.."

"Cool" Terry cooed. "Now I gotta get home."

"I’ll walk with you for a while. You never know when there might be some white devil behind a tree ready to jump you."

Roy laughed at Terry’s face which suddenly looked suspiciously at several nearby trees. "Dude. I am just clowning. You’re safe with me." Several blocks later, they parted company, marking the departure with a high-five and a "Later, dude" from Roy.

He was greeted at the door by Chester who asked where he had been.

Putting on his most boyish, endearing face, Terry said "Grandpa, it was the best day! I met some new friends and I am going to learn how to play basketball from Roy."

The enthusiasm and happiness defused Chester’s anger at his tardiness. He patted Terry on the head and simply said "Go wash up. Grams had been holding dinner and she ain’t happy." He winked and Terry sped to the bathroom. Supper was pleasant enough and the two adults were pleased to hear of Terry’s adventures and new friends. Grams agreed to wake Terry early for the basketball practice. Exhausted - but in a good way - Terry asked if he could just shower and go to bed. No one disagreed.

Terry closed the door to his room after his bath, read his Qu’ran and then put it back in its place. He turned out the lights, knelled at the side of his bed and thanked Allah for his protection and new friends. He snuggled under the sheet and fell into a deep sleep. It had, truly, been a good day in his new world.

The Mahdi - Chapter 6

Ron Albright — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 11:49:00 GMT

Chapter 6

When Tereak (no longer the "Abu" of his kin and townspeople in Malaysia, he had used his full name to register at school) first stepped onto the fences, well-manicured campus of Pamatau Preparatory Academy, he felt he had been transported to another planet. There were no dirt road and every walkway, path and drive was paved. There were well-placed tables in designated areas for the students to study or just converse and they were surrounded by the varied and lush vegetation of the "Pearl of the Pacific". The students were well-dressed, though casual, and most of the younger students, though in clean clothes, went barefoot. It looked almost as if the young people of his village had been magically transported to his new school, bathed, dressed in finery and told to walk about. Strangely, after completing the arduous required placement testing and administrative paperwork, Tereak felt comfortably at home.

Most of the students were white but there was a healthy mixture of Asians, much like the ones he had grown up with, and a smattering of blacks. He was anxious to make the acquaintances of those who looked more like him and it was not that difficult with the laid-back environment of PPA. His first class class of the day was to check in at home room and the room of 20 or so students fortuitously had 4 black students among the whites, Asians and islanders. After observing them for a day, he determined that he would strike up a conversation with whoever he could find the next day.

As the school day ended, he made the short walk back to the apartment his mother’s parents had moved into to be close to the school. Chester and Maureen Dunston were delighted to have their grandson home with them and the apartment, provided as part of Tereak’s "scholarship" was certainly an upgrade from their previous one. Maureen worked as a bank teller and Chester, well, was between jobs, as he often was. Both of the adults thought the whole arrangement would work out perfectly for their new houseguest. Both were home when Tereak sauntered in after his first day at the new school.

"Well, how was the first day, little man?" Chester asked.

"Not too bad, Grandpa. They all seem to be pretty nice."

"Did you meet any new friends?" Maureen inquired.

"Nah," said Tereak, "we were all running around finding our classes today. Tomorrow will be better."

"I am sure it will, Tereak" Maureen reassured him. "Now go study while I get supper ready."

Tereak nodded and made his way down the short hallway to his room. There were only the three of them in a two bedroom apartment so, for the first time, he had his own room and real privacy. He took his well-worn Qu’ran from its hiding place, gingerly unwrapped it and just stared at it for a few minutes. He thought back to his teacher and their afternoon meetings. He missed him so but, as he had promised, he quickly opened the holy book and began reading appropriately, from the beginning, feeling each word lift his spirits and his heart. After 20 minutes or so, he took out his prayer mat and, for the first time since arriving in his new world, prayed to Mecca and Medina as he had so many times with the old Mullah. He was careful to speak the words of the Salah quietly. His new grandparents were not Muslim but Christians. He must begin his life-long practice of stealth when practicing his faith. He did not mind as he knew it was necessary to begin the process of "fitting in" in the infidel’s world. He would become a master of it with time.

Just as he was finishing, he heard a soft voice at his door. "Time for supper, Tereak". It was Maureen. He answered "Be there in second, Grams", using the name they had decided on using when he was first met at the airport by the two American strangers that were his kin. For Tereak, the two were not family - he had never known them before arriving in Hawaii - but they were his caretakers, at least for now, and he knew he should be respectful.

When he came to the kitchen, he found both Chester and Maureen already seated. Spread on the table were peas, corn, bread and pork chops. Tereak knew that, as a Muslim, the meat was forbidden but he quickly remembered what his teacher had told him their last day together:

"You are allowed the evils of the infidels because your duty as a warrior for Allah, Praise be unto His Name, exceeds the rules of the ordinary Muslim."

He ate everything Maureen had put on his plate but he had to consciously force the pork down his throat. Life amongst the impure would be difficult but Tereak, the young warrior, would make any sacrifice, suffer any indignity and do as he was expected as parts of his life’s mission. To both his mullah and Allah he had sworn an oath to do just that and he would never allow himself to forget it.

When supper was over, Chester retired to his easy chair and turned on the television for the news and whatever inane shows he usually watched. Maureen cleaned in the kitchens, the washing of dishes chattering in the background. Though he was revolted by the effort, Tereak accepted Chester’s invitation to sit in his lap and "watch the tube for a while". He lasted 15 minutes and then announced he had reading to do for school and escaped to the solitude of his bedroom. In fact, he had no homework; he just had to get away from the smell of pork and the alcohol already on Chester’s breath.

He settled on a comic book and let his mind rest for the evening in the banality of the adventures of Superman and Batman. His new world was tiring and wearing two faces required all his youthful energy. He grew tired and finally put his books away, stripped down to his underwear and turned out the lights. It was 8:30. He wondered what time it was back in his village and imagined what his grandfather might be doing in his hut. The thoughts calmed his heart and soon, sleep feel over him. He welcomed it as he knew his journey was long and he was satisfied that his first steps had been handled expertly.

But, he also knew, all the steps would be not be so easy. His dreams that night, as for many to come, were of his old home and his teacher so far away. They gave him strength and steeled him for the days to come.

The Mahdi - Chapter 5

Ron Albright — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 12:56:00 GMT

Chapter 5

To the old man, it had been four years that felt as if it had passed in one day. Despite his heartfelt affection for Abu, he knew, in his last day with the boy, he must show strength and not waiver into sentimentality. That was for women, not warriors. He must remember that the plays Allah writes for the lives of his true believers are long and he is but one actor in this grand drama.

There were others already in place, ready to perform their parts. For the past year, the old man had been recruiting what he called his "Brotherhood of the Sword" and dispersing them to Abu future bases of action: Hawaii, Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston and Washington. These were the best young men Islam had to offer. They were its strongest believers and were not the ignorant peasants used as terrorist but educated, reserved, self-controlled men who would do what they were told in an efficient and, if necessary, lethal way. Abu would never know of his guardian "angels" but would have need of their "services" more than once to smooth the way to his rise to power.

The path that the young "Guided One" would take once he left the breeding ground of Malaysia had been etched out by the mullah and his council. He would leave the nation of his youth and return to Hawaii and be schooled in American ways and culture. He would live with his maternal grandparents, happy to take in their first grandchild but ignorant of the grand scheme of which he was the tip of the spear. The old teacher had, over the past year, persistently whispered in the mother’s ear that Abu had exceeded the limits of the education available to him in the village and needed to spread his substantial intellectual wings in a more challenging environment. That would allow him to re-acclimate to American life, reacquaint himself with his grandparents and prepare for higher education, a goal his mother surely wanted. The clincher was that he, through an "unknown benefactor", had received a scholarship to the best prep school Hawaii had to over, Panatou Preparatory Academy. The harried working mother and newly wed had no idea from where this benevolence had come but had no reason to question it. She had always thought of her young son as specially blessed by Allah and this merely confirmed her delusion.

She had finally agreed to part with her child. She had married the consort arranged by the mullah and had given birth to a daughter by this time. With her work, her new Muslim husband and an infant to care for, she knew Abu would be safer and better cared for by her parents. With the old man’s assurances that he would continue contact with his prized pupil and provide for any of his needs in the faraway islands, she had finally consented to allow her young eagle to fly from the nest. Today would be the last day the teacher and student would ever meet.

It would take 2 days to travel from their remote village to Singapore where the fledgling leader would board his flight to America. He would leave after midday prayers so the old teacher had little time for his goodbye. He met Abu at the door of his hut, embraced him and went through the ritual they had practiced so many times of laying out the prayer rugs. Abu, now 10 years old, lead the dhuhr as he had been accustomed to doing for the past year. His voice was strong and the mullah was pleased with his rendition. Once completed, and the mats returned to their place, the final conversation between teacher and pupil commenced.

"I will miss you, my child, but this journey is part of your destiny."

Abu nodded attentively.

"You will be in a strange, often hostile place where you must depend on Allah, Praise be unto His Name, to guide and protect you. Many temptations will beckon you to step off the path for which you have prepared. But, when they do, remember that, though I am not there to caution you, I will be watching you in the dreams that Allah, Praise be unto His Name, sends to me in my sleep. Do not disappoint an old man and, more importantly, do not embarrass Islam, which has put so much faith in you. You will promise me this, yes?"

"I promise, grandfather" Abu said with conviction that pleased the old man.

"You have the words of the Qu’ran to bring you solace in the troubling times that will inevitably fall along your path. Keep up your study on the Words of Muhammad, Blessings on His Name, and you will be true to your brothers and sisters throughout the world. Their eyes will be on you, my son, and I am convinced their hopes and dreams are not misplaced. Are you, my son?"

"I will live the life you have taught me, grandfather and follow the words of our faith. I will make you and all of our believers proud. This I swear to you and all my brothers and sisters in Islam" Abu pronounced.

"You are enrolled in the finest school in Hawaii and there you will learn all that the West has to offer. Learn it well with no less diligence than you have applied to the Qu’ran. You must assimilate the world of the infidel in order to know best how to conquer it when that time comes. You must keep your own counsel and share our dreams with no one as there are no confidants among the unclean. Listen only to your inner voice for it has been trained in the true path. You are allowed the evils of the infidels (alcohol, smoking and the like) because your duty as a warrior for Allah, Praise be unto His Name, exceeds the rules of the ordinary Muslim. But, be cautious to always be in control of your habits for they can rule the spirit, if unchecked. Do understand these words, Abu?"

"Yes, grandfather, I understand that the strength of my beliefs and the discipline you have instilled in me will be tested at times. I am steeled for the task, my teacher. Your trust is not misplaced. I will become as the infidel dogs and they will love me and trust me. I am the actor who will construct their doom. I am the Sword of Salahudin, and will sharpen my blade even as I live among the Christian dogs." Abu’s face grew dark as he spoke these fierce words with such hostility that it brought a brief smile to the mullah’s wrinkled face.

The mullah embraced his young charge with a sense of pride and fulfillment he had never felt before. As he walked Abu to the door, he fought back not tears of sadness but tears of pride. He would not fall prey to the sentiment of the woman and the weak. No further words were to be spoken between the two. The old man walked Abu to the taxi waiting outside his hut. Abu’s mother and his half-sister were already in the back seat and his meager belongings were packed and ready for the flight.

As Abu turned to open the door, he turned back to the only man that existed in the tiny universe that was his old life. The young boy and the elder locked eyes and exchanged a thousand words with a glance. Just as quickly, Abu bounded into the car, closed the door and the car slowly accelerated down the dirt road.

The mullah closed the door to his hut and, alone for the first time in years, rolled out his own prayer mat. His words to Allah were not the specific, rote words of the Salah but a special prayer just between a man and his Deity. He prayed for 20 minutes. His knees ached as he rose and replaced the mat and tidied up the hut. He read the Qu’ran for the remainder of the day, undisturbed.

That night, the old man slept more soundly than he could ever remember and dreams were of battle and ultimate victory.

The Mahdi - Chapter 4

Ron Albright — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 11:08:00 GMT

Chapter 4

The next morning, Abu was awakened by his mother at their usual time for lessons. Since she had to leave for work by 6:00 and Abu was required to be at the village madrasah by 7:00, they always woke together at 4:00 in the early dawn to work on Abu’s English. He was proficient, already, in Arabic and Malay. It was up to his mother to make sure he would master English. She was a patient teacher and, fully aware that her son’s future life - and mission - would be in America, she took great pains to hone his pronunciation of the complicated language to a fine edge. She was not without prior experience either as she, for a time, taught English to prospective immigrants at the American embassy.

Lessons done and breakfast shared, the two members of the little family went their separate ways. His mother gave him a loving hug as she sent him off toward the madrasah and watched for a few seconds as he was joined by the other children headed off to their Islamic education. She smiled to herself at his tiny form, growing smaller step by step, and felt proud that her son was becoming such a mature and responsible young boy. "We’re sure not in Kansas anymore but it’s not too damned bad for what we have been through!" she thought to herself.

Abu nor anyone else in the village was the least bit aware of the monumental events of the previous night. Classes began, as they always did, with the first prayer of the day to Mecca and Medina as proscribed by the 5 Pillars of Islam. After prayers, the children gathered in a circle to hear the teacher read from the Qu’ran of the day’s lesson. Abu listened intently, though he was already familiar with the day’s verses, as he usually was. After all, he and Grandfather had read the Koran together, cover to cover, in the first few months they met. Abu was becoming well versed in its teachings and its prohibitions and was rapidly, to his teacher’s admiration and downright shock, was nearing the status of a haifiz - one who had committed the Qu-ran to memory, including its 100,000 hadith. In everyone’s memory, no one so young had come so close to this supreme degree of scholastic achievement.

The call to mid-day prayers was the signal for Abu to leave the madrasah and run the half-mile or so to the Mullah’s hut. He always took mid-day and sundown prayers with his great teacher. He, alone, among the students was allowed this honor but none seemed to resent his leaving class. In fact, no one even acknowledged his departure and the teacher simply continued her instructions. She, like the students well knew that Abu was destined for more individual instruction.

When Abu arrived at the Mullah’s hut, the old man was dozing on the cushions in his corner of the room. But the arrival of the child was all that was required to rouse the old man back from his dreams to the real world and the embodiment of all his dreams, real and imagined.

Abu did not speak but smiled broadly as the old man went through the motions, by now familiar to the young boy, of raising his aged body from the reclined position to standing. He reliably and predictably stretched out his arms, smiled and beckoned the child to him. Abu ran and buried his face into the ample midsection of the Mullah. The old man laughed and Abu giggled as they always did. It was, after all, the highlight of both their days. No grandson loved his real grandfather any more than Abu did his teacher. And no grandfather had grander plans for his actual grandson that the Mullah.

"Assalamu alaikum, Abu."

"wa `Aleykum As-Salaam, Grandfather!" Abu recited, with his usual excitement. It is a beautiful day, my teacher!

"Yes, my son, it is to Allah’s Glory, may His Name be praised. It is time for al-zuhr, my child."

Without any prompting, Abu efficiently and quickly retrieved the sajada from their places and unrolled them onto their traditional places, the front edges facing the western sky and Saudi Arabia. As the old man began the prayer with the first words, "Allahu Akbar", Abu began to mouth the remainder of the prayer in unison with his teacher. Some parts he had come to know quite well and his voice would grow stronger as he confidently spoke along with the Mullah. At other places, he still become a bit unsure and would simply do his best to pantomime the words as he heard them spoken. It would only be a few more weeks and the little boy would be able to recite it in its entirety. He had already mastered the rak'as (the prescribed postures for the stages of the prayers) and was growing, daily, in his mastery of each of the five daily supplications. His Grandfather sensed his pride in the precision with which he executed each movement.

After the concluding "wa `Aleykum As-Salaam", the two rose and, quick as a mouse, Abu had the rugs rolled and wrapped and back in their place. As always, he was filled with anticipation of what his teacher had in store for him today. He had already observed that the wondrous spectacle of the previous day, the television, had been removed from the room. Though Abu felt a twinge of disappointment, the old man had never disappointed him with an afternoon in his two years of private tutoring. Today would be no exception.

The old man had returned to his cushions near the window and, when Abu joined him, sitting cross-legged at his feet, he began.

"Abu, we have a great honor today. We have a letter from your father and begs that I read it to you since it is in Arabic and in his imperfect hand."

"Read it, Grandfather! What does my father say?"

"He opens, as he always does, with the shahadah - "There is no god but Allah, and Muhammed (Peace Be Upon Him) is his prophet". He then speaks to you, my child. He writes:

"It pains me, my son, to live apart from my only son and to be called to serve Allah in my homeland. But, a faithful Islamist does as he is asked and his faith leads him. I lament the continued oppression of my brothers and sisters in America at the hands of the white devils. Though not my home, America is the nation from which my child claims his birthright. I am filled with the hope that as my son grows in strength and wisdom he will be able to return to that Unholy Land and exact Allah’s revenge on the Infidels that enslave his people.

"Be also aware, my son, that the Americans continue to support the Zionist dogs who have now overrun Jerusalem after their illegal and unholy war against our brothers in Egypt, Syria and Lebanon. With the infidels providing weapons to the Zionist, our Muslim forces were attacked and destroyed with a chance to retaliate. Now, with our armies in disarray, the Zionists have stolen more land and all of the holy city, Jerusalem itself.

"I pray each night, my son, that Allah grant my one wish: That my son will grow to be strong - in body, mind and faith - and be the sword of Allah and His people. Vengeance for all the wrongs inflicted on our people will take time and patience. Time for you, Abu, to master all that is expected of you. You are my hope and the center of my prayers. Continue to grow under the watchful eye of Allah and soak up the knowledge of your teacher. When the full bloom of your manhood arrives, you will be ready to do that which is expected of you."

The old man stopped and let the words fill his young student’s heart. Abu’s expressions turned to that of smoldering anger as he heard his father describe the actions of Israel in what was to be called the "Six-Day War". He knew how important Jerusalem was to Islam and for the Jews to consolidate the entire city was an insult to all Muslims. He hated the Jews but, more, the Americans who supplied them with the weapons that enabled them to kill his Arab brothers. After he had composed himself, as his teacher always reminded him to do before speaking his thoughts, he said: "Grandfather, I have a anger that burns in my heart and wish death to all the nonbelievers, especially the Americans and the Jews. Is it wrong to have this where Muhammed, Praise be unto His Name, tells us to only let peace live?"

The Mullah had expected these words and was prepared to answer. But, instead of a quick reply, he looked concerned and rubbed his whiskers, as if to be measuring his reply carefully. Finally, he spoke:

"Allah commands us to purge hatred from our hearts. Purity of Faith allows no room for the negative passions of hate or lust or greed or envy. These are forbidden by the Qu’ran. But, when injustice occurs against those who follow Allah and His Prophet Muhammed, Praise Be Unto His Name, it is right to avenge the injury."

"Then what are we to do now, Grandfather, to avenge this injustice?" Abu asked, frustration seething into his voice. It was not unnoticed by the teacher.

"Allah commands of all His followers to avenge wrong but in a way that will prevent such transgressions to be repeated. We must be patient. At this moment, the Western infidels and the Zionists are too powerful for our reappraisals. But it will not always be so, Abu. Allah, Praise be unto His Name, in His Own Time, will instruct us as to when and how to strike in retribution." The calmness and confidence in the old man’s voice assuaged Abu’s anger and the boy’s tiny face eased into an expression of concentration and focus. Just as he had spoken to the young imam of patience the previous night’s council, he prepared the same lesson for Abu now.

"Allah’s Plan for His faithful often begins as a tiny seed, Abu. It may be weak when planted in the hearts of the faithful but His protection allows it to grow undisturbed. When the negative passions blind us to Allah’s true plan, we often meet disaster and defeat. But, when we allow His Plan to reach its full strength and glory, nothing can defeat us. It is this patience we must hold in our hearts now. I am convinced that Allah is working His Plan among us, even now. Our role is to quiet our hearts and allow His seed to grow within us all. When His Time is come, we will be invincible as invincible as we once were and will establish Islam throughout the Kingdom of Allah, rightfully, the entire world."

He stopped and watched his student’s face. He could see the concept being understood and the metaphor take root in the child’s mind. As familiar as the old man with his student’s expressions, he could see his point was well made.

"The patience of Saladin humbled the Crusaders and won back our Holy Lands" Abu spoke, half in thought and half to his teacher.

"Yes! Exactly, my young pupil. The heathens had held our lands for many years until, with Allah’s seed in full maturity, His earthly sword, the Great Salahudin, unleashed the Wrath of Allah and the cities were once again cleansed of the infidels. The mighty warrior protected Allah’s lands against the mightiest of the infidel kings, including Richard the Lionhearted. But it was the wisdom and patience placed by Allah in the heart of even his fiercest of warriors, Salahudin Ayyubi, that allowed him to conquer the papal dogs sent by Rome. We must be like Salahudin and allow for the seed of Allah’s plan, growing even now, to reach its full beauty and power."

Abu could feel the enthusiasm rising in the old man’s voice and understood the importance his teacher placed on his words. He also soaked in the vision of the glory of Allah, planning even now, to avenge the many centuries of insults the Muslims had been forced to bear at the hands of nonbelievers. He felt proud to be a likened to a soldier, like Salahudin - the full meaning of which he still had no idea - and was prepared - body and spirit - to sacrifice what may be required in the coming battle. The Mullah had told him that much. He cemented in his heart that, no matter how small a part or how great the sacrifice might have to be, he would not disappoint neither his teacher nor Allah. His tiny body coursed with new determination and enthusiasm for the future when glory would be Islam’s. His path would be long and arduous but he vowed, silently, that he would never fail to climb toward its final goal.

The old teacher was pleased to see the external manifestations in the child’s face that he was beginning to accept and understand what lay ahead for him. His heart was content that his life’s mission would reach fruition - not in his lifetime - but guaranteeing his place in Jannah. Though he would have preferred to be part of the downfall of the infidels, his part would be animated by the strong oak that would grow from his works. It was enough.

The Mahdi - Chapter 3

Ron Albright — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 14:28:00 GMT

The gathering of men, resplendent in the robes of the highest leaders of Islam, was not seen by the townspeople of the secluded country that cradled the old Mullah’s village. Nothing but a monumental calling - a clarion trumpet that rang in their hearts as loud as their local muezzin’s call to prayer from their mosques - could bring these leaders of millions in their own nations to this insignificant hovel. But come they did, these rocks of Islam. They came to the shabby little town on foot or on horseback so as not to arouse the attention of those sleeping soundly after a long day’s work. But the men were deadly serious in their purpose and it showed in every aspect of their deportment. They spoke nothing to each other but merely mouthed the traditional Islamic greeting - "Assalamu alaikum" - as they met with their eyes. The chief security precaution was stealth and silence. There was much to discuss and the wandering ear of an uninvited onlooker would mean disaster to their purpose.

The imams and mullahs had come from all corners of the Sunni empire. They had traversed huge distances to hear of the progress of the most audacious plan ever conceived by the Faithful and they risked nothing to chance. Most traveled incognito by airplane and boat some going so far as to defile their bodies with Western attire so as to not arouse the suspicions of port authorities of airport personnel. It was repugnant to dress as the infidels but no sacrifice was too great for their purposes this night.

They also came without their usual security detachments and entourages. A lone security attendant for each was agreed upon before hand even though many of the men attending had been blood enemies for centuries, all such enmity was put aside for this particular meeting. A document, circulated to all those invited, required them to swear to attend peacefully and with a pure heart on pain of banishment from the Faith. All but one of the 20 leaders had agreed to the strict rules. The one invitee who demurred would be missed but the proceedings could not wait and would move forward without him. As the rugs were placed at the feet of the men, the attendants silently slipped away to leave the men to their critical business.

No one spoke until the host began the meeting with "Allahu Akbar!" All in attendance responded with an abnormally muted repetition of the takbir. The old man followed with "Assalamu alaikum" and received a muted "wa `Aleykum As-Salaam" in response from all. Then, the Mullah voice became even more hushed and serious.

"Welcome, brothers of the One True Faith. We are gathered here tonight for our first formal meeting for planning the New Path. Work has proceeded better than we had hoped in moving toward our final victory over the infidels that have besieged and occupied our lands for centuries. Our young Mahdi grows in wisdom and faith each day and knows that he is beginning a journey that will save his people and his Faith. Truly, I have seen many young men take up the true calling of the Qu’ran in my years as a teacher but this young one has a soul that is committed, a heart that beats strongly for his people and a mind that soaks in knowledge like a sea sponge. Allah, Praise be unto His Name, has sent us one who is all we could have dreamed of."

All heads nodded in approval and they exchanged smiles to each other as they heard the words of the old man. When he had finished, one of the older men spoke:

"Are you convinced, as you were before, that he is the true Mahdi?".

Unhesitatingly, the old man answered: "Yes, brother. He is the one who will deliver us."

Another younger man spoke next: "The journey is a long one, my brother. Is it not?"

For a moment, the old man merely smiled at the question. He knew that patience was a gift of the old and rarely found in abundance among the younger men, no matter what their personal power or influence might be. He recalled when he young and at the feet of his imam, he was taught that, indeed, power and influence are poisonous to patience and grow only the weeds of impatience and irrationality. Then, he spoke his thoughts and words carefully:

"Our Faith is ancient and true, young brother. Because we have been impetuous and divided, we have remained weak and, with our weakness, we have been abused by our enemies for centuries. Without patience and unity of purpose, we will remain slaves to the infidels who steal our lands and our resources and protect the Zionist mongrels who occupy Palestine and call it that most hated of names, Israel. I pray that their souls will be cursed by Allah, all praise to His Name, forever. The recent war ⁽¹⁾ has hardened my heart to the righteousness of our purpose."

He continued: "Our road is long, yes, but it will be successful, if it is Allah’s Will. At the beginning of the next millennium, it will be our leader who will sit at the very center of power of the infidel’s world. And, once there, he can strike at the nonbelievers at will and reclaim for Islam the power we once held over all the world. It is - it must be - truly, Allah’s Will, all praise to His Name"

He waited for the words to course from the ears that hear to the heart that feels and to the mind that understands. Then, he continued: "Most of us here will be in Paradise when this flower blooms to its full deadly and righteous beauty. It must be thus and I, for one, am willing to dedicate my remaining years fixing my gaze far, far ahead. Ahead to the day when our New Path will collapse the West and bring a new dawn to the One True Faith. This is the purpose for which my life, my fortune and my Faith are focused."

No one spoke for what seemed like ages. There were glances into the eyes of others around the circle but, otherwise, the words seared into those in the circle. Finally, someone spoke what most were thinking:

"The conflict between the Soviets and the Americans will keep their eyes fixed elsewhere for years to come. Each will feel their biggest dangers lie from without and look not to the flower that grows within their missile shields. The time is perfect to attack at the heart of West - from among them, within their midst. America is in turmoil and they cannot see past the chaos of their own cities or the rockets of Moscow. Their military is weak, addled by drugs, poorly lead and, even now, is suffering greatly at the hands of the Asians. Our New Path is perfectly time to bear its fruit at its proper time when America is brought to her knees from their decadence and immorality. I pledge my all, brothers, to this Holy Crusade." He closed, quietly, with "Allahu Akbar!" Almost under their breath, was "Allahu Akbar!" spoken in unison by all.

A voice from the circle asked: "What of the child’s father?"

The old man smiled his widest for he knew this point troubled his gathering. He replied: "The African cares nothing for the woman or the child. He did what he was paid to do and is now savoring his reward. He gladly left the American woman in Hawaii and returned to school in the Land of the Infidel when the mahdi was but a year old. He plans, as he always has, to return to his native Africa to seek his fortune there. He will play no part in the child’s life. He has assured me of that upon pain of death".

"Does the child still have any contact with this man?" another asked.

"Yes, he gets regular letters. But they are from my hand - transcribed to avoid recognition by the boy - and speak of his father’s faith in Islam and his wish that his son follow the One True Path. Of course, they are complete fabrications but they ground the boy and have him believe his father is, truly, an Islamist. They serve a minor but important purpose."

Another imam asked: "How long will you have with the child before he returns to America?"

The old mullah replied: "He will be 10 years old when his mother will decide to send him to be raised by her parents."

"How do we know this?" asked another.

"She has been convinced that there is too much racial upheaval in her homeland for her child to return to America. She has been provided with means and the assurances of those she trusts that her child is safer and better cared for here than he would be among the racist infidels. Our women has whispered the right words to her ears and she has been made aware of the strife in her land. We have nothing to worry as long as we can make our mahdi safe and tend to his education as we would our garden. His learning and knowledge progresses apace. He attends our madrasah in the morning and instruction is in the teachings of Islam and our history. He spends his afternoons with me for his special instruction. She is content and will remain so."

"She is content?"

The old man answered, this time quickly: "Oh, yes, brother! She has been made to feel that she is most welcomed here though she is not a true believer. We can allow a snake in our garden as long as we keep her distracted. She has work that interests her and supports her well. Our women report she is happy here and grows to despise her homeland more day by day. She is courted by a local man - a good Muslim though he lapses enough to not draw her scrutiny - who has made her feel loved. For an American woman, that is sufficient."

With that, they were scattered (though still muffled) laughter around the circle.

"What of this man who attends to the mahdi’s mother? Is he in our confidence?" asked a voice from the circle.

"No, my brother. He is paid only to woo her and tend to her physical appetites. He is no Islamist. He knows nothing other than it is desirable for the woman to remain in our village. He is sufficiently compensated for his attentions to the American bitch of a dog and, truthfully, finds it not as revolting as a true and faithful Muslim might. He is a simple man and does not ask too many questions. He enjoys the favors we dispense his work brings him. He will not be a problem for us."

With that, the men in the circle smiled widely. They could finally begin to feel that the plan, as they had dreamed, was taking shape as perfectly as human puppets could be made to perform. One by one, they expressed their assent. In doing so, they were pledging their loyalty, their secrecy and their fortunes to the execution of the plan that was codenamed "New Path". All were in agreement that the scheme should continue forward and that the elder mullah should remain in local control.

For his part, the old man would apprise the leaders of progress at regular intervals but only at irregular intervals and with the utmost security. There would be no written communications and only messengers - true jihadists - would carry the information to be transmitted from the village. No messenger would be used more than once so all information distributed would only appears as pieces of a giant puzzle to prying eyes and nonsensical in its separate parts. The members of the cabal would not communicate with each other about New Path under any circumstances. There would be an immediate end to all blood feuds and quietude would be the watchword by which they would all coexist.

As for the one absent, none spoke. While they all prepared to leave with hearts that soared in anticipation and steadfast confidence in the perfection of their plan, they all knew without the cooperation of the one not there, things would be more difficult but not impossible. Those that left the meeting that night had renewed hope for their scheme and knew they must and should proceed, regardless. Without success, their cause would be lost and, with it, the future of their faith.

There are, after all, a multitude of reliable and proven ways of obtaining agreement or eliminating obstacles in a plan of this magnitude. Throughout the history of Islam, no man was above the advancement of The Faith. This thought was in the back of everyone’s mind as they left the village, silently and separately for the long journeys home. They would spread across the globe as locust, each returning with different passports and by a different mode of travel from which they came.

Such was the secrecy demanded when the overthrow of the world was in progress.

___________________

(1) The "Six-Day War" between Egypt, Jordan and Syria and Israel; June 5-10, 1967

The Mahdi - Chapter 2

Ron Albright — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 13:38:00 GMT

Chapter 2

As the day of secrets came to a close, marked by the decline of the shadows on the walls of the Mullah’s hut, Abu knew it would was time to make ready to leave his beloved teacher. As it was nearing sunset, it was time for the pair’s 4^th daily prayer to the Mecca and Medina. The rugs were unrolled with care and the prayer, uttered by Abu with even more assurance each time, were lead by Grandfather.

Afterwards, not a word was spoken between the two as they replaced the rugs and cleaned the little room for the evening. Abu knew that, every evening, the most important men in the village and even beyond would visit the Mullah home and he took great care to make it as presentable as it could be for the honor of his teacher. He and his teacher never spoke of what was discussed at these meetings but Abu was sure they were of serious matters. His Grandfather was the leader of the region - both within Islam but also as a law-giver and civil authority. Abu felt a great sense of pride that he was the one who was allowed to spend his days with the great man. He knew it was an honor, even for the most important of men, to have just a few minutes with the Mullah and he, a mere child, was allowed to spend the whole day with him.

Now, it was time for Abu to walk to his own home and to await his mother’s return from her work. As Abu walked through the town, he always could feel the eyes of the townspeople staring at him, this tiny boy who their beloved Mullah had invested so much time with. They knew little about him other than his mother was a white American who worked on some historic sites for the government, But Abu was more like they were in appearance - a bronze-skinned, thin child with coarse hair. He was obviously going to be a tall man and always had the look of a far away vision in his eyes. He wasn’t aloof and always returned every polite bow or "Assalamu alaikum" with courtesy. But Abu seemed to carry himself with a dignity that was precocious and "beyond his years". All they knew - or cared to know - was that he was chosen by the Mullah and that was quite enough for the locals to assure that he was treated with respect.

The home he shared with his mother was as small as that of the Mullah’s but was a bit cleaner and much tidier. His mother made sure of that. She had long abandoned the trappings of the typical American household in which she was raised as decadent and wasteful but she was a clean woman, nonetheless. She always followed the traditional hijab code of dress for Islamic women and always wore a chador when outside the house. She worked among the people and, like Abu, was fluent in Arabic. She seemed to enjoy the special status her son had among the Mullah’s people and made sure Abu studied the Koran every night with her.

But this night was special. She arrived at their home at her usual time but Abu sensed a seriousness about his mother that was new and worrisome.

"Assalamu alaikum, beloved mother."

"wa `Aleykum As-Salaam, my beloved Abu", she replied. The tone of her voice was not joyful as usual but had the ring of someone carrying a heavy burden on their heart.

Abu asked: "What troubles you mother?"

"I hate my birthplace, my beloved. My hatred grows every day as I hear of the persecution of our brothers and sisters in America and how the Christians keep them slaves in America. I curse my birth in such a country as that where religious freedom is only an flimsy coat of paint over a nation of hate."

Abu had never hear his mother speak of her country with such passion. He knew that she left Hawaii because of the reaction of the Americans to her marrying a black man and a Muslim but, for the first time, he saw the depth of her resentment.

She continued as she began to prepare their meal: "I thought there was hope in that land when Malcolm X spoke out against the Christian wrongs against blacks and Muslims. Then, two years after we left Hawaii, he was murdered. It is like the Crusades all over again, Abu. The Christians have declared war on Islam and we do nothing to defend ourselves."

"Be not troubled, mother. Grandfather tells me that a New Dawn will come and the infidels will be put to the sword just as Saladin did a thousand years ago. He told me the next century will be a time of great change and Islam will be strong once again."

"The Mullah told you of these things, Abu?" His mother was obviously surprised that this revelation (of which she was well aware) had been shared with her son so soon.

"Yes, mother, just today."

"Then, the Mullah must believe that you are ready to know of the Great Truth that awaits you and all of Islam." She could not say more as it was for the Mullah to reveal the depth of the planning that was already underway for the life that was to be her son’s. "He gave you a great honor by trusting you with such words, my young Abu."

"We spoke of many things, Mother." Abu left out the wonders he say on the television as he had sworn to his Grandfather. He didn’t know that his mother knew all about the television session of the day and the plans for her son. Part of the test of his character and trustworthiness was whether he could keep information from those close to him and he had passed the test. The two spoke no more of the New Dawn or the Great Truth for the remainder of the evening. She, because it was for the Mullah to reveal each detail in his own time; he because he had sworn an oath to Allah.

The meal that night was roast chicken and rice in the strict halal tradition. There was little talk at the table between the two and, afterwards, Abu, as the "man of the house" allowed his mother to clean up the dishes. He washed his hands and face and scurried to his favorite spot to begin his nighttime studies. His Koran was unwrapped with reverence and he began his reading. His mother, watching quietly as she finished her chores, smiled to herself that her son was becoming such a devout and reverent child. Truly, she thought to herself, Allah had blessed her with a most special son. A son she already knew would accomplish great things and bring all honor to his faith.

The Mahdi - Chapter One

Ron Albright — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 11:42:00 GMT

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

And now for something Really different

Ron Albright — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 13:27:00 GMT

Since I, apparently, have ranted until the well has run almost dry and now am approaching some 400,000 words of blather and cant on this blog, I have decided to start the new decade off with something fresh and different. Yes, Virginia, your intrepid writer is attacking fiction.

What I hope to do over the next year is post 20-25 chapters of a fiction book on this site. The postings, depending on the muse, will be one chapter every 10-14 days. And, best of all, it will be free. Not in the "public domain," mind you with permission to reprint elsewhere, but copyrighted and under the usual protections of your federal and international copyright agreements.

I do this as an attempt to expand my writing skills stimulate dialogue and, perhaps, my readership. The book is about politics, intrigue, religion, terrorism, sinister plots and what might have been or, more, what might actually be. I’ll leave it at that for now.

As the usual disclaimer, all resemblance to any people, living or deceased, is strictly coincidental. All of the characters are simply creations of a warped mind (mine) and have no relationship to current events, except incidentally.

I hope you enjoy the experiment. I look forward to your comments and criticisms with equal anticipation. Just don’t passively read - in the words of the current youth, "holler back" and let me know what you think, good, bad and ugly.

The first installment will follow shortly. Thanks for reading along.

Cheers and HAPPY NEW YEAR,

Ron

Thoughts From 105 Years Ago: True Today?

Ron Albright — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 12:14:00 GMT

"The notion that everybody ought to be happy, and equally happy with all the rest, is the fine flower of philosophy which has been winning popularity for two hundred years. All the pretty demands of natural rights, liberty, equality, etc., are only stepping-stones toward this philosophy, which is really what is wanted. All through history some have had good fortune and some ill-fortune. For some, the ills of life have taken all the joy and strength out of existence, while the fortunate have always been there to show how glorious life might be and to furnish dreams of bliss to tantalize those who have failed and suffered. So, men have constructed in philosophy theories of universal felicity. They tell us that everyone has a natural right to be happy, to be comfortable, to have health, to succeed, to have knowledge, family, political power, and all the best of the things which anybody can have ... The, they say that we all ought to be equal. That proposition abolishes luck ... The unlucky will pull down the lucky. That is all that equality can ever mean." ("Reply to a Socialist," Collier's Magazine, 1904)

If there chicanery here? Is this high sophistry? I am lately convinced this passage, though ancient, rings, at some decible level, as truth. We all suffer but to varying degrees. And, whether one calls it "luck" or "talent" or "Divine Intervention", equality of situation is a myth. Further, it is a myth that is the root of much mischief. I, for one, am content where I repose. Human compassion brings me to pity those less fortunate but does not compel me to devise grand schemes (which never fulfill their promise) to eliminate what has always been part of human existence. To whit: the Holy Grail of equality can only be composed of equality of opportunity, never a guarantee that it shall be achieved for everyone.

But, then, that is just an opinion of one man. Well, make that two men. The other, Herbert Spencer, has long ceased to walk among the living.

National Health Care? Not Now - Not Ever!

Ron Albright — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 09:58:00 GMT

Prologue

As a medical doctor for, lo, these past 30 years, I have seen many change in the world of medical practice. Some, relating to diagnosis and treatment, have been remarkable. The flip-side is that, as a solo-practitioner trying to scratch out a living (don’t laugh; contrary to popular opinion, all doctors - especially primary care doctors such as I - are not wealthy), things have decidedly deteriorated. In any case, I have been asked by several readers of this chronicle to write on my impressions and opinions of the proposed institution of a national health care system in the U.S. So, for better or worse - offensive or merely infuriating - what follows are my thoughts on the proposal that has lately been so divisive: to whit, the government "running" health care.

_____

The greatest flaw of all political creatures is the hubris that runs through their veins as mother’s milk. Once benighted to manage the public coffers, wisdom (if they had any to begin with) seems to flee from their midst as bats from caves at twilight. For they, alight with the false glow that they are, somehow, magically transformed into modern-day Merlins, believe they can change not just hundreds of years of American history, thousands of years of human history and, yes, even the very nature of man. All it takes, in the grip of their Beltway delusions, is to throw enough money at what they conceive as injustice or inequality (feigned compassion gets votes) and they will try, as the alchemists of the middle ages, to turn lead into gold or, at the very least, man into angels. (Forgetting James Madison’s famous "If men were angels, no government would be needed".)

The most recently minted "right of man" is free health care for all. Just as enormous amounts of money have been squandered to conjure up other illegitimate "basic human rights", politicians set their quills to work to "better mankind". We have tried - and failed, miserably - to rid the nation of those other pesky flaws of human nature (poverty, crime, drug abuse, ignorance, sloth, and greed), but the denizens of the Potomac have it in their minds that, with just one more bloated, pork-filled government agency, the minions that foolishly elected them to office will be happier and healthier. And, maybe - just maybe - these same fools will be less likely to notice that their government has run it fiscal deficits to unthinkable levels and have debts that will never, ever be balanced.

This in clear view of the experience, almost worldwide, without exception, that national healthcare does not work any better than any form or fashion of socialism has ever worked. In just one example, a British journalist writes:

"The problem with the nationalized industries, for example, was simply that they were expected to provide more public services – in particular, jobs for union members – than their steadily shrinking productivity could justify. The NHS faced the same dilemma from the very beginning: the British public then, like a substantial part of the American public today, wanted to consume more health than it was willing to pay for. The NHS was launched in 1948 by proposals which estimated it would cost 145 million pounds per year. By the end of the first eight months, the NHS’s annual cost was 295 million pounds. By mid-1950, experts were anticipating that the bill for 1950-1 would be 426 million pounds." Incidently, the same article states that government spending for health care for the 2007-2008 year was 92 billion pounds or (are you ready?) thirty per cent of the entire budget for Great Britain.

Well.

Leaving aside, for the moment, whether or not we actually need a national health system, does anyone actually dare to state the obvious: WE CANNOT AFFORD A NATIONAL HEALTH SYSTEM! The national debt currently stands at somewhere north of $7 trillion and there is a recession in progress. The government is giving back tax revenue and, to my eyes, has no clear plan to resolve their free-spending habits in my lifetime or the lifetime of my children (or the generations to follow). We are, in a word, broke.

Aside from the fact that we simply cannot afford a program of the magnitude being proposed, there is a more fundamental question that we should all be asking ourselves before the Washington propaganda machine swings into full gear - as it undoubtedly will. As our eyes moisten, predictably, from the heart-wrenching ads depicting children dying (supposedly) from lack of access to health care and mothers crying over their children, lost to poverty and the "closed system" of the nation’s private hospitals, we need to stop, occasionally, and actually think for ourselves, if that remains possible in this age. The most important questions we should be asking ourselves, after all, is simply this: Is this government’s problem?

Again, setting aside the awful truth that the government has never run any "national business" without losing enormous amounts of money (e.g. U.S. Postal Service, Medicare/Medicaid, Social Security, et cetera), the deeper philosophical query, at the core, is this part of the government’s mandate in a democracy? I, for one, am of the opinion it is not. Don’t get me wrong. I really have no problem with "safety net" programs that can alleviate temporary and reversible hardships - 8 to 10 weeks of unemployment benefits, for example. But I have a fundamental difficulty with government programs that remove the incentives for people to find their own solutions to long-term problems and, instead, encourage the citizenry to become "wards of the state".Socialism is a disease that has brought many proud nations to their knees and is to be opposed at every turn. America has not learned that lesson as yet but, I fear, it soon will.

Political philosophers have written on the government’s duties and, less often, on the limits on these duties throughout history. Some (Godwin, Rousseau, Voltaire, Marx, and their contemporary incarnations have carried forward the torch of socialism, less eloquently, to be sure) have sought the Utopia of a completely egalitarian society, with equality for all. Fortunately for us, the stubbornness of man’s inherent vanity, selfishness and irremediable self-interest has sabotaged all these pretty theories and proven them, repeatedly, patently fallacious and completely ephemeral.

In opposition, one writer, a rare voice in the "Age of Enlightenment" when Utopias seemed possible, knew better of the nature of man and the limits of government. In 1780, Edmund Burke wrote a remarkably un-"P.C." polemic on the duties of government in relationship to the lower classes and what good government "owed" its "less fortunate". Here is an excerpt:

"To provide for us in our necessities is not in the power of Government. It would be a vain presumption in statesmen to think they can do it. The people maintain them, and not they the people. It is in the power of Government to prevent much evil; it can do very little positive good in this, or perhaps in any thing else. It is not only so of the state and statesman, but of all the classes and descriptions of the Rich—they are the pensioners of the poor, and are maintained by their superfluity. They are under an absolute, hereditary, and indefeasible dependance on those who labour, and are miscalled the Poor.

The labouring people are only poor, because they are numerous. Numbers in their nature imply poverty. In a fair distribution among a vast multitude, none can have much. That class of dependant pensioners called the rich, is so extremely small, that if all their throats were cut, and a distribution made of all they consume in a year, it would not give a bit of bread and cheese for one night’s supper to those who labour, and who in reality feed both the pensioners and themselves.

But the throats of the rich ought not to be cut, nor their magazines plundered; because, in their persons they are trustees for those who labour, and their hoards are the banking-houses of these latter. Whether they mean it or not, they do, in effect, execute their trust—some with more, some with less fidelity and judgment. But on the whole, the duty is performed, and every thing returns, deducting some very trifling commission and discount, to the place from whence it arose. When the poor rise to destroy the rich, they act as wisely for their own purposes as when they burn mills, and throw corn into the river, to make bread cheap." [Click here for the full text]

This, gentle reader is what could be written in the days before "political correctness" squelched hard truths, sugar-coated bitter facts and made political rhetoric nothing more than polite sound bites. In brief, speeches designed to make us feel guilty for the fruits of our labor and our belongings as they might be more than some other unfortunate. But, I fear, I digress from the point.

As to a national health insurance system in America, I say this: Firstly. now is not the time as we have neither the money nor the prospects of obtaining it to justify an adventure such as this would entail. Secondly, if we did have the money, I would argue that the experience of other nations has proven that national health systems are money pits and, with the track record of the U.S. Government, we would reestablish a multi-trillion dollar deficit with this program, alone, within a decade. Thirdly, if we had the money, it could be spent more wisely by a privately-administered insurance industry which based premiums on income and, at the very least, covered every child (who was a citizen of the nation) through 12 years old.

Finally, I refute the premise of a national health care system on its face. It is not the place of a democratic government to provide for every invented "right of man". Rights must be balanced by duties and we have given too little emphasis to the other side of that equation for far too long. Without the duties incumbent of a responsible citizenry - to educate oneself to be a productive member of society, honor the obligation of parenting a child and, in general, limitation of the animal appetites of our populace, we can have (and do not deserve) any new "rights". In point of fact, we are already losing what were once the very rights guaranteed by the Constitution because of irresponsible government and an equally unfettered nation of clueless, immoral and thoroughly feckless people..

The "right" to a national health system? Not now. Perhaps, not ever.

________________________________

Update: Still not convinced? British Hational Health System has a novel way of handling cost overruns.

America Quakes

Ron Albright — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 11:03:00 GMT

"The more thoroughly one can view the past, the more clearly one can envision the future." (ANON)

The historical record of America seems, to me, at least, littered with minor revolutions that have, for better or worse, fundamentally changed the Founding Principles. Additionally, these tremors appear to occur cyclically, on a 40-50 year pendulum. It is the purpose of this discourse to examine this phenomenon.

We can go back further, but (for the sake of brevity) let us confine our survey to the last 150 years or so. In the late 1800s, there was the silver and gold rushes that drew American’s westward and expanded the national interests - and built personal fortunes - that forever changed the landscape of the nation. In the early 20^th Century, there were three agitations in short succession (World War I, followed closely by the "Roaring Twenties" and then the Great Depression) that introduced the U.S. to the world stage and shook the mores of the Republic forever. In the 1960s, there was the Civil Rights Movement and the youth rebellion of Woodstock, women’s liberation and the early seeds of today’s drug culture. Once again, the core views and values of our civilization was seismically shifted.

A half-century later, I have lately come to believe that we are in the midst of another of these rhythmic tremors to our social underpinning. The specter of creeping government power, a monumental fiscal deficit, what has come to be called "political correctness" (which silences hard truths and muddles debate) and the tomorrow-be-damned attitude of much of America are only a small survey of these ills. The ultimate outcome remains to be seen but signs, to this observer, are clear that America will, just as it was after the earlier quakes, emerge from our present tumult fundamentally different. In my personal opinion, the changes will not be to our ultimate benefit. Exactly how different and what will remain of the strengths and graces of American culture is the apposite question.

It is an inquiry that troubles me, probably no more or no less that those who lived through earlier agitations, but personally disquieting, nevertheless. And in times when I feel the earth moving beneath my feet, I often turn to one who understood well how fragile a thing civilization is and how quickly man can revert back to his savage nature. Edmund Burke, that remarkable Irish philosopher/politician (1729-1797), wrote often and with an unearthly prescience about the ultimate path Homo sapiens followed to climb out of the trees and live an upright life. In times such as these, when I begin to question the ultimate consequences of our cultural decline that I find a measure of solace from his words.

No one more than Burke knew that all the advancements of the animal we call "man" are parchment-thin and easily ripped, revealing the true nature of the beast within us all. He knew that all that lifted us up and, more to the point, kept us from reverting back to the caves and the savannah were three pillars, constructed with great care over millennia: the rise of religion, responsible but limited government and what he called, in the manner of his day, the aristocracy. [Before you label me an elitist snob, his root meaning was more "gentlemanly manners" than a strict division of classes in society.]

His greatest hour came at a time which was, in truth, not very much unlike ours in contemporary America. The French Revolution had erupted in reaction to a faltering economy, an over-reaching government, and high unemployment. (Sound familiar?) Fueled by the populist, demagogic fire of "the enlightenment" and the abstract philosophers of "the rights of man" (most famously by Rousseau and Paine), discontent boiled over into revolt. As the ancient French society was torn asunder by the metaphysical and futile quest for a chimerical "perfect liberty, equality and fraternity", Burke thundered forth with his most enduring work, "Reflections on the Revolution in France". Would that we had a Burke, today, to write an update: "Reflections on the Revolution in America".

As France fell in chaos, the citizens drank in the Kool Aid of the grandiose promises of a Utopia. As the guillotine working feverishly to establish it’s foundation - equality - upon the heads of the aristocracy, Burke saw nothing but great calamity and disaster ahead. He wrote of ancient truths and the legitimate privileges citizens can expect in a civilized society:

"IT is no wonder, therefore, that with these ideas of everything in their constitution and government at home, either in church or state, as illegitimate and usurped, or at best as a vain mockery, they look abroad with an eager and passionate enthusiasm. Whilst they are possessed by these notions, it is vain to talk to them of the practice of their ancestors, the fundamental laws of their country, the fixed form of a constitution whose merits are confirmed by the solid test of long experience and an increasing public strength and national prosperity. They despise experience as the wisdom of unlettered men; and as for the rest, they have wrought underground a mine that will blow up, at one grand explosion, all examples of antiquity, all precedents, charters, and acts of parliament. They have "the rights of men". Against these there can be no prescription, against these no agreement is binding; these admit no temperament and no compromise; anything withheld from their full demand is so much of fraud and injustice. Against these their rights of men let no government look for security in the length of its continuance, or in the justice and lenity of its administration. The objections of these speculatists, if its forms do not quadrate with their theories, are as valid against such an old and beneficent government as against the most violent tyranny or the greenest usurpation. They are always at issue with governments, not on a question of abuse, but a question of competency and a question of title. I have nothing to say to the clumsy subtlety of their political metaphysics. Let them be their amusement in the schools...But let them not break prison to burst like a Levanter to sweep the earth with their hurricane and to break up the fountains of the great deep to overwhelm us.

Far am I from denying in theory, full as far is my heart from withholding in practice (if I were of power to give or to withhold) the real rights of men. In denying their false claims of right, I do not mean to injure those which are real, and are such as their pretended rights would totally destroy. If civil society be made for the advantage of man, all the advantages for which it is made become his right. It is an institution of beneficence; and law itself is only beneficence acting by a rule. Men have a right to live by that rule; they have a right to do justice, as between their fellows, whether their fellows are in public function or in ordinary occupation. They have a right to the fruits of their industry and to the means of making their industry fruitful. They have a right to the acquisitions of their parents, to the nourishment and improvement of their offspring, to instruction in life, and to consolation in death. Whatever each man can separately do, without trespassing upon others, he has a right to do for himself; and he has a right to a fair portion of all which society, with all its combinations of skill and force, can do in his favor. In this partnership all men have equal rights, but not to equal things. He that has but five shillings in the partnership has as good a right to it as he that has five hundred pounds has to his larger proportion. But he has not a right to an equal dividend in the product of the joint stock; and as to the share of power, authority, and direction which each individual ought to have in the management of the state, that I must deny to be amongst the direct original rights of man in civil society; for I have in my contemplation the civil social man, and no other. It is a thing to be settled by convention." [Emphasis mine]

Admittedly, to the modern ear, these words ring obscure. But, the underlying truth has lost nothing of its validity today as it was in 1791. The key passage is clear enough, even today: "Whatever each man can separately do, without trespassing upon others, he has a right to do for himself; and he has a right to a fair portion of all which society, with all its combinations of skill and force, can do in his favor. In this partnership all men have equal rights, but not to equal things." Do these words not shine brightly enough to light our way, even today?

There are those today who speak the very same words of the false philosophers of 18^th Century France: They say to us that "Americans have rights that have yet to be granted: The right to free and equal health care. The right to a ‘living wage’ and full employment. They have the right to cross our borders, unfettered, and become equal beneficiaries of all our labors, collectively. Americans have the right to be housed,. fed and otherwise provided for even if they have chosen not to avail themselves of a free education and acquire the skills necessary to be gainfully employed." Et cetera, ad infinitum. And ad nauseam.

It is this abstract philosophizing that threatens to undermine the 220 year compact we have had with our government. This sort of insensate abstraction of "the rights of man" obscures the hard work that allows a people to grant rights in the first place, namely, duties. Without the other half of the equation, the social contract is turned on its head and, with this disjunction, becomes null and void. The artificial declaration of "rights" without the burden of duties to balance society can only lead to discontent, anarchy and, finally, despotism.

For proof, one only need leaf through the pages of our "user’s manual" - history, wrote large.

Father's Day - 2009

Ron Albright — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 12:32:00 GMT

I have written about my father on previous occasions in this BLOG but, with this being Father’s Day weekend, and with my dear old man heading toward 81, I am not so sure which special day will be his last. With that in mind, I feel compelled to again write about how much one person can mean to another’s life. We hear the tragedies of bad parenting all the time. In truth, it is so common that it has become popular as a defense strategy for felons committing all varieties of heinous crimes as adults to blame their parents - more often than not, their fathers - absent or present - for their psychopathology. Dads get plenty of bad press. So, to change the focus - if ever so slightly - I want to give my father (and the millions just like him) - fathers of we "baby boomers" his due.

My dad grew up in the hardest of times in the great depression and was not quite 10 when the bottom fell out of the stock market, America’s finance and his own family’s little world. His dad, my grandfather, was a smalltime lawyer. And when the clients had no money, he had no clients. Like my practice today, he was a solo practitioner and hung his shingle with a single name - Louis Claude Albright, LL.D. Dad speaks of him going to his downtown office in those harsh financial times and, sitting all day alone at his desk, warming his office in winter with whatever wood and scrap coal he could find. He would not spend the 10 cents for the bus downtown and would, instead, make a sandwich, and walk 6 miles to his one room "law office". He would rather his 4 sons and his wife have the money that save on a little shoe leather. When he came home, he would say he was too tired for supper and usually went to bed. Looking back, my dad is convinced this was a father’s simple sacrifice so his growing family would have more supper to eat. He died, relatively young (in his 60s) of a ruptured gallbladder and resultant sepsis, never bothering to go to the hospital for a what he considered "just a stomach ache". I was only 5 or 6 when he died but, strangely, I remember him much better that I remember most of my relatives from his generation.

He was a smallish man, no taller than 5 foot six inches but he ruled his little kingdom as men did in those days. His tool of enforcement was the razor strap he sharpened his straight razor on and, serving double duty, was not infrequently used to teach his four rowdy sons what it meant to be responsible men. His sons, by the time they were in the late teens, were all taller and heavier than he was but all four knew that he was unchallenged King of his castle. And they were all the better for it.

Two of the sons went to college; two, the two youngest - my dad included - went into the service together. As luck would have it, when they had served their stint in the Air Force, they both took the civil service exam for the U.S. Post Office and both became carriers of the mail. Throughout their lives, they carried with them the lessons their father taught them. Neither rain, nor cold, nor sleet nor gloom of night kept them from walking their 6-8 mile routes (these were the days before jeeps and trucks and carriers actually had mailbags over their shoulders) and delivering their cargo. Bronchitis bordering on pneumonia, the flu, kidney stones and even a lunchtime vasectomy didn’t keep my dad from completing his day’s work either. When he retired after 30 years of "pounding pavement" (as he called it), he had something like 2000 unused hours of sick leave. Like his father before him, sickness was not an excuse for not doing a job.

Vividly, I recall the "dog days" of the Alabama summers when dad would come in after his miles of carrying a 40 pound leather bag along the steaming streets and looking very much like a wrung-out washrag. He would slowly ambulate up the stairs to his bedroom, change his sweat-drenched clothes, find a fan to sit in front of and quietly drinks glasses of iced tea, one after the other. He never talked much in these few hours but I learned lessons that have stayed with me all my life just from watching this 6 foot two inch, 220 pound man, weak as a kitten from hard labor, coming home to me and my mother, proud that he - like his father before him - had done an honest days work for an honest day’s pay.

My relationship with my father was, as with all adolescent males I suspect, occasionally contentious. There was the time, shortly after he married my stepmother (I was about 9 or 10) that I said something harsh to her on a day she was particular tired from her job and trying to prepare supper in a hurry. She didn’t make a scene but dad found her sobbing, quietly, at the sink while she was doing the dishes. He asked the cause of her distress and, when told of my boorish behavior, set out to exfoliate my hind quarters. His tool for this task? His official, government-issue postal belt. Without my stepmother’s intervention, I very well might have been the first child to succumb to fatal hemorrhage of the derriere but she stopped him short of homicide, of which he was surely intent. I gained a new respect for my new mother’s compassion (even when I didn’t deserve it) and, as a side benefit, learned an entirely new way to walk and how to read standing up for the next several days. The real lesson was the most valuable: Respect for parents is an essential requirement if you wanted to live a full, pain-free life in the Albright household.

Dad was no intellectual, He didn’t read books or anything more than the Sunday newspaper. But he was a "fixer-upper". He was a carpenter, plumber, electrician and car tinkerer. He had the kind of intelligence I never developed: common sense and an almost innate knowledge for the way things worked and went together. I failed to drink from this bottomless well of "horse smarts" and, as a result, I am useless around the house when it comes to fixing anything. I wish I had been more interested in his tinkerings but I had other pursuits in mind. To whit: reading in my room and soaking up the knowledge of men from antiquity that I thought, at least at the time, were wiser than my father. It was only as I grew older that I realized the could not have been more mistaken.

Father and son did the usual things fathers and sons did in those days: fishing, hunting, and tossing the ball around the backyard. He was usually tired and I know his body would have preferred to be resting on the sofa, but he did what fathers do and made no show that it was a chore for him to do so. The hunting and fishing never captured my fancy, but I did play the usual sports in school and, I think, my father was proud of my accomplishments in that realm. He hardly ever missed a baseball game at the local Little League field and absolutely never missed one of my high school football games. I think he was more excited and proud that I when our senior high school football team went undefeated way back in 1968. It was, after all, his son out there, playing for his dad lost glory.

The most important lesson I learned from my father was the importance of an education. He stocked my room, from the first days of school, with books. Books on science, geography, the classics and an encyclopedia. He demanded (the post office belt always in the back of my mind) that I excel in school. This was nonnegotiable. His son’s life would not be that of a laborer. I was going to "be" somebody. An "A" on a report card was expected and, as such, went unpraised; anything less always brought negative reinforcement. Demanding? Yes. Unwavering? Absolutely. Rigid? Sure. Unfair? Not in the least because he was convinced that, in America - and especially where his son was concerned - there was nothing that hard work and diligence could not overcome.

From as far back as I can remember, all he and my mother spoke of was "when I went to college". There was never "if Ronnie gets into college..." or even discussions (at least to my ears) about how two lower-middle class parents could even afford a college education for their son. It was simply a given fact of life that college was going to be my destination after high school. And somehow, they pulled it off. Sure, I worked all through college to buy my food and pay for lodging but they always somehow came up with the tuition and the book money. I lacked the luxuries of some (a car, a nice apartment, the fraternity experience, et cetera) but I got by. I never felt I was missing out on much as I was too busy trying to keep up with my "betters" - those 2^nd and 3^rd generation college kids who had all the trappings of wealth. They lacked, however, what I had an abundance of: the faith, of my father - apparently absorbed by osmosis - that I could be anything I set my mind to.

I have achieved some small measure of success in my life and, needless to say, my father was the engine, the invisible hand, that guided me to where I am today. His unfailing Protestant work ethic, alive and well in me even today, drove me to deny failure (though it often nipped at my heels) and overcome some hurdles that others might not have faced. For this - and countless other lessons my father taught me - I am forever grateful. He was a man who took what life handed him and did the best he could under difficult circumstances. He never faltered in his primary objectives: to love his family and to raise his only son to live a more privileged life than he did.

Today, as he is fully into the sunset of his life, I know he is a proud man for the one thing he holds dear: a life that may have been unremarkable but that resulted in something he can always take a large measure of solace from. He molded his son, filled him with a family tradition of hard work and determination and, ultimately, that fulfilled his American Dream. And, in turn, that son loves him and his many sacrifices he made to have that dream come true.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

The No-Brainer

Ron Albright — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 13:39:00 GMT

As I have delved into several times in this space, there really are some rare kernels of wheat among the silos full of chaff that air across our commercial television networks. One of the very best, newly discovered by me, is a series that recently concluded its premier season on the Fox Network called "Fringe". It is (if I may be allowed to give a summary after only watching 5 or 6 of the episodes) about a (presumably) fictitious branch of the F.B.I. that investigates paranormal events and tries to keep the nation safe (and, not surprisingly) unaware of the evil that surrounds them, manifested in some really bizarre ways. It is another "out there" creation of J.J. Abrams (of "X-Files" fame) but it is an advancement of that particular sci-fi genre. Suffice it to say, it is "fluff" but it is awfully good fluff which does earn points with me.

It merits mention because it gives rise to some interesting "what ifs" and, importantly, an occasional segue into a rousing BLOG rant. Such was the case with episode #12 of "Fringe", titled "The No-Brainer". The plot involves a deranged computer genius who sets out to kill those who have harmed his career by sending a complicated audiovisual program over the internet that turns their brains, quite literally, into mush. [Ironically - or maybe not so ironically - it is reminiscent of the commercial Hulu.com themselves did with Alec Baldwin during the Super Bowl in January; strange but true.]

Since I am no conspiracy theorist by nature, it takes a leap of faith for me to start seeing plots in banal statistics but I can’t help but make the following jump. To whit:

1. On average, children and adolescents spend more than 6 hours a day with media (television, internet, computer gaming, et cetera). Two-thirds of our youth have a television set in their bedrooms, half have a VCR or DVD player, half have a video game console and one-third have access to the internet. (1)

2. There is increasing evidence that the frontal cortical function of this age group is being inhibited and possibly permanently damaged in the brains of our young.

Only the second statement can be questioned; the first is based on universally-accepted and verifiable statistics. It is my hypothesis that the first statement of fact directly impacts and is perhaps the primary cause of the hypothetical second statement. Please allow me to elaborate.

What if, as in the "Fringe" episode, the brain can be slowly degenerated by prolonged exposure to the visual and auditory signals our society subjects it to with frightening regularity? Further, what if the primary effect of the damage occurred in the frontal cortex, the primary center for human reason. If true, it would explain much.

As you may or may not know, the frontal cortex is the area of the brain whose function can be most simply explained as "it directs the decision-making processes of the brain to do the harder thing". When the limbic system, that primitive part of the lower brain that says "Shoot that asshole who just cut you off in traffic" or "Just knock the crap out of your boss for not appreciating your hard work" or any of the thousands of socially-prohibited ideas that run through your brain daily, starts demanding action, it is the frontal cortex that reminds you that if you actually do these things, there will be repercussions.

Developmentally, the picture becomes more worrisome. What effects does constant irradiation have on the undeveloped frontal lobes? The frontal cortex is not fully developed until the early-to-mid 20s, which explains a lot of fraternity behavior and the popularity of Johnny Knoxville with the 18-25 demographic . Until we have reached about a quarter-century in age, we are - to varying degrees - slaves to our limbic "if it feels good, do it!" dictator. When the frontal cortex finally comes fully on-line, we begin to exhibit some (admittedly, within a wide range from individual to individual) degree of self-control. We become able to reign in the thousands of impulsive behaviors that we are err to ("Damn, dude! That’s the ugliest shirt I have ever seen!") and start being more "socialized". Which is to say, we bite our tongues and keep most of our real opinions to ourselves. We eschew the truth for the polite. In brief, we stop acting like cavemen.

Now, one could argue until the earth suffers the heat death that discretion trumping truth is an "improvement" in our behavior or simply the less contentious thing to do when one lives in society with others. I will leave that point to those who have expertise in the area but it is my opinion that without the constraints of the frontal cortex on our child-like limbic system, we would all be riding skateboards, wearing jeans with holes in them and living under highway overpasses and robbing little old ladies. But that is simply one man’s opinion.

Another control the frontal cortex exerts on the primitive carpe diem limbic system is the concept of delayed gratification. I know, I know. I have discussed the demise of this once hallowed virtue elsewhere in this BLOG. But, again, to my aged eyes, the decline of the willpower to postpone what feels good now for what will feel infinitely better tomorrow is the greatest hallmark of the 21^st Century behavior. After all, monkeys do not have any concept of savings accounts, social security, IRAs, home equity or retirement planning. Their biggest concerns are where can they find their next banana and is that a stick or a snake lying on the ground below them. They are limbic-driven creatures, through and through. It is only Homo sapiens that, once upon a time, thought about the future and developed these concepts. And it is due to our more fully-developed frontal cortices, unique to the animals of the world.

In recent times, our electromagnetic field-impaired (damaged?) frontal lobes have surrendered their singular human purview for contemplating "how should I best prepare for my future?" and reduced us to the barnyard animals. To whit: we have now achieved, for the first time since 1933 (think "The Great Depression") the virtually impossible: a negative savings rate. The limbic system, now in the driver’s seat, cries out "What the hell! Buy that Mercedes and worry about paying for it later, if al all. Charge what you can’t afford because, well, you can!" And we merrily swim into the morass of debt, bankruptcy and financial ruin. We are a society run, not by our higher brains, but by the tiny amygdala, the same seat of emotional behavior that drives the apes, wildebeests and pigs. If you can remember it, which I have strong doubts, think of Aesop’s parable of the ant and the grasshopper. For those who need a hand, we are the grasshoppers; the Chinese and the Indians (think New Delhi not Native Americans) are the ants.

I can’t help but believe that it is all somehow related to our gluttony for media. When we are presented, hour after hour, with hedonistic, pleasure-driven and egocentric pseudo-celebrities, the higher functions of the minds are overwhelmed, besieged and, eventually, silenced. We forget the lessons of our forefathers that hard work, discipline and persistence are the paths to success and, instead, are inundated with images that the more bizarre you act and the more attention you can draw to yourself, the more successful - the more "happy" - you can be. Think Oprah Winfrey versus Joan Rivers, think Warren Buffett versus Mark Cuban, think Nolan Ryan versus Roger Clemens, think Morgan Freeman versus Will Ferrell, think....well, the list could go on ad infinitum.

With the atrophy (functionally if not structurally) of our singularly human frontal cortex, all the world is a stage. The loudest, most outrageous and imbecilic acts of depravity and gracelessness garner the prize: fame. And fame has become the sine qua non of success in our upside-down world. The catchphrase of the 21^st Century is "famous for being famous" - not talent, not intelligence, not creativity, not benevolence and certainly not boring, tedious hard work. The goal of the modern-day American is to win the lottery, not work 30 years, save your money and build a virtuous and happy life. If the 1970s were the "Age of Aquarius", the new millennium is the "Age of the Limbic Man": self-centered, ego-centric, addicted to the attention of others and oblivious to all else.

If the images we subject our minds to, night after night, are those of depravity and antisocial behavior and, in turn, these acts are rewarded with what with have come to covet and value most (attention and at least a form of "fame"), is it any wonder we sink, like the wooly mammoth in the tar pits, to societal suicide? Excite the limbic system, time after time, with ephemeral promises of easy success, glitz and glamour - no talent required - and the prehistoric conquers evolutionary progress every time.

It seems we have devolved to the phrase we once applied only to our cousins, the primates: "Monkey see, monkey do".

___________________________

(1) JAMA, June 3, 2009 - Volume 301, number 21, pp. 2265-6.