Qaryateyn, Eastern Syria, June 15, 634: A cluster of nearly a hundred girls lined the square, under guard by a dozen or so soldiers. Tears streaked their cheeks and a low wail rose and fell among the young women. Some of them sported darkening bruises. Tamara was twenty years old and experienced enough to realize what was happening. She saw her nine-year-old cousin, Miriam, crying and looking confused and thought, Oh, My God, no! Not Miriam! She’s just a child! She recognized Jamila and the two girls fell into each other’s arms in tears. “Jamila, what’s going on?” Jamila held her by the shoulders and locked eyes with her. “Remember, you have to let them get close enough so you can get to their eyes.” Tamara blinked in confusion. “Wha. . . what?” “Their eyes. When they get close enough, put your hands on their face like this.” She cupped Tamara’s face tenderly in her hands, her thumbs resting beside her eyes. “Then take your thumbs and jab hard and dig!” “I don’t know if I can do that!” Jamila looked fierce. “Your only other choice is to give in and let them take what they want.” Tamara could hardly breathe. The fear in her belly seized her and squeezed her chest. Her eyes darted left and right looking for an escape. A growing mass of Arab warriors was filling the square, inspecting the group of girls appreciatively. A large man, naked from the waist up, paced back and forth between them and the girls, a large smile on his face. “Who among you distinguished themselves in battle today?” A voice from the front shouted, “Get on with it, Dhiraar. I’d like to get to know my new wife before evening prayers!” The crowd of sweating men laughed and murmured their assent. One man stepped up. “I was riding at the left side of Jawhar Abd-Fattah, and I saw him slay two dozen Romans.” A man was pushed forward among scattered applause and ululating yells from the ranks. Dhiraar smiled and called out, “Has anyone a greater achievement than Jawhar Abd-Fattah this day? No?” He made a grand gesture at the crowd of girls. “Then, exalted warrior, you may have first pick of the fruits of our labor today. Choose wisely!” The man sauntered forward. The other men gave him good-natured boos, catcalls and advice. He strode up to one girl and lifted her chin and examined her. Then he moved on to another and turned her head from side to side. He leered at his companions; they cheered and shouted encouragement. He shook his head with a smile and moved down the group. He stopped at Tamara and Jamila. Tamara turned her head and tried to bury it in Jamila’s shoulder. Jamila glared at him. “Oh, you’re a fiery one. I like you!” He grabbed Jamila by the arm and tore her out of Tamara’s grasp. Tamara shrieked and reached for her, but was restrained by several other women, who held her as she wept. The man dragged Jamila to a nearby house and entered it. Moments later, the woman who owned the house was forcibly ejected from the doorway and the door barred from within. The auction of merit went on. The one they called Dhiraar would choose men who would take a woman from the group and disappear down a street, looking for a house that could be commandeered. This had gone on for some twenty minutes when the air was rent by a coarse shriek from the house where Jamila had been taken. That scream came from no woman, and everyone in the square turned towards it with a start. Moments later, the door opened and the soldier came out, screaming. He was naked to the waist, clothed only in a breechcloth. His hand was over his left eye and his face was covered in blood. Dhiraar reached him with several quick strides, a grim look on his face. He pulled the man’s hand away and examined the ruined eyeball. Tamara was horrified. “Oh God, Jamila, no!” Dhiraar strode into the house and returned in a moment, Jamila in tow. He threw her on the ground and motioned for two men to pick her up and carry her to a place in front of the rest of the women. His face was red with fury. He went to one of the men in the crowd and snatched an evil looking scimitar from him. Jamila had been forced to kneel in front of the women. Standing beside her, he addressed them loudly. “This is the penalty for resisting that which Allâh has ordained!” Without elaborating, he turned to Jamila. With a motion of his head, the men holding her let go and jumped away. His sword flashed. Time slowed to a stop. Jamila appeared to be looking right at Tamara, as her head slowly fell away from her body. The body remained kneeling for what seemed an eternity, and a fountain of blood shot skyward to an impossible height. The head hit the ground with an awful thud. The body slowly toppled forward and began twitching horribly, its limbs jerking without any coordination in a macabre dance. Time slowly started again. Tamara heard an earsplitting wail that would never end, before she realized that it was her own voice. She stood and screamed and screamed, unable tear her eyes from the body of her best friend. She uttered no words; her mind was numb. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Oh, God, Jamila! ------------------ Find out what happened to Tamara next! Read the book: amazon/Tears-Jihad-Sean-Emerson-ebook/dp/B00HFA3HR6/ref=sr_1_1
Posted on: Thu, 23 Jan 2014 01:10:29 +0000
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