Heaven or Home? (short story)

Written by: Hafizullah Turab
Translated by: Kalimullah Turab

May God bring justice to my father. I was in the 3rd grade when he inexplicably withdrew me from school and enrolled me in a madrasa. During my first two weeks there, adapting to the behavior of new teachers and learning new lessons felt incredibly difficult. I had no way to escape, so I eventually grew accustomed to the challenges and the separation from my family. Still, not a single day passed without remembering my school classmates.

Our lessons mostly focused on the rewards of the afterlife, the path to heaven, and contempt for this world. As time passed, I started contemplating the people as “Sinners,” and my words became like lines etched in stone.

A man named Mr. Mufti occasionally visited our class, and he had a unique charisma that set him apart from the other teachers. Although he didn’t teach specific lessons, he told captivating stories about divine messengers and heaven. Every word that he uttered; charmed the boys in the classroom. Eventually, boys started to love him.

I became so enamored with Mufti’s words that I stopped paying attention to the other teachers. I counted the moments until he would arrive. Because of my admiration for him, I began to forget my family—my brothers, little sisters, and even my mother—as if I had been born an orphan.

At that time, I was only seventeen years old. The tales Mufti told about heaven, testimonies, and the blessings of the afterlife had taken root in my heart. His words influenced me deeply, even it made me think that “Muslims who are unbelievers,are considered to be evildoers and must be punished.”  Life seemed meaningless, and my mind was always filled with thoughts of the divine messengers.

One day, I went to class and was surprised to see fewer of my old classmates. There were more boys my age, but they seemed simpler than me. While I was studying their faces, Mufti arrived. This time, he spoke differently than before. He said, “Today, you all look like princes of heaven to me. I see the light of paradise shining on each of your faces. It’s wonderful that God is bringing you the great great news of the divine messengers to his chosen ones. The Almighty does not waste the blood of martyrs. When a man sacrifices for God, that sacrifice is never in vain.”

I was shocked when we arrived for lunch that day. The food was much better than usual, and there were colorful drinks I had never seen before. Toward the end of the meal, Mufti approached us, smiling kindly, and said, “Drink up, people of heaven. Such days are rare.” We had already drunk the beverages without his urging, but we eagerly finished every bottle as he insisted.

After about half an hour, we returned to the class. A strange change had come over us. Our bodies felt heavy with sleep, and we were only half-conscious. Mufti’s words about the divine messengers washed over us, and soon, we were overtaken by waves of emotion. All senses of unknown passionate emotions engulfed us and seized our control. We tried to reach one another; sweet melodious urge swinged me in that state.

Then, beautiful, slender girls dazzled in white garments appeared near the place where Mufti usually spoke. They were adorned with love, inviting us forward. I couldn’t resist, and neither the others. We stood up, trying to reach them. They came closer, showing their affection, but as soon as we got within arm’s reach, they stepped back, laughing sweetly. This situation continued for a while, but we never managed to embrace them. However,, they left, raising their hands to the sky and signaling that we would meet again in heaven.

When they disappeared, I felt a yearning for them in my heart. I explained the whole experience to Mufti, who exclaimed, “Masha Allah! You have witnessed the good news of heaven firsthand. They are not ordinary girls; they were angels from heaven.God has blessed you with a glimpse of the paradise awaiting martyrs.”

At the mention of martyrdom, we all shouted, “We desire martyrdom!” Mufti replied, “Wonderful! True Muslims like you deserve heaven. I will introduce you to Mullah, who will prepare the necessary things for your path to martyrdom.”

In a secluded room in the madrasa, a man called Maulana awaited for us. He greeted us warmly, saying, “The fortune of martyrdom is not given for everyone. In two days, you will be ready for your mission.” That night, I have dreamt of those beautiful girls, angels from heaven. Over the next two days, they taught me how to wear the clothes and equipment of a terrorist. On the final day, I asked Maulana, “Will the girls be with me after I become a martyr?” He smiled and replied, “My dear, first of all, you will receive the diploma of heaven signed by Mufti.”

True to his word, Mufti gave us certificates of heaven to three of us. Written that :
“This certifies that Mohammad Yasin, son of Shean Gul, resident of [Province], Afghanistan, has become a suitable candidate for the divine messengers due to his martyrdom. He has earned the right to all the blessings of heaven, and his parents will be proud of him both in this world and in the afterlife.”

By Seeing my certificate I felt joy, and my admiration for Mufti grew even more intense. Finally, they told us to board a car. We traveled for hours until I found myself in a house in Kabul. Mufti was not with us. Instead, another man injected us with something early in the morning. I felt weak, and as he fastened a terrorist’s jacket to me, I could barely resist.

He led me to a place about 300 meters from a school and left. As I stood there, dazed, I noticed a man nearby. His eyes reminded me of Mufti. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It was him, although he was now clean-shaven. I reassured myself and I confronted him, saying, “You look just like Mr. Mufti.” He responded angrily, “What does it matter to you? See that school? There are children there. Go among them and press the button, my dear.”

His words enrooted my suspicions. I was horrified that he had shaved his beard and transformed so completely. I told him, “You once had a long beard. Why, what’s  this change?” His eyes blazed, and he replied, “I’ll shoot you here if you don’t go. The angels of heaven await you—go now and blow yourself up among those children.”

I looked at the children, they resembled my classmates. They seemed innocent, and I felt a pang of guilt. I told Mufti, “They are just children and Muslims. I cannot kill them.” He said angrily “They will become unbelievers; killing them is mandatory.”

Looking back at the children, I saw purity and innocence. I no longer wanted paradise in exchange for their lives. I told him, “Here, take this jacket. The angels can welcome you instead.” He roared, ” hellish, Who else will send others to heaven if not me?” His words stunned me.

Realizing that heaven was not for me, if I am a hellish. I made a decision. I threw the jacket at his feet and ran before he could draw his gun. Now, I live with the fear of whether the owner of Heaven will leave me alive in my house or not!!!?