The Walking Dead

The camera lens, like a fierce eye, caught him. He had the sheet of paper on his knee. Ibrahim Hussein, the drop-out first-year medical student, thought that at last he had memorized the text given him. He sucked in air, waited for the dropped finger to tell him to begin and felt a tightness through his body…He was told the bulb was blinking, that a new battery was needed, and the tension subsided, the text vanished from his mind. He heard the hiss of annoyance from the darkness behind the light that beamed on to him.

He knew now that Ramzi, the muscle, had run. Knew, too, that crisis engulfed the cell. Knew, also, that time was precious. It was to be his fourth attempt to speak the words written for him, and on three attempts he had stumbled and the thread had been lost. The filming of the video had first been held up by an argument between Faria, who had written it, and Jamal, who operated the camera: what language should be spoken? The Arabic, with the dialect of Asir Province, that was easiest for him and most suitable for the Al Jazeera satellite audience? The English that she had composed and that was aimed at the Crusaders' society? But Ibrahim Hussein did not have the depth of vocabulary to translate from English to the Saudi tongue, and Faria and Jamal had the taught Arabic of the Book, which was insufficient…The argument had been resolved by the Leader's cutting response to the delay: 'It is not important. He will speak what is given him.' Then more bickered problems.

Should he, or should he not, wear the waistcoat?

The martyrs in Lebanon, Palestine and occupied Iraq wore robes when their video statements were recorded, carried weapons and had slogans in praise of God painted on to the wide bandannas tied across their foreheads. There were no robes in Oakdene Cottage, and no Kalashnikov assault rifles. She denied it had been her responsibility to provide robes that fitted him. Jamal criticized the lack of a weapon, even a replica. The Leader had said, 'Again, it is of no importance. He does not want to wear the waistcoat, he does not — he does and he wears the waistcoat. Ask him.' They did. Ibrahim had said he would wear the waistcoat and, taking great care not to dislodge the wires between the sticks, the batteries and the button switch, the girl had eased his arms into it, then settled it on his shoulders.

The waistcoat's weight was on him. The girl sidled close to him, took the sheet of paper and he saw, momentarily, her smile — as if she encouraged him. He tried, in desperation, to remember what he would say — and why.

The finger dropped.

Ibrahim gulped.

The light bored into his face and the lens was bright.

He recited what he had learned. 'I would like to say to you that I have come to Britain to strive in the path of God and to fight the enemies of the Muslim faith. I am the living martyr. God, be He exalted. At this time when the oppression of the Crusaders and infidels destroys our people in all of the world where we live, I look for martyrdom as a sign that we — believers of the true Faith — can never be defeated. I…'

The voice from the darkness was guttural, cold. 'You sound like a parrot. A parrot is taught words that have no meaning — they are just spouted. Do it with feeling, or forget it.'

He cringed. The waistcoat constricted his breathing and lay heavy on him; in his nose was the stale smell of the filth in the bags. She came from the side, slipped into his vision. Her hand was on his neck and her fingers massaged the tightness of the muscle — where the pressure from the waistcoat's weight was.

She said, 'We love you and we admire you. Nothing can stop you, no one. We are privileged to walk in your shadow. The sun shines on you and God's hand is on you and will guide you. In this country, in little streets and in homes and in all holy places — wherever Muslims live and gather — your name will be spoken and God's greatness will be glorified. You give us an example of dedication that we will strive to follow. Believe it1 and say it.'

He believed it. Her hand loosed his shoulder. Where there had been a listless struggle to remember, there was passion. She slipped back and was beyond his vision. He said it: 'I give my life readily because the British authority attacks Muslims where they are weak and cam-tot defend themselves. I avenge the wrongs done by the British, and many more will follow me. I go, God willing, to Paradise. Pray for me.'

The voice from the darkness growled, 'It is satisfactory. Save it and box it.'

He slumped. Light flooded the room and the curtains were pulled back.

The girl helped him out of the waistcoat. He thought there was tenderness in the motion of her fingers. We love you and we admire you. It was as if, Ibrahim Hussein believed, she alone had time for him…Then a stark truth hit him. There was now no retreat. He must walk.

His testament was recorded. He had said: 'I go, God willing, to Paradise.' His own words condemned him.