Jambaz Muhammad Sharif leaned over the wooden desk where former students had scratched their initials into the rough surface. He had moved into this chilly apartment four blocks from the American University campus and was spending most of his time staring at his computer screen, its eerie glow the only light in the room. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the metal floor lamp in the one-room efficiency that served as his temporary quarters. He was anxious to check for messages.
He had entered the chat room of the assigned company web site and then proceeded to a private room. It was a clever way to communicate and very hard to trace, as long as he didn’t repeat it too often. He knew the agents looked for patterns, and he wasn’t about to oblige them.
It was there in the private chat room that he met his leader, Abbas Kahn. It was there that he received updates on his group back home and on other members of his beloved militant organization, Lashkar-i-Taiba. It was there that he would receive his instructions, his assignment that would aid their plot in Pakistan as well as their cause in Kashmir, seeking to drive out the Kafir from what should have been a Muslim ruled country.
A few rays of morning light filtered through the window in the kitchen area. A microwave and toaster took up most of the space on the linoleum counter, while plates and mugs of unfinished tea cluttered the chipped enamel sink. He wore black pants that were baggy on his thin frame. His favorite dark green tee shirt hung loosely over his waist. Green is the color of Islam, the most holy, the one true religion. Didn’t God’s messenger, Mohammed, Peace Be Unto Him, say, “Islam is the head, prayer is the backbone and Jihad is the perfection?”
Yet, in order to continue the Jihad, they must have clever plans and good weapons. He wondered if his mission involved weapons. He knew the Americans had sophisticated systems that his people wanted. But the Americans also had a lot of other things his people didn’t want. After all, this is a culture that debases its women, imports drugs for its young men, and plunders the resources of other countries under the guise of its corrupt capitalism.
He hated the Americans with their smug superiority. And yet, he was here because he knew how to blend in, gain their confidence and be trusted. For didn’t his very name “Jambaz” mean “honest and truthful?”
He had observed all of their laws so as not to be noticed. In recent years, the American agents tried to crack down on his fellow Muslims, rounding up and interrogating thousands, deporting hundreds and shaming them all. A new round of deportations was now in effect, focusing on people who had committed crimes. Even small crimes, but he would not be caught in such traps.
His cell had waited patiently for the predictable outcry from the so-called human rights groups. And when the complaints and lawsuits were filed, the agents had to back down for a while. They were not allowed to use profiling at airports. Even suspected terrorists who had been arrested were given lawyers. It was then that Abbas Kahn had applied for a renewed student visa for Jambaz.
Plans had been set in motion months ago, and so he was here now, dutifully enrolled at American University, signed up for classes in computer science and even American History. That was a joke, but Abbas Kahn must have felt it would look good on his application. He had his books. He was quiet. He broke no laws, for the Moslem proverb instructs, “A stranger should be well-mannered.” He was a stranger, and so he was well-mannered and careful. Always careful.
He wondered how long would he have to wait to carry out his mission? How long would he have to live in this place before he could return to his home in Dardapora, the village in the Kashmir Valley that had been given to the filthy Indians back in 1947? Dardapora, where so many had died in their fight for freedom from their oppressors. Dardapora, where half the people were widows including his mother and his sisters. Dardapora, a name that means “Village of Pain.”
He felt pain when he thought about his family, how his father had been part of the attack on the Indian Parliament in 2001, but later died at the hands of the Indian police. India and Pakistan had almost gone to war over that attack. That had been their purpose when his father’s group staged it. They had wanted another war.
There had been three wars since the British pulled out, two of them over Kashmir. That area with its shimmering lakes, valleys and foothills of the Himalayans should have been part of Pakistan. The people were Muslim. India was Hindu and yet the hated Maharaja Hari Singh, who ruled a section of it at the time, along with the traitor, Sheikh Abdullah, his Muslim prime minister, decided this region should be a part of India. They must have been paid off and offered protection in exchange for their allegiance to India. And so, from that day forward, the Muslim people in the Eastern half of Kashmir were ruled by the Kafir in Delhi.
Kashmir was beautiful. Kashmir’s mountains were more majestic than anything in Europe. They were more impressive than the Alps. Kashmir was where all people used to go to enjoy its treasures. Not now. Not anymore. Now it is filled with land mines and roving soldiers and seventy-thousand graves. It is like Beirut or Baghdad. Travelers used to go there too. But not anymore. And yet, he couldn’t wait to go back and fight to free his people and establish a proper Califate run by a proper religious leader.
Pakistan used to help them. Pakistan had set up the training camps and the schools, the Madrasses where he had gone at the age of seven to learn the word of Mohammed, Peace Be Unto Him. But now, the Americans had pressured the government in Islamabad to close some of the camps and schools. And after his group staged the successful attack on the city of Mumbai, they outlawed his group, his loyal Lashkar-i-Taiba.
So now they would work outside the system. They had even changed their name to Jammat-ul-Dawa, which meant “Preaching Core.” He still liked the old name which stood for “Army of the Pure.” It didn’t matter what they called themselves, they had contacts and support from many members of Pakistan’s Inter-Service Intelligence Agency known as ISI, the remnants of al Qaeda and several other militant groups. They would all work for change.
He looked at the words on the screen once more. There was a new message. Now there were instructions about how he would play an important role in the unfolding scenario. They told him to wait a little while longer because “An infidel is working on a project, and she has not completed it as yet.” As soon as it is finished, he would soon be instructed how to take control of it.