Anonymous
It’s a true story about some one born in Saudi Arabia and when he reached to the age of forty, he claimed that he is a prophet of God, he receives inspiration through a holy Angel and God chose him to seal the prophet hood. His book is the final and the perfect and his followers are the best creation on earth. He encouraged his people to kill, rape, torture, steal, and said that it was God’s commands. He had a billion followers through fifteen centuries and his followers are looking for more killers to follow them.
She born in Egypt for a Muslim parent. She suffered as a Muslim woman because of madness of the religion and culture. When she started to ask questions about Islam, her family accused her of insanity. When she took off her veil, everyone cursed her and when she felt secure, she published her book to claim that there is no religion from God called Islam and Mohamed is not a prophet.
Mohamed’s life story prove that he was a fake prophet and used all his tools to fool people and he succeeded of establishing the largest cult in history. He had a billion followers and survived for fifteen centuries.
When my father came back from his business trip that time, my mother ‘ Amna’ never thought that it would be his last one. She was pregnant with her first baby and she was so happy with that. Since that day she considered me a bad luck to her. As soon as she delivered me, she decided to send me with another woman for nursing, in exchange for money. That lady was living in a different tribe in the desert.
When ‘Halema’ came to my mother’s house, she was so angry. All new born who came from noble families had been taken already. No one left except me. My mother was a poor woman and had very few money. My mother was eager to convince Halema with any way, although she almost lost her income by my father’s death. She was focused to send me away with any price.
On the other side, Halema wanted more than few ‘dinars’ per month. When she started counting her services, she expected more money. My mother insisted to pay no more and Halema started to gather her stuff to leave. She rose her voice claming that feeding and taking care of a baby born would coast her a lot of time and effort. Until her husband whispered in her ears that, a few bucks are better then nothing. She calmed down and then agreed to accept nursing me in her house.
For few days, we were traveling on her donkey’s back. After a long trip, we reached to her tribe. She was living in a very dirty house. For the first two years, she used to place me on a raped rug to sleep beside her bed. When I reached to the age three, she moved me to her kid’s room. She had a son and a little girl. Those people were my entire world until the age five. Helema went so many times to ask my mother if she want her baby back but my mother’s answer was always’ No’
I never felt love towards Halema. She used to take care of me to keep the monthly payments valid. Her hugs, while she is feeding me every day, never meant a real love. I always missed my real mother and never forgot her abundant to me as a child for no reasonable excuse.
For the first five years of my life, I didn’t belong to a family, a home, a parent, a sister or brother and had no relatives. I was completely alone and stranger to everything.
Until one day, Halima came to me to tell me that we are going to visit my mother. I was so happy and dreamed of the moment when she would take me between her arms and let me live with her forever.
When I met my real mother Amna, she told me that we are going to the north on a trip to visit her brother in another country at the north called Syria. The trip took almost a month. On our way back home, my mother died.
It was a shock to find myself alone again after all those years of waiting. I felt as if she was merely a shadow that appeared in my life and when I came close to her, she turned to a mirage.
Hopelessly, I moved to live in my grandfather’s house. I still remember those nights, which I spent alone in my corner, crying and asking myself one question…
“ Am I really a bad luck?”
After two years, before I recovered from the shock of loosing my mother, my grandfather passes away too. For the third time in just three years and before I reached the age of eight, I moved to live with someone else. That time was at my uncle’s house.
In his house, I started to experience different feelings. It was a mixture of bitty and anger. I knew what hunger meant. He forced me to work to support myself even though I was only eight. He never gave me the chance for education or treated me like a son who might have had any rights in his house. For so many years, I had no right to sit with him at the same table and eat. I could hardly remember the few times he let me sit beside him on his bed for chatting. I was forced to live in a separate world that I made on my own, and never complain.
He chose a shepherd job for me. I used to take the sheep and cattle of my relatives and those of the people of my tribe to the surrounding deserts to graze and then, gave my uncle the money. Every day, I used to leave his house at the sunrise and stay to follow the sheep until the sunset. In the middle of a hot sunny desert, under the sandy storms or in a frozen winter, I would work every single day of my childhood. Never had time to play and have fun like any other kids in my age.
During that period of shepherd, my intention of violence started. I was completely abandoned at the desert for very long hours every day and there was no one to talk to.
The silence of the desert drove me to the edge of insanity. The only way could take me out of that borings job was trying to have fun by any way. My big fantasy was torturing those little sheep. Their screaming in pain was fantastic and seeing them suffer, gave me the feeling of power over them. When I injured one of them for first time, the touch of blood made me so high and happy. I know that it may sound a little bit weird to normal people but it’s not for others who experienced killing before. The pleasure, which I gain when I push my little knife at the flesh of those animals, was unbelievable. Any way, it wasn’t a knife all the time. Sometimes it was only nails or sharp thorns to make their injuries less obvious. I used to put my hatred and my feelings of anger on those little sheep.
