The Bitter Harvest*
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Creator: Muhammad Alshareef
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Format: text
Identifier: http://www.khutbah.com/en/muslim_family/harvest.php
Language: en
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Subject: family
Title: The Bitter Harvest*
Created on: Tue Jan 29 11:02:36 -0500 2008
Updated on: Tue Jan 29 11:02:36 -0500 2008
Version: 1
Abstract: ... u people in the halaqah reciting Qur’an, I saw something entirely different. I saw the light in your faces, the light in your clothes, the light in your words, even when you were silent I could see the light even then. “I doubted my father’s tales and that’s why I would sit after Maghrib, watching you, pretending that I was part of the circle, trying to share in the light. “I…I remember Ustadh Salman…I remember the time you approached me after ‘Isha prayer. I’d been waiting for that moment for such a long time. When I began the classes, my soul locked itself into a world of purity with your souls. I began the circle and was persistent. I wouldn’t sleep; my days and nights became Qur’an. My father noticed the change in my routine. He found out, one way or another, that I had joined the circle and that I was now hanging out with ‘terrorists’. “Then, on a dark night…we were waiting for father to come home from the coffee shop, his daily ritual, so that we could all have dinner together. He entered the house with his hardened face and slaps of anger. We all sat together at the dinner mat. Silence settled on the gathering. As usual, all of us were afraid to speak in his presence. “He knifed the silence with his roaring and immediate voice. “‘I heard you’re hanging out with the fundamentalists.’ “I was caught. My tongue looped and failed. All the words in my mouth attempted to come out at the same time. But, he didn’t wait for the answer. He snatched the teakettle and threw it maliciously at my face. The room spun and the colors united before my eyes. I could no longer tell the ceiling from the walls from the floor, and fell. “My mother held me. A damp cloth on my forehead reminded me of where I was. The vicious voice turned on my mother, ‘Leave him alone, or you’ll be in the same lot.’ “I crawled out of my mother’s lap and whimpered away to my room. He followed me down the corridor with the cruelest curses. “There was not a day that he didn’t beat me in some way – curses, kicks, throwing whatever was nearest to his hand. My body had finally become a shiver of fear, grotesque colors formed all over. I hated him. “One day while we were sitting at the dinner mat, he said, ‘Get up! Don’t eat with us!’ “Before I could get up though, he pounced immediately and kicked me in the back, making me slam into the pots. At that moment, lying there on the ground, I pretended to stand taller than him and shout back in his face. ‘One day, I’ll pay you back. I’ll beat you just like you beat me, and curse you just like you cursed me. I’ll grow up and become strong and you’ll get old and become feeble. Then I’ll treat you just like you treated me; I’ll pay you back.’ “After that, I left home and ran away. I just ran, anywhere, it didn’t matter anymore. “I found my way to this beach. It helped me wash away some of the sadness. I held my pocket Qur’an and began reciting until I could continue no longer because of my excessive crying.” And here, a few of those innocent tears descended again, tears that sparkled under the moon like pearls under a lamp. I couldn’t say anything. The surprise had arrested my tongue. Should I be aghast at this beast of a father, whose heart knew nothing about mercy? Or, should I be amazed at this patient young lad, whom Allah had wished guidance for and inspired with faith. Or, should I be shocked at them both, at the father-son bond that had broken, causing their relationship to transform into that of a lion and a tiger, or a wolf and a fox. I held his warm hand and wiped away a tear from his cheek. I reassured him, prayed for him, and advised him to remain obedient to his father. I told him to remain patient and that he was not alone. I promised that I would meet his father, speak to him, and try to evoke his mercy. PART III That incident slipped further away with each passing day. I tried thinking of ways to bring up Khalid’s case with his father. How should I speak to him? How was I going to be convincing? How was I even going to knock on his door? Finally, I collected my courage, rehearsed my plan, and resolved that the confrontation, or meeting, would be that day at five o’clock. When the time arrived, I left for Khalid’s house with all my ideas and questions for his father dangling from my pockets. I rang the doorbell. My fingers trembled and my knees were melting. The door opened... [Full Article...]
