Shiistan
04-06-2008, 04:11
The sun lingered softly just below the horizon, its scarlet morning glory just ever so slightly visible. In the distance, morning fog still hung about the Northern Aniqi Mountains, whose immense ranges rose high into the heavens and across the Shiistani landscape. The sand was not yet warm from the night prior, cooling the feet of Aazad Schalub. He left his home, a small clay structure amongst many others in the town of Baariq. A muezzin sang with a beautiful tenor the morning adhan, or call to fard salat (Mandatory prayer) from atop his high minaret adjacent the town’s mosque. Qiblah Slowly the people stirred and Aazad watched as they exited their homes and made their way to the mosque to pray. Facing the Qiblah, he sang out to Mecca “Ash-hadu al-lā ilāha illallāh! Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan! rasūl allāh! Hayya 'alas-salāt Hayya! 'alal-falāh! Allahu akbar! Lā ilāha illallāh!” ( I bear witness that there is no lord except God I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God Make haste towards prayer Make haste towards success God is greatest There is no lord except Allah)
Aazad had already committed ritual ablution, cleansing himself before entering. He was a young man of nineteen years old, an orphan who’s mother had died in birth and his Father had died on Jihad against the Russians in Chechnya. He walked into the Mosque, at which’s gold and blue painted doors stood the Imam. He bowed slightly in courtesy to him. The Imam bowed back. He laid out his mat and faced the Qiblah and began to pray.
“التحيات المبركات الصلوات الطيبات لله
السلام عليك أيها النبي ورحمة الله وبركاته
السلام علينا وعلى عباد الله الصالحين
أشهد أن لا إله إلا الله وأشهد أن محمدا رسول الله
اللهم صلى على محمد وعلى آل محمد كما صليت على إبراهيم وعلى آل إبراهيم
وبارك على محمد وعلى آل محمد كما باركت على إبراهيم وعلى آل إبراهيم
فى العالمين إنك حميد مجيد”
(All greetings, blessings and good acts are from You, my Lord.
Greetings to you, O Prophet, and the mercy and blessings of Allah.
Peace be unto us, and unto the righteous servants of Allah.
I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah.
And I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger. O Allah, bless our Muhammad and the people of Muhammad; As you have blessed Abraham and the people of Abraham.
O Allah, be gracious unto Muhammad and the people of Muhammad; As you were gracious unto Abraham and the people of Abraham.
Surely you are the Most Praiseworthy, the Most Glorious.)
He then stood and bowed, and noted the Imam leading the prayer still. Soon thereafter it was done, and the crowd which had assembled left. Many townsfolk approached Aazad and bade him good morning to which he contently nodded and granted a smile. Leaving he returned home.
“Poor Aazad,” Imam Khalifi Ferdosi sighed to Maram, the eldest woman in the village, “He has never recovered from his wife’s death.” She nodded.
“He is such a good boy, no man deserves what has happened to him. Inshallah he will find peace.”
“Yes,” The Imam replied, “I do hope that he shall.” Maram left the Mosque then, and the Imam returned to his cell to continue his works. Aazad however did not. He knew that there was no life for him here in Baariq. The past year had shown him he was done. However, he felt that perhaps his destiny lay in the Mujahideen as with his Father. His Uncle Jasim, a wealthy businessman from the Capital City of Maktub had raised him as a son when his Father went to fight. As he grew older, Aazad had grown bitter of the nature of his Father’s death, desiring to fight the Jihad himself in the name of Allah and Islam, but Jasim interjected.
“I shall teach you to use your mind, and to know the ways of Allah. Then, and only then, shall you become truly a fearsome opponent. Upon the date of Aazad’s eighteenth birthday however, Jasim had died, and he sought solace in the arms of his new wife Hafsa. Hafsa however had died in childbirth along with his son. A tear arched his face at the memory, and he wiped it with a stray finger. Grabbing the Kalashnikov of his deceased Father, he exited the home he no longer recognized as a place of peace and wholeness, and entered his car which would take him to Kazballah, the base of the Shiistani Mujahideen. His life as an Islamic Holy Warrior had begun.
****
In Maktub, Abbas al-Khafi, State President of the Islamic Holy Republic of Shiistan stood outside his room upon a marble stone balcony watching over the city. The sun now was high in the sky, approximately noon and the day had grown very hot. His white thawb, a long flowing garment signifying purity and light, cooled him. Looking out over the balcony he saw his city, and it was growing to be a jewel of central Asia. Newly created infrastructure: roads, schools, hospitals, police stations, business centers, and service industries were growing, making Shiistan strong. He watched cars negotiate a newly built bridge he had constructed to decongest traffic across one of the city streets. The mighty river Bish flowed, and many small barges carrying supplies floated down them. He turned and smiled as his wife Bushra joined him in her black abaya. She was a beautiful woman, her eyes wide a full of life and passion, made ever more so by the black mascara which she used to emphasize them. Her chest was full and her body thin. He beauty however, was only matched by her wit which made her the perfect lover and companion for leader of a nation.
“Good morning,” She cooed to him and he extended an arm around her neck.
“Good morning to you as well. I did not see you at prayer this morning, surely you attended!” He said.
“Of course!” She replied aghast, “I simply was at another sector of the Great Mosque.” Abbas hung his head.
“I am ashamed that I ever doubted you.” She smiled and kissed him lightly. “Shall we dine? I believe that breakfast is ready.”
“Yes my love,” She said smiling, taking his arm. They exited the balcony and walked through the great halls, admiring as always the astounding artworks which graced its interior. He had made certain to decorate the palace as a true symbol to his wealth and power, but made segments of it open to the people so that they may enjoy it as well. He was a benevolent ruler, who desired the best for the citizenry of his fledgling nation.
Shiistan’s infrastructure could best be described as developing. Maktub, Salafi, and Fatahla were its three largest cities. They were well developed but they could not boast first world status, not yet. By no means a backwater, they still had much more developing to accomplish before becoming a truly great nation. Millions of people across the land still lived in small villages without running water or electricity. Many were not literate. His aim was to ensure that this changed during his life. He had been in power since separation from the Russian Federation several years prior, but most of this time was spent uniting the various Tieps which were reluctant to put aside past rivalries and internal struggles for Arab Socialism. With the help of the Mujahideen and most importantly Allah himself, he managed and now Shiistan was whole.
He took his seat and was met by the emergence of his many sons and daughters, whom he immediately embraced. “Good morning to you!” he called out, smiling widely at each of them. They took their respective places at the table and joined them as they dined. The ruling family of Shiistan was the model of happiness and contentity. An aide approached Abbas and requested his attention, which was granted.
“Sir,” the Aide began, “I wish to inform you that the Council of the People is meeting on new legislation which will finally allow for the construction of a new State University in Maktub.”
“This is excellent news, I thank you,” Abbas said. “Is there anything else to report?”
“Yes sir, the Mujahideen are requesting more funding to construct better fortifications in the Aniqi Mountains in the event of an invasion.”
“Grant it.” He nodded, and with that he resumed his morning meal. Thinking to himself, he knew that this, Allah willing, would be an exceptionally good day.
Aazad had already committed ritual ablution, cleansing himself before entering. He was a young man of nineteen years old, an orphan who’s mother had died in birth and his Father had died on Jihad against the Russians in Chechnya. He walked into the Mosque, at which’s gold and blue painted doors stood the Imam. He bowed slightly in courtesy to him. The Imam bowed back. He laid out his mat and faced the Qiblah and began to pray.
“التحيات المبركات الصلوات الطيبات لله
السلام عليك أيها النبي ورحمة الله وبركاته
السلام علينا وعلى عباد الله الصالحين
أشهد أن لا إله إلا الله وأشهد أن محمدا رسول الله
اللهم صلى على محمد وعلى آل محمد كما صليت على إبراهيم وعلى آل إبراهيم
وبارك على محمد وعلى آل محمد كما باركت على إبراهيم وعلى آل إبراهيم
فى العالمين إنك حميد مجيد”
(All greetings, blessings and good acts are from You, my Lord.
Greetings to you, O Prophet, and the mercy and blessings of Allah.
Peace be unto us, and unto the righteous servants of Allah.
I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah.
And I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger. O Allah, bless our Muhammad and the people of Muhammad; As you have blessed Abraham and the people of Abraham.
O Allah, be gracious unto Muhammad and the people of Muhammad; As you were gracious unto Abraham and the people of Abraham.
Surely you are the Most Praiseworthy, the Most Glorious.)
He then stood and bowed, and noted the Imam leading the prayer still. Soon thereafter it was done, and the crowd which had assembled left. Many townsfolk approached Aazad and bade him good morning to which he contently nodded and granted a smile. Leaving he returned home.
“Poor Aazad,” Imam Khalifi Ferdosi sighed to Maram, the eldest woman in the village, “He has never recovered from his wife’s death.” She nodded.
“He is such a good boy, no man deserves what has happened to him. Inshallah he will find peace.”
“Yes,” The Imam replied, “I do hope that he shall.” Maram left the Mosque then, and the Imam returned to his cell to continue his works. Aazad however did not. He knew that there was no life for him here in Baariq. The past year had shown him he was done. However, he felt that perhaps his destiny lay in the Mujahideen as with his Father. His Uncle Jasim, a wealthy businessman from the Capital City of Maktub had raised him as a son when his Father went to fight. As he grew older, Aazad had grown bitter of the nature of his Father’s death, desiring to fight the Jihad himself in the name of Allah and Islam, but Jasim interjected.
“I shall teach you to use your mind, and to know the ways of Allah. Then, and only then, shall you become truly a fearsome opponent. Upon the date of Aazad’s eighteenth birthday however, Jasim had died, and he sought solace in the arms of his new wife Hafsa. Hafsa however had died in childbirth along with his son. A tear arched his face at the memory, and he wiped it with a stray finger. Grabbing the Kalashnikov of his deceased Father, he exited the home he no longer recognized as a place of peace and wholeness, and entered his car which would take him to Kazballah, the base of the Shiistani Mujahideen. His life as an Islamic Holy Warrior had begun.
****
In Maktub, Abbas al-Khafi, State President of the Islamic Holy Republic of Shiistan stood outside his room upon a marble stone balcony watching over the city. The sun now was high in the sky, approximately noon and the day had grown very hot. His white thawb, a long flowing garment signifying purity and light, cooled him. Looking out over the balcony he saw his city, and it was growing to be a jewel of central Asia. Newly created infrastructure: roads, schools, hospitals, police stations, business centers, and service industries were growing, making Shiistan strong. He watched cars negotiate a newly built bridge he had constructed to decongest traffic across one of the city streets. The mighty river Bish flowed, and many small barges carrying supplies floated down them. He turned and smiled as his wife Bushra joined him in her black abaya. She was a beautiful woman, her eyes wide a full of life and passion, made ever more so by the black mascara which she used to emphasize them. Her chest was full and her body thin. He beauty however, was only matched by her wit which made her the perfect lover and companion for leader of a nation.
“Good morning,” She cooed to him and he extended an arm around her neck.
“Good morning to you as well. I did not see you at prayer this morning, surely you attended!” He said.
“Of course!” She replied aghast, “I simply was at another sector of the Great Mosque.” Abbas hung his head.
“I am ashamed that I ever doubted you.” She smiled and kissed him lightly. “Shall we dine? I believe that breakfast is ready.”
“Yes my love,” She said smiling, taking his arm. They exited the balcony and walked through the great halls, admiring as always the astounding artworks which graced its interior. He had made certain to decorate the palace as a true symbol to his wealth and power, but made segments of it open to the people so that they may enjoy it as well. He was a benevolent ruler, who desired the best for the citizenry of his fledgling nation.
Shiistan’s infrastructure could best be described as developing. Maktub, Salafi, and Fatahla were its three largest cities. They were well developed but they could not boast first world status, not yet. By no means a backwater, they still had much more developing to accomplish before becoming a truly great nation. Millions of people across the land still lived in small villages without running water or electricity. Many were not literate. His aim was to ensure that this changed during his life. He had been in power since separation from the Russian Federation several years prior, but most of this time was spent uniting the various Tieps which were reluctant to put aside past rivalries and internal struggles for Arab Socialism. With the help of the Mujahideen and most importantly Allah himself, he managed and now Shiistan was whole.
He took his seat and was met by the emergence of his many sons and daughters, whom he immediately embraced. “Good morning to you!” he called out, smiling widely at each of them. They took their respective places at the table and joined them as they dined. The ruling family of Shiistan was the model of happiness and contentity. An aide approached Abbas and requested his attention, which was granted.
“Sir,” the Aide began, “I wish to inform you that the Council of the People is meeting on new legislation which will finally allow for the construction of a new State University in Maktub.”
“This is excellent news, I thank you,” Abbas said. “Is there anything else to report?”
“Yes sir, the Mujahideen are requesting more funding to construct better fortifications in the Aniqi Mountains in the event of an invasion.”
“Grant it.” He nodded, and with that he resumed his morning meal. Thinking to himself, he knew that this, Allah willing, would be an exceptionally good day.