A Booming Vocation

Buh-bum! buh-bum! buh-bum! Yanni's heart pounded loudly like a drummer approaching a battle line. He slowed down his pacing, inhaled deeply, held his breath in suspension for a few moments...and then he breathed out in one, long exhale. The discharged breath rushed out hot and heavy past his parched lips like a dry blast of wind over the desert. He did this a couple more times to help calm down his heartbeat. Buh-bum...buh-bum...buh-bum. It beat slower now. "That's better, just breathe it out," Yanni thought as a drop of perspiration fell from the tip of his nose and splashed silently against the dirty, yellow tile of the floor. He wiped his glistening forehead and eyes with the back of his shaking hand to clear the sweat. His hand appeared to be covered with blood as the orange sun cast its rays through the dusty window onto the film of sweat covering his hand. It was July 10th and the sun was setting over the city of Porto. As the sun was sinking, the taller buildings of the cityscape interjected themselves slowly upon the round, piercing form of the sun which Yanni viewed from a third floor hostel bedroom. The buildings began blocking out portions of the waning, but brilliant, light. As he paced back and forth, he moved between the sunlight and the shadows that competed for the room. Dark, blinding light-dark, blinding light-dark, blinding light-dark, waning light. As the sun set, however, doubts began to rise in Yanni's mind as to the mission set before him. The doubts had risen like hidden seeds, germinated inconspicuously in the soil of his mind only to begin budding forth now to unsettle him deeply. "Why now?!" he thought, "Why in hell is this bothering me now? Where the hell did these doubts even come from?? I was so sure before, what's changed?!"

His mind raced back to three months before when he had made his decision to do this. "Ahmad," Yanni had said to his elder, "I believe Allah has spoken to me and has opened my eyes to my calling." He remembered Ahmad and Nayyir's excitement at his commitment to the noble task; they had been so proud of his piety and his courage to the faith and to the Islamic cause. "This life is a paradise for pagans and hell for Muslims," went the common Islamic phrase, "so why not sacrifice this hell for the glories of the after-life." This was Yanni's belief and no worldly power could convince him otherwise. His father had been killed by American forces back home in Iran and he had not seen his mother or older brother for three years. His hate of Western culture was cemented in his mind and this would not be the first time he had struck back.

After that point, not much training had been involved. His fellow cadres had simply walked him through the ease of using an explosive vest, and they demonstrated to him the proper positioning for the most efficient and detrimental explosion. His point of attack had been chosen for him within a week of his commitment. Yanni's target was to be a Judeo-Christian advocacy group parading for religious collaboration in front of the Bolsa Palace on the eve of July 11th. "In the name of Umayyad and Mohammad!" Yanni had thought, "That is how I will introduce myself to the world just before I blow it to pieces for the holy name of Allah."

That had been his firm sentiment only a few days ago, but now something in the wind had changed deep down in the depth of his soul, and he could not decipher what it meant for him; the wind was soft and subtle but had a weight that had disturbed the very foundation of his being. The hesitation had started with that moment back on Friday when he had passed by Livraria Chamine da Mota, a small bookshop of no real significance, on his daily commute. Everything had been the same as normal that day, except for one little thing that had struck Yanni's eye. Nestled among the many books displayed in the bookshop's window was a small, paper booklet depicting a Catholic priest that was titled Alterus Christi. Yanni could tell that it was a Catholic priest by the black cassock and the white collar. This garb-such an object of hate: "Sly, manipulative dogs," and "pernicious child-molestors'' were only a few phrases that exploded in Yanni's mind.

Yet something about the depiction struck against his visceral hatred. He leaned in closer to scrutinize the booklet's cover. The priest's face was relaxed, joyful, and light, yet it withheld a force, a sobering purpose, which seemed to transcend human understanding. His hands, held to his sides, were slightly raised in a manner that was outward, forward, and vulnerable. Open wounds on both hands pierced Yanni's eyes. And, then, there were the eyes of the priest; dark and beautiful, sombre and warm, and they broke into him like rocks upon the ice of a frozen lake. And then deeper in those eyes, a cross-like shape; indeed, it was a cross! The vision kept beckoning Yanni onward, drawing him into the depths of the figure, out of the present moment, and then suddenly he was standing there, there at the foot of the hill where the cross was planted. Yanni wanted to turn away, to escape from this spot, but he remained in frozen fascination. His eyes were carried toward the cross and he discerned a man, tortured and bloody, and he was nailed-yes, nailed-to the crossed timbers. Blood covered his body and it poured from his pierced hands that were stretched out upon the crossbeam. His matted hair was enwreathed by a heap of thorns, and sweat and blood ran down his face. Yanni was shocked: it was the face of the priest! The same peaceful, yet now agonized, eyes addressed Yanni with compassion. As he met the eyes, Yanni felt a subtlety growing horror. It was not a horror so much at what he saw, but a horror within himself, as if the eyes had pierced through the black clouds in his heart to reveal a broken, crippled young boy who was hurting, hateful, and afraid. Slowly, however, the horror melted into dismay and remorse, and his heart cried out within him. "Who are you?!" Suddenly another voice cried out from behind him, "In the name of Umayyad and Mohammad, die!" He turned quickly; there before him was he himself, or so it seemed, dressed in a suicide vest running and screaming toward the crucified priest. Without thinking, Yanni suddenly lurched forward to stop him from hurting the tortured man any further. With a quick hurl he threw himself forward...But he met no resistance and instead felt his body fall into empty space, and the world spun violently around him, images of pain, explosions, and death flying around him. Then everything was still. He was face to face with himself again; but it was only his reflection in the bookshop window now. Beyond his reflection, he met again the eyes of the priest on the booklet cover. He looked around, dazed and confused. A sickening weight filled his stomach and Yanni moved scurried away feeling lost.

The last waning rays of the sun dissipated in the window, yielding to the darkness, and a loud, rapid knock at the hostel bedroom door brought Yanni back to the present moment. His already rapidly beating heart jumped to his throat and pounded with horror. "I'm not ready; I can't do this!" he thought, "They're going to force me to do this now even if I don't want to. How do I explain this? They'll think I am a coward and will probably kill me! I have to get out of here." He ran to the outdoor balcony and peered over the edge. There was no way he would make the jump without breaking his legs. "Yanni! Open the door," yelled Nayyir from the other side, "it is time to go. Come now." Yanni was drenched with sweat. His mind raced. "If I don't jump then either I will have to go through with this or they will kill me. I must make a choice." He did not know why or how but something in his heart had changed through his encounter with the priest. He knew that what he was going to do was wrong; he did not know why, but he just felt it through some internal sense buried in the depth of his heart. A fresh gust of wind came suddenly upon him as the door was being beaten down, and, without an explanation, the mist in his mind was blown away and he felt a strange peace. He knew what was to be done. He ran back into the bedroom and grabbed his vest from the bed and then quickly returned to the balcony. The door crashed open and Nayyir and two others ran in and then out to the balcony where Yanni stood waiting. As the three men rushed at Yanni and closed in on him, he pulled out the vest from behind him and pressed his shaking thumb down on the button.