The Insurrectionist (27 page)

               Mikail’s darkness shrouded Deni quickly. It didn’t take much; there was a field of seeds planted and the harvest of anger and isolation was already growing inside. Whether the hate and prejudice was directed at him or not, Deni saw it. He saw the hypocrisy in America. Everyone applauded themselves as being for peace and freedom, but only if it suited them and theirs, but not one of difference and dissidence.

            It happened at all levels, from the politicians, to the local authorities, and to the citizens. No one cared for any injustice of another as long as they felt safe and secure. Most Americans sat in their bubble, pointing their fingers and saying, “Glad it’s not me; glad it’s them.”

            The ultimate struggle for Deni was that he straddled both sides. He was an immigrant Russian Muslim raised on the streets of Reading, PA.  That gave him a significant disadvantage for making it in America. He had the promise, the opportunities and the American social network. He walked the thin line of having it all to having nothing and no one cared either way. To some, he was a fortunate one, to others, a lowlife.

            It was his brother who tipped him over the edge, who made him see how fragile his circumstances really were.
Would I have a real shot at success? Would people really ever accept me? Would a girl like Heather ever really consider being my wife? Probably not. It is all just a big joke.

            The irony was that just six months prior, he became an American citizen. It wasn’t that he really truly believed in the American dream. He saw the American dream crumble around his brother’s feet. His parents weren’t even afforded the opportunity to dream; they just crept around in quiet slumber while everyone else lived. His sisters had the best shot at the American dream; they could marry well.
How much easier would it be if I were a woman? No one would try to confront me, intimidate me, compete with me and try to be better than me
.

            There were benefits to dual citizenship. When the going got tough in one country, he always had a way out. He would always have another option. Now stuck in the American judicial system, he wondered if it were better if he weren’t a citizen.
Sure, I’d be tortured in Gitmo, but would that be any worse fate than spending the rest of my life in a six by eight foot box
, he thought.

            The time spent with his brother as they pursued their plans, gave Deni even more perspective and more purpose. He was no longer some drone sitting in a classroom listening to an American professor lecture American propaganda. Only his economic professor had the guts to say to the class on the first day that he wanted to teach socialism, but was denied by the school’s administration.
Kudos Professor Shultz for wanting to actually teach and enlighten students and not create mere zombies
, Deni thought.

            It’s the main problem with the world; everyone wants to see what they want to see. They don’t want to have to see anything that is unpleasant or doesn’t meet with their fantasies of what the world is really like.
Who spends the time trying to understand another nation’s politics and history? Who spends the time trying to understand another person’s faith? Who really empathizes with other communities’ pain and hardship? If no one understands, how can the world possibly change for the better? How do you get people to want to understand when they have closed themselves off from the rest of the world? How do you make people see all the injustices?

 

            Deni lunged forward in prayer and felt the cool tile floor of the Reading Islamic Center. Alongside him was his brother, who prayed earnestly to Allah. Before God, Deni felt unsure, more unsure than normal. Murder was a sin and would sentence his brother to damnation.
Is he praying for forgiveness or does he feel justified for Hector’s murder?

            While in prayer position, Jihad—the struggle within oneself—came to Deni’s mind. Mikail’s inner struggle has surfaced to his exterior; he was deflecting his inner demons on the world and on Deni. Violence was only acceptable when there is no other means to overcome oppression.
Was there other means to overcome Hector’s influence on me? Does it really take a violent attack for Americans to see the atrocities in the Middle East?
Deni thought and then he heard Mikail utter a prayer.

            “Our Lord! Therefore forgive us our sins, and remit from us our evil deeds, and make us die the death of the righteous,” said Mikail.

           
The death of the righteous? Is there such a thing?
Deni thought. He had no prayer memorized that he could offer God, only that he prayed to find some peace and a way out from under his brother’s heavy wings.

 

            Deni paced in his prison cell, contemplating and recalling the events that led up to that fateful day. It was the question that would surely be asked and he would have to answer, yet no one really wanted to know.
Why have a cause, if no one cares? Why try to speak to it, if people will only shut them down? Most of America has their hands over their ears, screaming like little children having a tantrum
.

 

            Mikail and Deni had a late breakfast at Elmer’s diner off Perkiomen Avenue in Reading. Deni sat across from Mikail in a booth with Elena placed in a high chair at the end of the booth. A waitress came by with her pad in her hand, ready to take their order. She leaned over to admire Elena. “Oh, she’s adorable.”

            “I’m married,” replied Mikail.

            The waitress stared at her pad. “Okay, what can I get you fellas?”

            “I’ll have green tea, scrambled egg whites,” said Mikail and then glanced at the waitress. “Is your fruit fresh or is it that crap in a can?”

            “It’s seasonal fresh,” she said.

            “Seasonal fresh?” Mikail asked.

            “Berries, bananas, kiwi,” replied the waitress.

            “Bananas and kiwi are not indigenous to Pennsylvania. How can they be fresh?” questioned Mikail.

            “Perhaps you would like a salad?” the waitress suggested.

            “I’ll have the seasonal fruit and my daughter will have a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of apple juice.”

            The waitress turned to Deni. He was hungry and wanted a huge helping of pancakes, eggs and even bacon, but he didn’t want any controversial discussion over diet with his brother. “I’ll have the same—egg whites and fruit.”

            Deni tapped his fingers on the table, watching the waitress walk away. He looked at the morning crowd, mostly elderly people chatting with friends, a few businessmen, and sad looking unemployed desperately searching the classifieds for work.
This is America
—
the old, the on-the-go, and the outcasts. Everyone in America falls into one of these three classifications and it is obvious which one Mik and I fall into
.

            The waitress placed a cup of tea before Mikail and a glass of water before Deni. Mikail seeped his tea bag and then said to Deni. “Have you given any more thought to my idea?”

            “Yes,” replied Deni shortly.

            “And?”

            “I get it Mik. I see the injustices. I’ve been seeing them my entire life, but what you’re proposing won’t solve the problem, only create more,” said Deni and then took a sip of water.

            “Remember our Partisan ancestors? They didn’t win the war; they didn’t turn back the Nazis, but they gave the Nazis something to think about as they crossed the plains. The Partisans filled their minds with doubt and apprehension. It’s not about the act, what we’d be doing is creating a mindset. Knock them down off their elitist pedestal. They are not invincible,” explained Mikail.

            Deni twisted in the vinyl seat of his booth. “I think you’re overestimating the Americans. Their response to terrorism is not to contemplate reasoning; it’s just another excuse to wave the flag and sing the national anthem. They love wallowing in misery and making heroes out of victims.”

            “I really don’t care how naive and complacent they are. Change is uncomfortable and sometimes painful.” The waitress served them their breakfasts. Mikail delicately inserted a napkin in Elena’s collar and fed her a spoonful of oatmeal. “Sometimes you just need to shake things up. I don’t want to be a man who just sits around on the sidelines and watches the world fall apart and if a few people need to die in the process, then it’s just fated to be that way.”

            Mikail looked earnestly across the table at Deni. “You’ve studied history. Look at how the French and Bolshevik revolution changed the world. There was lots of blood, many lost their heads, but in the end, it was the best thing for society. When all other options fail, the only way to free the oppressed is to act out. Heck, even Gandhi experienced bloodshed when he peacefully fought to liberate India from British Imperialism. There is a price for justice and freedom.”

            Deni stared down at his breakfast. He didn’t know if it was the food that was unappetizing or the conversation.

            Mikail ate a big forkful of eggs and said to Deni. “This is our chance to really make a difference in the world instead of wandering the straight road like some zombie drone. You don’t want to be a zombie drone do you?”

            “No, I don’t,” replied Deni numbly.

 

            Deni stopped pacing in his cell and then the thought came upon him,
Maybe it’s not them I’m trying to convince, but me?
The thought struck him intensely and he walked over to his bed and sat down. It is so easy to get caught up with a cause.
What do you do if it has all the meaning in the world to me, but none for the rest of the world? Is that cause still worthy?

            There were just so many questions and hardly any answers. It was enough to drive someone insane if they thought about it too much and Deni was on the verge. He was driving himself crazy with it all, so crazy that rationale fell to the wayside.

            His cell door opened. It was his allotted hour of fresh air and daylight. The guard took Deni’s arm and led him down the hallway. The guard opened the steel door to the barbed wire cage. Deni didn’t know what to do with his outdoor time, especially with the guard watching. He felt like a dog let outside to urinate, yet there were no trees for Deni to sniff, just an unkempt lawn of dried, dying grass.

            Deni stalked the perimeter of the cage, running his fingers across the wire.
 I wonder how many laps would equal a mile
, he thought. As he walked around, he focused on the wire ceiling’s shadow on the ground and became mesmerized by the patterned grid.

            Upon his return to his cell, Deni paced back and forth some more. The space reminded him of his dormitory room. Between his furniture and his roommates, there was little space to move. At lease here in his cell he didn’t have to tolerate his roommate’s snores.

 

            After spending a day with Mikail, Deni walked around his cluttered dormitory room that smelled like a locker room. Neither he nor his roommate had done any laundry recently and the only time either one cleaned was when they expected female company.

            Instead, Deni pondered the plan with great introspection.
Why does a man do what he does? Is it fear, hatred, insecurity, pride, retaliation, entitlement, righteousness? Does the reason make any difference?

            History was full of heroes and villains, and yet it was the villains who changed the world. Attila the Hun’s terrorism weakened Rome’s forces, leaving them vulnerable for Alaric’s Visigoth’s to conquer. By ransacking and pillaging villages, Charlemagne united Western Europe. Kings and queens massacred people worldwide and called it renaissance. American colonists exterminated the native people and proclaimed freedom. Yet if a man fights against injustices, the dark secrets of leaders, governments, and corporate institutions of the world, he is a monster. Hero or villain is merely decided by those of wealth, power, and social rank. It is in this instance that man must consider himself a martyr and not care for his own personal circumstances.

            Deni gazed at the wall of his dormitory room and thought briefly of his future.
What is there for me
—
a wife of my mother’s choosing, a career in which corporations and governments will control my words and a life living in a glass cage? I can see all the happiness and opportunities, but they will always be outside my reach. Perhaps there is only thing I can control and that is my fate
.

            By now, Deni was resigned to his fate beyond bars, the only question was how much longer did he had to live? Hope was a word that had lost meaning for him. There was no more hope, just another chime of the clock. As he sat patiently waiting for Marsha, he wondered, did one want to approach death with his mind intact, or completely mad?

            Marsha entered the interview room and set her briefcase on the table, flipped it open, and pulled out her notebook. She sat down across from him. “How are you feeling?”

            “As good as can be,” he said.

            She sat back on her chair and stared at him. “So, we’ve been through the ideological motivation and emotional and mental state, today I want to talk about the incident. Tomorrow we will be meeting with the prosecution to walk through the entire event. You and I need to be on the same page. I need to know everything, hear me?”

            Deni nodded obediently.

            “Why bomb? Why the fairgrounds? Why the 4th of July?” asked Marsha.

            Deni chuckled. “The 4th of July is the perfect time to bomb. Most would expect it would be a bad firework. They would blame incompetent fire marshals or something. We figured it would be harder to find the cause of the explosion.”

            “But isn’t the point of terrorism to take credit for an action?” questioned Marsha.

            “Only if it is fame and glory you are after. Retaliation doesn’t need a name,” he said and then edged forward on his seat. “Once you see someone die, murdered, once I saw all those pictures of murdered and maimed children, something changed. I saw pictures of children that were blown to pieces, their bodies shredded. I saw children so disfigured by chemical warfare and uranium testing, they no longer looked human. Their faces so distorted they

looked alien. Once you see it, it is easy to become desensitized. It’s like pornography. The more porn you watch, the less you can appreciate romance. The more death and destruction you see, the less you see life. It’s how it is at home now in Chechnya. Bloody violence has become so mainstream, no one barely notices then another bomb goes off.”

            He sighed and leaned back in his seat. “Here in America, it is different. Another mass shooting is commonplace. It is hardly worth mentioning in the media, unless white school children are murdered. See, Americans prefer guns, other parts of the world prefers bombs. There are other ways more sinister like spiking the water system with poison, or releasing gasses in the air. Bombs, let’s face it, are the most dramatic and make, well, an impact.”

            “There is also a disassociation with the target. With bombs, you don’t have to look at your target. You don’t even have to put a face to the people you kill,” said Marsha.

            Deni bit his lip and said nothing.

            Marsha sighed deeply and continued. “So you downloaded the instructions on the internet.”

            “Anarchist’s Cookbook
,
we wanted to support America. The US is such a funny country; it provides all the tools necessary for any violent dissent against its own government. All you need is the money and the willingness. It doesn’t really matter who lives and dies, as long as someone is making a profit. Look, people died, but Amazon and many local shops profited.”

            “That’s a very callous attitude. How long did it take for you to become so callous?”

            Deni shrugged. “Not long really.” He patted his chest. “You see much of it was already there. You can only see so much, take so much, until you break. The effects of alcohol and dope only last for so long. I dunno, everything stopped making a difference when I realized my life had more meaning being bad than good. Look, it’s not that I think Americans are bad, or evil; it is just they are ignorant, gullible and selfish. You see all these protests, well-meaning protests against the government and corporations, but then it stops when they don’t get immediate gratification or it gets too hard. Americans cannot handle anything if it is uncomfortable, so they stop.”

            “Does that mean it is okay to terrorize?” questioned Marsha.

            “A little jolt never hurt,” joked Deni sarcastically. “Americans have been brainwashed into believing they are the best country in the world. American pride is so bad that people cannot see their own arrogance, their own flaws. Because of this pride, Americans cannot bring themselves to admit they are not the world’s peacekeeping heroes.”

            “Did you purchase any of the bomb making supplies?” asked Marsha.

            “No.” He chuckled. “I was there for moral support.”

            “Where did your brother get the money?”

            “Capital One,” Deni said with a smile. “He kept spending; they kept raising his limit. I hope they are not expecting to be repaid.”

 

            Deni followed Mikail into Schwab’s gun shop in Lancaster with the friendly ringing of a bell. An overweight, cherry-cheeked clerk in a red polo shirt greeted them with a wide smile “Welcome boys. How can I help you?”

            “We’re looking to buy a few guns and some powder,” replied Deni. “Jimmy Miller highly recommended this place.”

            “That Jimmy Miller is a good kid. Are you friends?” asked the clerk.

            “I dated his sister,” replied Deni.

            “Well, I see. How can I help you boys today?”

            “We need about,” Deni started and then glanced at Mikail, “fifty pounds of black gun powder. We’re looking for something that burns fast.”

            “Sulfur free black powder usually has the fastest burn rate.” The clerk lifted a container off the shelf. “Fifty pounds you said.”

            “Yeah,” replied Deni and then walked over to Mikail who was checking all the semi-automatic shot guns. “Find something you like?”

            Mikail turned the gun toward the clerk’s back and gazed at him through the sight. “Yeah.” He lowered the gun. “Look around. I’ll buy you one.”

            “What do I need a gun for?” asked Deni.

            “Defense,” replied Mikail flatly.

            The clerk overheard their conversation. “Yes, every young man needs something to defend themselves. Do you go to school around here?”

            “He goes to Temple,” replied Mikail.

            “Oh son,” the clerk said to Deni, “Temple’s in the worst neighborhood in Philly—all those minority folks. Heck, I commend your big brother for looking out for you. I’ll even give you a twenty percent discount.”

            Deni glanced around the shop. He could really care less about having a gun, but he allowed Mikail to buy him one. “Sure, why not.”

 

            “How many guns did your brother purchase?” asked Marsha.

            “He bought four for himself and one for me, plus the gunpowder,” said Deni.

            “You alluded to the FBI agents that you had some backing or influence. Do you recall any names?”

            “I really don’t. My brother had this online network of people. Whoever he talked to, he kept it from me. He said I would be shocked to learn who they were, but I didn’t ask.” Deni leaned forward. “Mik would not come up with this on his own; I know that. He had to have been influenced or encouraged by someone.”

            “Did you ever hear him talk to someone, read any emails?” Marsha asked.

            “No, Mik was kinda a loner and I didn’t search his computer.”

            “How about you? Do you believe in the conspiracy theories?” asked Marsha.

            “Conspiracy theorist: such a meaningless phrase. One man’s conspiracy is another man’s truth.”

            “What do you believe?”

            “I don’t believe Lee Harvey Oswald, or Sirhan Sirhan acted alone if that’s your question,” replied Deni. “Someone presents enough evidence to prove their theory and then I would give it consideration. I would put nothing past the US government, the FBI, and the CIA is a fucking joke. The American media doesn’t broadcast all the CIA’s international connections. They are tied to some unscrupulous organizations that cause a lot of instability in parts of the world.”

            “Huh, okay. Did anyone in your brother’s network help?” asked Marsha.

            “As I said, I don’t know if they helped, but they encouraged. Causing instability in regions around the world is a way to take control. The US goes into the Middle East, sells weapons to dictators, funds rebel groups and causes unnecessary wars that results in instability and thus America gains power and influence mostly for oil and profit. There are groups here in the States that would like nothing better than to make Obama look weak and the country unstable. They do so they can regain power. It’s not brain surgery.”

            Marsha sat back and digested all of Deni’s rambling. She had realized he had detached himself so much from humanity that he was able to justify every action intellectually. This would hardly appeal to the sensitivities of a jury. Instead of suppressing pain and heartache, he had begun to suppress love and kindness.

            “What are you thinking?” Deni asked.

            “Just curious as to when you yourself stopped being human. When did you close your heart? Was it Hector’s murder?” Marsha asked.

            Deni reclined in his seat. He said nothing.

 

            Lying in Deni’s dormitory room bed, Heather lifted her head onto her palm and stared down at Deni. His eyes were wide open and he bore the vacant stare of a dead man. “What’s the matter with you?”

            “Nothing.” he lied. He couldn’t confess to Hector’s murder or his brother’s plot. He couldn’t tell her about his emotional and mental prison.

            “Don’t lie to me. I can tell just by looking in your eyes. Something is wrong,” she pressed.

            Deni pushed her off of him. “Jesus, can you leave me alone! Why do you always gotta be on me? Why do you always gotta know what I’m thinking and feeling?” He crawled out of bed and slipped into his underwear.

            “Uhm, because I care about you, is that so fucking bad?” asked Heather.

            “Yeah, it kind of is. Ever since we met, you have always been picking at me, trying to fix me!”

            Heather laughed. “Dude, if that’s what you think, you are sadly mistaken. I have absolutely no desire to fix you. I happen to love you for what you are.”

            “And what do you know about love? You won’t even convert for me!”

            She got out of bed and started to dress. “You are so consumed with bullshit, you know that? I don’t know who’s been poisoning your mind. Who is it—your mother? I know she never liked me. I know she never thought I was good enough for you.”

            “You, good enough for me? Well hey there princess, I don’t think Dr. Atkins thinks I’m good enough for you, unless I make a lot dough to give you a lavish lifestyle like you’re used to.”

            “Fuck you, Deni! Are you so pathetic to believe that our friendship and relationship has anything to do with money?”

            “How the hell am I to provide for you like your daddy? I can’t afford to buy you a BMW!”

            Heather slapped in him the face.

            Deni rubbed his jaw and laughed. “That didn’t even hurt. You hit like a girl.”

            “I can’t believe you,” she said and then started to cry. “I fucking drove two hours in the middle of the night to bail your skinny ass out of fucking jail and this is how you thank me? If I’m so offensive, why didn’t you call your brother? I’m sure Mik would have been down here in a jiffy to get you out.”

            Deni didn’t respond. There was no way in hell he would call Mik to bail him out, especially not after Hector’s murder; there was no guessing how he would react.

            “Huh, why didn’t you call your big brother?” pressed Heather. “Why did you call me?”

            The answer was an obvious one; he trusted Heather. “I wanted to get laid,” he said instead.

            Heather chuckled. “I would like to believe that, however that box of condoms next your bed indicates you don’t have a problem getting laid. You didn’t need me to drive down here to get a little action.” She sighed. “I get it. You and I are falling apart. I had hoped we could have had a future together, but you’re just using me.” She grabbed her purse and then turned to him. “I would do anything for you. I love you that much, but it is painfully obvious to me now that you’re just taking advantage of my love.”

            “Heather wait!”

            Heather stopped at the door, but did not turn around.

            Deni paused and choked out his words. “I’m not allowed to love you. I’m not allowed to be with you.”

            “What?”

            “It’s the way—the Muslim way. Marriages are arranged and then love grows between the couple. Love between a man and woman shouldn’t, doesn’t exist outside marriage,” he said, but didn’t believe the words he spoke.

            “Uh huh, so, if you weren’t allowed to love me, what were we doing for the past two years? When were you going to tell me this? All that talk of trying to get me to convert and you couldn’t love me anyway! What the fuck?”

            Deni lowered his head and stared at the floor. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

            Heather stepped toward Deni and stared into his eyes. “Who’s in there? Who’s possessing you today—your mother, your brother? You haven’t always been this way. I’ve seen you defy your brother. I’ve seen you stand up to your mother. Why now aren’t you allowed to love me?”

            Deni stepped away from Heather. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

            Heather swung her purse over her shoulder. “That’s for damned sure.” She walked out, slamming his dormitory room door on the way out.