Darker Blogistan

 

The Parable of the Spider

 

Luke Jackson

 

If one amongst the Pagans asks you for asylum, grant it to him, so that he may hear the Word of Allah; and then escort him to where he can be secure.  This is because they are men without knowledge.  -- The Holy Quran, 9:6

 

When I meet aspiring brothers in jihad, they frequently ask me to set down my thoughts on the war for wide dissemination, in order that all mujahideen may learn about the history of our struggle, the strategies and tactics we have developed, and where I foresee its progress in the future.  Accordingly, I have taken leave from teaching courses at the Al Hudud ash Shamaliyah University, and indeed cancelled all of my speaking engagements throughout Islam, for the purpose of recording this proud and immortal narrative, Allah be praised.

              First, when I refer to the American Beast, I refer to those who govern in the West, not the people.  Even some Americans criticize their brothers as “little Eichmanns” for their participation in the great engine of faithlessness and nihilism that is the West.  However, I urge my brothers to consider the ignorance of their people.  Born and bred within this iron prison of the mind, never knowing Allah, they are as animals kept in a zoo, constrained by moats, ravines, and fences, hand-fed their kills, without ever recognizing their imprisonment. 

Of course, the true jihad is against the wardens of this Great Prison.  The prisoners can be redeemed, as is proven by those of white skin coming to us seeking Allah, following in the brave footsteps of the captured and tortured Hamza Walker Lindh.  They do possess the capacity to learn.

Allow me to narrate an episode from my past that I believe is illustrative.  In my youth, I spent a year within the borders of the Beast, sent there due to the prevalent belief then that the West provided superior education in its institutions—now clearly an absurd mockery.  I can only attribute this false consciousness to the fact that Islam was then occupied, many of its people subjugated and torn from Allah by the gaudy trinkets and illusory pleasures of the West.

I shall not name the city nor the year.  Suffice to say that the grime and pollution were not merely physical, but spiritual--- their women strolling hungry and half-bare through the streets like animals on the hunt, masculine and aggressive, their dead eyes boring into a man’s without shame or humility.  Of course, all were as lost children there, born to worship their pathetic false idols, raised blind to the guiding light that is Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.

I was shocked that my liberal arts professors (there was a requirement that I attend these classes, else I would have remained safely within my science and engineering studies), espoused and evangelized this moral depravity, instructing impressionable young minds in “postmodernism” and “moral relativism,” buzzwords that are and shall remain meaningless within Islam, but which false intellectuals bandied about then for the ultimate heresy: that there is no clear good and evil, only shades of grey, and that their god is dead.  Of course, their god may be dead, but Allah is eternal, immortal, omnipotent and omniscient, and indeed possesses all positive attributes that may be named. 

            There were hours when I thought I had died, but rather than the succor of black-eyed virgins, I was lost in the eternal dark torments wrought by my sins.  And indeed—though I now know that Allah is everywhere and in all things—there were times when the distance between Allah and I seemed so great, so impassable, that I thought my prayers at salat were lost in the hell-red, befouled city sky, diverted from Mecca and stolen by nefarious djinn.

            Now, as I set down my recollections in the cool silence of my study, surrounded by the suites occupied by my wives and sons, I know that this life has been truly blessed by Allah, and I am not ashamed to admit my year in the Beast was the time of my greatest confusion.

            It was in the European History course of “professor” Vogel that I first realized that redemption is possible for them, if not probable.  Vogel, ancient enemy of our people, was violently obese, barely able to support his spherical bulk on his short, waddling legs, a laughable embodiment of all that was most selfish and uncontrolled in his nation and his race.  Rather than listen to his ill-informed hagiography of his brothers like Karl Marx, I drafted the mangy kinks of his hair and the intricate seashell whorls of his massive nose with my pencil.

              Of course, I had never seen our enemy this close, unprotected by the riot gear and weapons their cowardice makes them need in our dealings.  Though his vocabulary was large and his speech clever, he spoke the same as his people had throughout history as recorded in the Holy Quran:

Of the Jews there are those who displace words from their right places, and say: “We hear and we disobey”; and “Hear what is not heard”; and “Raina”; with a twist of their tongues and a slander to Faith.  If only they had said: “We hear and we obey”; and “Do hear”; and “Do look at us”; it would have been better for them, and more proper; but Allah has cursed them for their Unbelief; and but few of them will believe.  (Holy Quran, 4:46)

 

            My younger brothers must remember that this was the time before Allah’s fiery wrath was visited upon their people and the nation of Israel pushed into the blue depths of the Mediterranean Sea, the insult of its existence finally vanquished.

            Late in the semester, as the Ashkenazi Vogel laboriously forced his bulk up the stairs passing by my desk, he espied the caricature I was in the process of drawing.  Looking back, I am certain that I allowed him to see it (although that year was further marred by increased “tolerance” on my part, as I had partially fallen sway to the teachings of that university’s “moderate” professor of Islam, El-Fadl).

            “Ehhh?” the Jew then breathed in the middle of his communistic lecture, as the webs spun by his people’s deviousness created the illusory binaries of Western thought, when all was crass materialism and the rejection of Allah.  Time stood still, as the creature considered new webs: whether to ignore his portrait and continue within the illusion of his mastery of our classroom, or to accept the challenge.

            “Not very flattering,” he said in a quieter voice, nodding at his pencilled image on my desk.

            “I believe it to be accurate,” I responded. 

            “See me after class,” he said, then resumed his lecture and his labors up the steps.

            My brothers, I of course had no fear confronting the creature at the end of class.  Indeed:

The Jews say: “Allah’s hand is tied up.”  Be their hands tied up and be they accursed for the blasphemy they utter.  (Holy Quran, 6:64)

 

            Knowing full well that he was cursed by Allah, that his proper fate was to be made into an ape and a pig (see the Holy Quran, 2:65, 5:60, 7:166),  I stood before him boldly, my head raised and meeting his eyes alone after class.

            “Fouad,” the “professor” said, “I don’t feel that you’re very engaged in this class.”

            “I don’t feel that I have much to learn here.”

            “Already familiar with the dialectics of post-Marxist political philosophers?” he said with a disrespectful smirk, gazing down.  When I did not answer, he said, “Be that as it may, I do expect a certain minimal level of engagement on the part of my students if they are to receive a satisfactory grade.”

            Then I understood him: I would have to accept his web of lies as Truth, I would have to study and memorize the history of how his people had conquered the West from within and used its powers for their own nefarious ends, all the while pretending that it had not happened that way but had only happened the way he said it.  Indeed, Vogel had made the outrageous claim earlier in the course that he was not a Jew, as Judaism was merely a religion, and he did not practice.  Too clever, he would eradicate his own existence and that of his people to greater camouflage himself among the “goyim.”

Then I understood the Parable of the Spider, as this creature had built himself a house, but truly the flimsiest of houses is the Spider’s house.  (Holy Quran,  29:41)

            “Do we have an understanding?” the fat Spider asked, looking up hungrily from where he squatted behind his cluttered desk, as if I were the weak and helpless insect to be drained of my native blood.

            I nodded—I would drop the course, take a failing grade, and attempt to immediately transfer out of this insufferable hell of spiritual malaise and Zionist brainwashing.  I had had enough.  In my mind’s eye, I saw Muhammad on his proud steed, sped by Allah on his night flight to Jerusalem.

            However, as I strode purposefully from that mockery of a classroom, I noted another student in the rear still—his eyes an absurd blue like windows onto a frozen Scandinavian sky, his white head close-cropped with angry red bristle.  His face had been gelid as a glacier throughout the semester, but now, I thought I saw him smile.

            I beg the patience of my brothers to tell more of this young man.  The next time I saw him, it was in the communal dorm bathroom, a pit of uncleanliness marked by vomit, bodily fluids, and the other detritus of intoxication and self-abuse.  He stood before its cracked and cloudy mirror at night, his eyes swollen and red, running a razor blade across the sparse fur covering his well-defined pectorals.  His head was already bald.  His chest muscles were large, though, pale and trembling as his razor scoured them, marked by nicks dribbling his rich red blood, they seemed somehow fragile.

            “It’s more… clean,” he said to me with a thick tongue as our eyes met in the mirror.

            Even then, I knew what he sought: Purity.  Of course, we all know that this purity can only be achieved through Allah, the Light of the heavens and of the earth.  But he could not have known Allah in that benighted realm of lust and desire, but could only express his desire for purity in a corrupted and insipid form, i.e, through the flesh.

            I then noted, on his pale left pectoral, a small and clenched swastika near his pink nipple.

            “How you like that?” he then asked me, his inebriated face showing a mean and toothy grin, the swastika jumping and dancing like a spider as his left pectoral flexed.

            “Interesting,” I said thoughtfully, “though a symbol associated more with Hindustan, I have seen swastika motifs in the mosques of Iran and Lebanon, as well.”  I assumed he already knew the tenets of National Socialism.

            “Huuh,” he said in a glazed monotone, and I sensed that, though my response was not the expected one, it was the correct one under the circumstances.  “You’re funny,” he said after a moment.  “I’m Andy.  Aren’t you in my Lit class too?”

            We then commenced a discourse on our studies in literature, The Stranger by Albert Camus to be precise, which he found dull and without plot or purpose.  I agreed, and added that the hero’s murder of an Arab revealed the West’s true hatred for our people.  He admitted that many in the West hated us, and indeed, would consider us “sand niggers.” 

I appreciated his rare honesty.

            Strangely, though I was eagerly wrapping up my affairs for my much-anticipated return home, I began spending more time with this young man.  We equally despised the vile Vogel, and laughed that, while he preached for “multiculturalism,” he was known to be terrified to step foot outside of the whitest and most gentrified districts of the city.

            But we were bound by something more than our mutual hatreds—and indeed, if forced to put words to this ineffable quality, I would say that, in a different world, he would have made a fine warrior for Allah.

            One weekend, shortly before my flight home, Andrew and I watched the entire sextet of Star Wars films on the small color TV/DVD combination in his dorm room.  Rather than the emptiness of our readings in literature, here were revealed the latent mythopoeic yearnings of the West.  (Indeed, it was this viewing experience that would shape my doctoral thesis at the University.)  The Empire clearly represented the American Beast invading and occupying our lands, and we, the mujahideen, were clearly the rebellion.  Even within the belly of the Beast, the narrative resonated with power, although its people obviously could not grasp the full implications.

            Unfortunately, Andrew had been consuming cheap Natural Ice beverages throughout our movie marathon, and was insensate to my analysis.

            “I’m bored,” he belched as the credits rolled at the end of Episode VI.  “Let’s go see some titties.”

            I protested, of course, but felt that my imminent departure freed me of consequence.  I remembered then that even the great martyrs had visited such an establishment on the eve of their sacrifice, and none dare impugn their names.

            Of course, we are never free of consequence, as I was to learn later that night.

            The pink and purple neon strobed over our faces when we arrived, a technofluorescent hellfire that gave Andrew’s red face an even greater demoniac aspect.  I guided him to a plush divan set next to a raised stage, at the center of which was a glistening golden pole.

            “Not here,” Andrew slurred, “then we hafta pay dollars.”

            It was then that I noticed the woman on the stage, bent over and staring at herself in a mirror set in the wall, her dark and swollen buttocks jutting upward and outward like a dog seeking to couple.  She thrashed and gyrated to an explosive, truly Satanic noise erupting from the walls, which my later research disclosed to be Du Hast by Rammstein.

My grip on my pen tightens to remember those moments of hateful heresy—I only go on so that young mujahideen will follow that precept: “Know thy enemy.”

Andrew was almost instantly guided away, blind and stumbling, led by the hand of a petite, bikini-clad temptress of Asiatic aspect.  I was stranded, alone, in that most dangerous of places.

The harlot on the stage inched towards me, writhing her tanned hips and licking her crimson lips, and I saw that her pubis was fully exposed.  Her genitals lay wet and open, the purplish-brown ripple reminding me of nothing so much as the meat dangling from a gyro sandwich. 

I became nauseous.

“Where you from?” she asked in a high-pitched voice that could only be an affected attempt at prepubescence.

“Here,” I spat, not wishing to dishonor my people.

“It’s okay,” she said, leaning over and whispering into my ear in her true voice.  “I’m Arab, too.”

I stared at her in horror.  There, her eyes black as those of the virgins that shall greet and succor us after this life.  But she was no virgin.  There, her ready and exposed pubis that should only be seen by her husband.  But seen by all.  There, the tiny dollar sign tattooed behind her left ankle.

I shudder still to think of how she disrespected her father and brothers.

It was then that I reached between her spread legs and inserted the whole length of my right index finger into her vagina.  I’m certain that my brothers realize that this was intended as disrespect to this Jezebel, not out of any desire on my part.  There can be no violation of one already without honor.  Were she still within Islam and not the Beast, the punishment for her Zina would be far worse.

She then had the temerity to emit a piercing scream.  I was grabbed by rough hands, pulling me from the corrupt moistness of her womb, guiding me to the door and ejecting me out into the empty streets of the industrial zone at night.

“Keep walking,” the security officer said, crossing his massively overdeveloped, ham-pink arms across his chest at the door.

I walked, my brothers.  I walked across the street and into the darkness underneath the freeway overpass, strewn with litter and assorted rubbish.  I could still see the entrance of the so-called “gentlemen’s establishment” from my vantage point. 

There, my only companions the stench and the roar of the occasional vehicle overhead, I waited.

It was during those hours of waiting, considering the extent of Jezebel’s dishonor, and the fact that the cumulative effect of all Jezebels was cultural rather than individual, that I considered the merits of El-Fadl’s “middle road” and rejected them all.  Truly, there could be no “middle road” with a society that made our women whores, our men unprincipled and emasculate, and the laws of the Holy Quran, that most sacred Word of Allah, merely a theological curiosity and historical footnote.

It was then that I knew I was being called as a Soldier of God.

I waited long into the night, but Jezebel was forced to leave her sanctuary of sin eventually.  I barely recognized her outside of her habitat, clothed in a gaudy, reflective trench coat, knee-high black boots, and without her wig, her hair now only a short brown bob.  For a moment, I questioned whether she could truly be Arab.

It was not the time for doubt or hesitation, however.  Under the Law, I knew what her punishment must be.  I threw the rock, but its arc was wide and it merely skidded in the dirt beside her.  She started at the noise and reached into her bulky purse.  However, as with my finger, on my second attempt my aim was true, cracking her skull just above her right eye.

“Fuuuck!” she screamed, more genuine with fear now, clutching her head and stumbling down onto one knee.

I raced closer to her, wielding a larger rock now.  I could see the pepper spray can she had pulled from her purse in a feeble attempt to avoid her fate.

“Psycho…” she groaned softly as she saw me approach.  “I’m really Indian, okay?”  She held the spray up towards me.

Shells within shells, lies within lies, my brothers.  But: “Nay, We hurl the Truth against falsehood, and it knocks out its brain, and behold, falsehood perishes!”  (Holy Quran, 21:18)  Indeed, I thought at the time that, if she were truly Hindu, I would provide her with a genuine “third eye.”

At this range, it did not require much force—only a gentle lob, in fact—for the rock to crack into Jezebel’s forehead, sending her prostrate and, finally, silent.  A small puddle of blood pooled near her head.  She, who had been so cocksure within the den of iniquity, here was restored to the submission Allah demanded of her. 

Her face was now slightly concave and crushed inwards beneath the rock.  She, who had traded upon her face and her flesh, now had the grace of disfigurement, thereby protecting her from future sin.  Then, I imagined she would be as our children permanently scarred by American bombs and guns, those who refused the insulting charity of “reconstructive surgery” and wore their wounds as badges of honor.

To those whom I have told this story since, some have disputed whether this was correct application of the sharia, primarily upon two grounds: (1) that she was not a Believer, and therefore sharia cannot apply, or (2) that the punishment for fornication is merely a hundred lashes, not the death by stoning required for adultery.  However, let me remind these dissenters of the egregiousness of her sins, and the fact that her punishment should be viewed in the wider context of the jihad against the Pagans and Unbelievers.

At any rate, she did not die.  There was still some small movement in her limbs, and a broken mewling from beneath the rock.

Near the club entrance, the security officer was guiding Andrew out.  Andrew’s face was slack and blurred, and he was hardly able to walk, but the officer shouted when he saw me standing over the twitching Jezebel.  In a true act of courage, Andrew grasped the massive officer from behind.

“Run, Fouad!” Andrew yelled, as the officer slammed him backwards against the front wall of the establishment, and Andrew’s breath whooshed out of him.

I ran, my brothers.  I knew that there was nothing left for me within the confines of the Beast, and my sole mission became escape and return.  Those who know me now, with my respectable paunch and long grey beard, may be surprised how fast I ran, but I was something of a track star in those younger years.  I ran, not towards Andrew’s decades-old Honda hatchback, but in the opposite direction. 

I ran until I was out of breath in an unknown street, surrounded by gleaming banners of anonymous headlights.      

As I ran, I thought of Andrew’s sacrifice, so truly unexpected and therefore all the more powerful.  Insensate with drink, blind to Allah, he still had the fortitude and courage to defend the righteous application of the Law, God’s will.  And then I thought of our times together: my long discourses on the Quran and the hadith, to which I had thought him blind; the preparation of our “dirty bombs,” consisting of our bodily effluvia over the past week kept in balloons, with which we assaulted the unsuspecting students of our college; and, indeed, the lesson of Anakin Skywalker, become the dread cyborg Darth Vader, seared into my memory from the incidents of that very day.

Being too ignorant of Allah, Andrew was not shaheed, and yet his cause was just and righteous, and I knew then that some of them may hear the Word of Allah, and be thereby saved.

Of course, I flew back home before the dawn, as their law was clearly that of man and not God, and their ignorance prevented them from seeing righteousness.  Aboard the thrumming, too-cold airliner, as the blinding warmth of the sun broke before us, I dreamed of Al-Mashriq, the place of sunrise, where I would drink chai bil nana my family and friends, and be comforted by the music of adhan times daily.

            While it was my year of greatest confusion, it was also a time of practical lessons to supplement those of my daily ayah.  First, that our war is not one of race, or even necessarily of “culture,” but of Belief against Unbelief.  In this light, those who come to us can be redeemed. 

At first, some were fearful of allowing Westerners in, thinking them agents of the Beast, and indeed many were.  But truly, those who profess false belief are guilty of the worst of sins, and were quickly culled from our ranks.  Indeed, this is a “war of ideas,” and we have learned much from the “informational warfare” and “psychological operations” of our enemies.  We have learned the doctrine of “divide and conquer,” cracking the fault lines along the schisms of race and class just beneath the surface of the West, to great success.

Now, the Light of Allah is ascendant throughout Southeast Asia to the east, the former soviet republics to the north, and Europe to our west.  Now, the arrogant Beast is broken and brought to its knees, and those who refuse to see the Light and hear the Word shall suffer the torments which were visited upon our people.

            For I have issued the fatwa, and the web of the Spider now hangs in tattered shreds, but before his death he knew this: that his life is fleeting, and we will last forever.

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There you have it.  My "sheetheads" swan song.  Posted online for your derisive pleasure.