Where do you begin? Should you go back to the core when the thought or belief were the most fresh? Or should you choose one that has been refined after thousands of years? Do we have the right to question, or is it in fact our right to question that makes us unique here on Earth? Shouldn’t we then use our privilege?
He dropped the pen on the table and looked at his writing. He still felt doubts on how well his book would be received by the public, but it had to be done. For far too long he had let it slip, and changed channel when so called Muslims with lank beards and red rimmed eyes screamed their hearts out, urging people for the holy war against the infidels, urging them to Jihad. He hated these illiterates, these fool, and it angered him how they massacred a thing so wonderful with their lack of knowledge. Or when he saw the pope being driven around in his special built armoured car with gold embroidered robes. Wasn’t the pope supposed to be Christianities primal advocate? Didn’t Jesus say that all men and women were equals and would all be welcomed in heaven with open arms just as long as they staid true to the faith? So why has Jesus words been so tarnished? And then there were Judaism, who had been given their promised land from a country who didn’t possess the right to give it in the first place. Wherever he looked he only saw problems, the core of all religions had been forgotten. He wanted to remind them so that the new year could begin in a better way. When he first started writing he had done so in tears and anger, and what had started as an article soon grew and developed into what lay in front of him – a 236 pages long explanation for something that should be obvious. The times of blindness were gone – people weren’t burned alive for uttering new ideas anymore, although he hoped the book would be read by those with an open mind. He rose from the chair and arranged the pile of papers. On the floor next to his desk stood a rather worn briefcase. He still felt a sharp pain in his heart when he thought of the last Christmas with Mari and Sara. He remembered how they had watched him pick the parcel out from under the Christmas tree, quiet and eager to see him open his present. “Merry Christmas daddi, love you”, he said quietly to himself. Sara had pressed herself against her mother in excitement as he was opening the parcel. Before he had finished, Sara had ran and embraced him and reviled the content of the parcel. A wet drop hit the pile of papers; he wiped his eyes and watched how the ink smudged. He put the papers in the briefcase, it's time, he thought to himself. Maybe his words would change someone… to make them remember what were forgotten, as he had done despite everything that had happened.
He had cried for days, weeks, in wait of the funeral, and when he’d been dried of tears he wanted someone to stand accountable for what had happened, he wanted revenge. A suicide bombing had ripped his life apart as easily as paper. For a time he blamed himself for buying those tickets and for not being there. If he’d been there then maybe Mari and Sara wouldn’t have taken that route, maybe he would have seen something; maybe he could have stopped it… The target had been a high official within the local authorities – who had escaped with only a few scratches and bruises. As his life came crashing down he had began to plan how his own life would end. The prints for making a bomb had been easy to find – just a few clicks on the internet – and with some duct tape he had fastened the device on his body, ready to meet his maker. When he thought back on that time he felt a shiver up his spine. He then thought of the boy at the airport, so young and innocent. The boy had smiled at him and made a funny face. A funny face… he thought to himself. That was all that was needed to rupture the fog that had clouded his mind. It had been as if his grey world had regained colour and reason returned were there had been none for so long. “A little boy with a dinosaur cap…”, he said quietly to himself and smiled.
He picked up the briefcase and walked out the door. The sun was shining and the streets were packed with people running their daily errands, he had been one of those. Now he regretted not having spent enough time with his wife and daughter. As he walked down along the street he looked at the shops that he and Mari had visited so often, he saw McDonalds and the red curved slide at its entrance. He wiped a tear from his eyes and continued walking down the street past a lawyer firm and a florist shop. The smell of roses and lilies filled his nose and made him smile. He remembered how he and Mari had argued one time over whether to plant roses on the balcony or lilies, he had wanted roses, but she had been as stubborn as always and eventually they had planted lilies – her favourite. A dozen flags from different countries were flapping in the wind outside the an embassy; he didn’t recognize any of them. He wondered how it would be like if they all had the same flag, if people would have more tolerance? Maybe that would be the topic of his next book – it had to wait in any case.
The man pushed himself past the people blocking his way, he was determined and ready. For a brief moment his path was hindered, when he slammed into a man standing by the embassy looking at the flags with a strange expression on his face. The man looked at him and even though he was sure he didn’t know the man he saw recognition. He recovered fast from the interruption and ran into the lobby and detonated the bomb.
Screams began to fill the streets instantly as people rushed to the demolished building to help the wounded. Papers swirled in the air close to the entrance and as a woman ran up to a man lying lifeless on the ground she caught one of the papers. It looked like the front cover of a novel or a script. “Love and Forgiveness”, she said to herself as she read the title. She crumbled the paper and put it in her pocket and rushed away to help survivors.
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