If we lose the war ...
What happens if the “War on Terrorism” goes badly? What if America loses its resolve when the American military body count reaches 5000, 10,000, 50,000, or more?
What would life in America and the rest of the world be like if the Islamic fundamentalists ultimately win this war? We propose the following scenario as a day in the life of a typical family:
New York City, or what remains of the city after an atomic explosion destroyed many of the buildings, is decaying through lack of maintenance. Only a few people live there, compared to the millions prior to the war. The Muslim leaders believe that the city represents decadence, and anyone caught in the city is imprisoned and tortured or killed. Most of the people who survived have moved west into the countryside, away from the still radioactive remains.
A man hears the call to Dawn Prayer at the mosque in the morning about 4:30 AM. He gets up. Although he doesn’t really want to, he dutifully dresses and walks a mile or so to it. He hates that sound over all the loudspeakers that calls everyone to prayer in Arabic.
He had not missed a prayer since his imprisonment and torture. Several months ago, he didn’t feel like getting up so early one morning and had not gone to the Dawn Prayer. The local Morality Police force came to visit him that night. He spent several days in prison where he had to listen to a loudspeaker incessantly blaring Muslim sayings in his cell. In addition, he was beaten repeatedly to encourage his compliance.
Returning to his home and small plot of ground after Dawn Prayer, his wife has breakfast ready. She was a beautiful woman, even without her makeup, and he used to love looking at her over breakfast. But now he can only remember and imagine since she wears a face-covering burqa. He used to enjoy her quick wit and wonderful smile. She no longer jokes or laughs. He cannot see her smile; he doubts that she does.
Her pleasant voice is no more. She used to sing to herself as she did things around the house. He remembers listening to her sing in a hot shower as he got dressed for work in the morning. He thought her voice was good enough that she could have been a professional singer if she had tried, but she was too shy and didn’t want to sing in public.
And now they seldom have enough reliable hot water to sponge bathe.
She continued to sing for a while after the Fundamentalist Takeover, but the Morality Police came by one morning while she was preparing breakfast and heard her singing a popular song from years ago. She was stripped and severely beaten in front of the family. When he tried to intervene, he was also beaten and restrained until the Morality Police left. She had not sung since.
He also misses the smell and taste of bacon or ham in the morning. There is no more bacon and ham.
As soon as breakfast is over, and a few things are done around the house, he hears the cacophonic call to Sunrise prayer. That meant it was about 7 AM. Again, he walks down to the mosque.
Afterward, his wife goes out to feed their goats the small amount of grain they are allocated. He watches as his children leave and walk to the mosque. His daughter is wearing her burqa. She is really a beautiful girl. She obviously took after her mother. He fears the day which he knows will come soon when some Muslim Warlord, Imam, or other influential man under this new regime will come to claim her as his wife.
His children will spend much of the day learning the Arabic language, the Koran, and details about fundamentalist Islam. Of course, they are all Muslims now, by decree.
As his daughter walks to the mosque, she remembers the days when she could play music, dance, and talk freely with her friends. She knows that when her indoctrination is completed, she will be restricted to doing chores around the home, going to the market for food, or other so-called women’s duties. She also knows that one day soon some man she doesn’t know will come to take her away from her family. She won’t have any choice in the matter.
The man leaves home to go to his job, where he makes sandals. It’s all done by hand now. He has to cut the leather straps with a die and a hammer. His hand, arm, and shoulder are already hurting by lunch time.
Shortly after lunch, about 1:30, he hears the call to Noon Prayer at the mosque. As required, he goes to the mosque again. It’s turning out to be a warm day. He is sweating profusely by the time he reaches the mosque.
He had been given a shorter indoctrination to Islam than his children were getting. They had put him to work in this factory soon after. He doesn’t know why, but he has his terrible suspicions of what they have planned for him.
Before the Takeover, he had been an accountant in New York City. The hardest types of physical labor he had ever done before the Takeover was mow the lawn, play tennis, or jog. When he first started this job, his arm and shoulder were so swollen and painful by the time he went home at night, he could hardly move them. He didn’t sleep well with the pain, and he had no ice to help with the pain and swelling. It was a little better now – in the sense that they didn’t hurt as much. Or maybe he had just habituated to the pain?
They were fortunate in one sense that they were out of the City on vacation when the bomb went off. In another sense, he wishes they had been killed in the blast. It might be preferable to this life.
As he returns to the factory after prayers, it is starting to get warm inside the building, too. The factory is not air conditioned. It is basically four walls and a roof, which is open to the weather.
His face begins to itch. He had never grown a beard before. Now, by the new Muslim law, he has to. On warm days like today, he scratches his face repeatedly. He is certain he has a couple of raw spots underneath the beard, but without good lighting and a good mirror in their home, he can’t be sure.
His scalp also starts to itch from the heat under his scarf. He knows he has some kind of rash there, but he doesn’t have any medication to treat it.
He is nearly exhausted from his work and putting up with the heat when he hears the call for Afternoon Prayer. It must be about 5 PM. Back to the mosque. He gets a new blister on his left foot from all the walking and standing in these terrible sandals.
He is under direction to return to work following the Afternoon Prayer. He has to work at least one more hour.
After that final hour, he goes home to dinner, which his wife would have dutifully prepared. He has a chance to sit down and relax for a few minutes afterward. He has just fallen asleep when the call to Sunset Prayer comes. He swears at being awakened, but gets up and again walks to the mosque.
When he gets home afterward, he sits down to rest again. He would have liked to watch TV, but only certain channels were available. They were all fundamentalist Islamic propaganda, lessons in the Arabic language, and news composed of a few beheadings of people who had tried to fight the new government. He has no idea what is happening in the rest of the world.
He misses the sports, too. There is no more football, basketball, and baseball. They did not serve to further the cause of Allah.
He used to play with his children in the evening. That was impossible now. He is too tired after working at manual labor all day, and his children have to spend the entire evening reading the Koran, one of the Hadith books, or some other literature. They must report on what they had read in the morning.
Tears come to his eyes as he remembers what life used to be like. Would they ever be able to regain the freedom they had before? How could anyone or group ever successfully rise up against the new rulers. Their lives were so regimented that there wasn’t much time to even think about that.
He dozes again, dreaming of better times, when he is awakened again by the call to Night Prayer. It must be about 10:45.
After that, he hopes he can get a few hours sleep before having to get up again the next morning to repeat the routine.