Six months after my release from the fateful detention in Iraq under Saddam's Ba'thist regime, I sat down to write my experience. When the essay, divided in twenty small chapters was ready, I gave it to my chosen friends and relatives to read.
They advised me against printing it. Several reasons were advanced. Meshed in the web of these disincentives, I kept the essay hidden away.
And then one morning, I woke up with an inexplicable urge to join hands with the oppressed Muslims throughout the World. I decided to publish my essay, and join the chorus of agony and anguish white the whack of the tyrants' whips continues unabated.
There in the distant countries, I can see an old mother, expectantly peeping out of a small window, waiting for her son to return. I can see a bride who wakes up every morning to find that her husband is not by her side. I can see the small innocent faces of children questioningly looking at their mothers, to find out when father would return home, bearing with a loving smile, his hands full of small gifts.
And on the other side of the corridor, I see the blindfolds, the shackles, the whips and the blood streaming from the bare backs of the young and old Muslims. I can hear them moan and whine. With them, I join to raise a feeble cry.
May Allah, in His Mercy, help Islam, as ever.