Pardon Me; My Name Is Tariq Aziz. May I Speak to You, Please?

10:55 am in Uncategorized by wendydavis

'Madonna' by permission of Anthony Freda @www.anthonyfreda.com

It is important to me that I tell you my side of the story of my death before the lies that the American CIA will tell about it become written in stone.  Their lies would dishonor my family and my village, and perhaps even cause more deaths if enough people were to believe them.  It is my hope that if you hear the truth, you will share it with others…and help us to stop the evil murders of innocents in Pakistan and Afghanistan.  Whether you hear my message through the air while you sit quietly, or in your nighttime dreams, please listen carefully.

You will wisely have surmised by now that I am in the barsakh, or interval, awaiting the questioning of the angels that will determine whether I enter Paradise, or am consigned…to hell.  Will I be considered a martyr?  I like to think that it will be so.

Once I was told of their coming, I began to anticipate their questions, and recall much of my life…and especially the time just before my death.  It has sharpened my wits after some initial confusion about my…condition, and whereabouts.  I will speak of this to the angels, hoping that it will stand as supplication for them to recommend me for…Paradise.

Well over a year ago, my cousin Aswar Ullah was killed by an American CIA drone while riding his motorcycle near Norak.  When I would close my eyes, I would see the monstrous white drone killers as voracious, killing wasps, legs drooping down toward the earth as they fly, the zzzzzzzzzzzzzz sound they make changing pitch as they circled around their prey.

Some of us run for shelter that may not always prove protective; others of us freeze like stone statues, dreading what the inevitable explosion will mean…death for people whose family and friends will grieve, and cause more anger against the Americans.  Why can’t they just leave us alone to work, pray and live our lives?  How have we harmed them?

A few weeks ago, there were phone calls from a lawyer to all of us who had lost relatives to the evil white wasps encouraging us to go to a meeting, a jirga, that had been arranged in Islamabad to discuss lodging protests against the drone airplane killings in Waziristan; we would join the village elders and men who had organized to help us.

I was proud to be asked to go, and made the eight-hour trip in a car filled with other young men.  We spoke together about our nervousness at meeting with the Tribal Elders. but we also spoke of our love of playing soccer, which helped to ease our fears. Read the rest of this entry →