Who believes in Paradise?

Where the Hudson River and Long Island Sound converge, a shiny airliner slid across a mountain range of metal and glass. The view of Manhattan dilated inside rows of passenger windows, sharp skyscrapers passing by like coral reefs below a sinking ship. A jolt, and the plane leveled as if it had run aground. Ripples of silence spread out from a hijacker marching to the cockpit.

The terrorist wondered to himself as his hand extended, Are we supposed to be this close, so soon? Have I been lied to, or did the plan change?

Turbulence shook the cockpit door. A barrel-chested guard gripped a wiry forearm, and into a tight galley next to the toilets, growled at the young man.

“Why have you left your post?”

“Very sorry. I don’t mean to cause problems. I just…” Eyes rose slowly.

“Speak.” The command sliced right through the dense noise of jet engines.

“Yes, sorry. I would ask him–”

“Ask him? No. The time for questions has passed. It is time for action. Return to your post.”

“But if I can have one moment of his time, I’m sure–”

“Inshallah, no one enters.” The guard pressed the young man into the main cabin. “God-willing, not even I open that door. Understand? I said, do you understand?”

“Of course.” The youth’s jittery focus crashed into stiff carpet.

“Ahem! Return to your position.”

Speaking through clenched teeth, the elder guard’s freshly shaven face tightened.

“Ahhh, what now?” groaned the big man.

“Sorry for my stupidity, but did you say that door will not open again?” Brand-new shoes fastened to the floor.

“We all knew the ultimate outcome.”

“But, are we supposed to be–”

“None of that matters now. Today, you take part in the most glorious thing a man can do for his family, his people, and most importantly, for Allah.”

“But–”

“But no! No more delay. The Great Jihad is an honor, a privilege. Today, God-willing, the world will change, and you will wake in Paradise. You have taken the holy name of Muhammad. When the sun sets on this day, you will answer the great question, are you worthy of God’s blessings? Well, are you?” The deflating chest wheezed a stream of cheap tobacco scent.

“You hesitate? Do you even want to be shahid?” asked the guard.

“Of course. To be martyred is the dream of every holy warrior.”

“God-willing, we all wake in Paradise.”

“God-willing,” but Muhammad’s voice sounded flat.

“It is our mission to be the fiery beacon, and when our brothers strike, the Americans will know this is no accident. Allah Akbar!”

“God is great.” The words remained in monotone.

Muhammad’s body swayed under the man’s grip, as it had the evening he’d fixed his neighbor Hana’s fan– a bittersweet childhood memory of a kind old woman. He’d made the mistake of switching the motor on before first placing it by the window. In his struggle across the uneven floor to fresher air, the large spinning object bumped a table, shattering a white tulip-patterned vase on the tiles. To his surprise, old Hana had simply laughed, thanked him, and sent him home with both hands full of biscuits.

The young man had chosen his path of martyrdom for her, for everyone murdered in that strike on his innocent village– days prior, America’s intended target had traveled to a town miles away. Headed to the cockpit, the jihadi had sought more information to quell the fear, and make sense of why things were developing so fast. He now needed the certainty he’d felt that afternoon he joined this man and the others in their holy mission.

Leaning close, the guard whispered, “You have one chance to prove yourself. So go, and show these pigs the face of a true warrior, not the shame of a mangy dog. Amaze them with your fearless honor as we die. God is great!”

“God is great.” Turbulence rumbled and quaked the plane’s metal frame; bold buildings stretched for the highest heavens, but could not rise above his shiny soles.

Burnt homes, deafening explosions, lifeless bodies– the prickling memories sharpened Muhammad’s focus. Flaccid hands transformed into balled fists. His trembling lip tightened as forearms wiped the wet panic from his cheeks; a palm pressed a passing seat-back; his eyes closed. Ballet fingertips danced along the chair’s bristly stage.

Selfish Americans. How dare they trample God’s holy soil? They think their skyscrapers and big jet planes can touch God’s heaven? The arrogance. God-willing, the Twins will soon be–

A child’s piercing scream. Muhammad’s heart pounded, eyes popped open, searching for the sound along a row of bright windows. A man dressed in a black golf shirt and tan cargo shorts bolted into the aisle, his first step landing on something round and white, rolling his ankle. Despite his reach slipping from a flimsy blond toupee, an armrest kept the man steady on one knee.

The hijacker’s stride jerked– a stray purse-strap from under a seat around his left ankle. The American Goliath launched. Flattened, the terrorist twisted and wiggled free. From his right pocket, an orange utility-knife fumbled in his hand. The plane banked hard, and he again hit the ground face-first, his weapon disappearing into the clutter. Voices shrieked. Engines screamed. Everything rattled.

A searing explosion ripped apart Muhammad’s field of vision. Pain tore through him like a great, angry whale splitting a bow in half. The texture of debris and taste of jet fuel tied noxious knots inside him. A forest of noisy passengers called out. Then there was nothing but darkness.

Where is Paradise? What went wrong? Has God cast me into the Christian’s fiery Hell? Was this… a mistake?

A familiar sound opened Muhammad’s eyes. Great, foamy surf crashed onto a beach that spanned the horizon. A wide bay of black rocks reached into the distance like craggy fingers. Emerald-green, chirping forests crawled over slate-blue mountains, crowned by virgin clouds.

From a treeline of elaborate gardens rose a great, marble manor with golden-framed windows. Book-ending the building, a cricket wicket sat to the left with a fútbol field to the right. Beyond the manicured lawns, tall minarets marked either extent of this ornate estate.

Muhammad emerged from the surf onto the sprawling white beach, frothy brine carrying away burnt residue. With fresh toes digging into wet ground, he laughed, legs folding into an exhausted heap. Body rumbling a jerky rhythm, he covered his face, howling until the shaking stopped.

Wiping away his tears, the jihadi stood and hurried towards his massive mansion overflowing with unparalleled delights. A cobblestone walkway snaked to an electric-blue pool where every woman from every dream he’d ever had sat poolside, waving to him. The most beautiful one stood and sashayed down a mason staircase to welcome Muhammad to Paradise.

Everything was perfect– well, almost everything. At the edge of the forest beyond the fútbol field sat a beggar in a brown robe– debris washed up from some unknown depth to rest under a tall tree with a wide canopy and red fruit.