Valmynd

Fylgdu @ Lockdownlive á kvak.

scdsc

upplýsingar

  • Ríkisstjórn Name: Kenneth Thompson
  • Kennitala: 62502-066
  • Aldur:32
  • Tími Borið:9 ár
  • Home Town:North Philadelphia, PA
  • Setning:20 ár.
  • Núverandi Hleðsla:Átti (61 kilograms) with intent to Deliver
  • Alias:Ken-Roc
  • Útgáfudagur:2024
  • Prison Tengsl:N / A
  • Hring áhrifum:Emanuel Jones
  • Stofnun:FCI McKean
  • Rannsóknum okkar getur verið þungur og ákaflega erfitt að þola en, vafalaust eins lengi og við erum enn þolinmóður og halda áfram að tilbiðja Guð í rétta hátt, laun okkar verður enn meiri.

Mujahid: The Saga barátta Soul

Húð hans var myrkur, almost as black as the moonless sky of an Alabama night. The first time I saw him my skin tingled with fear. Hjarta mitt dælt hratt. Ég ólst veik. Mín breiður blá augu tók í sjónmáli sem þeir höfðu aldrei séð áður- Mujahid. Hann stakk hendinni út fyrir mig að hrista, only then did I realize that I was awestruck and it may have been ruder than I had ever intended it to be. “Ó, hæ, Ég er Ann” Ég hristi gróft höndina, “Ann Mitchell.”

Augu Mujahid voru stór, brúnn og fyllt með dulúð. Þeir gerðu mig furða hver hann var. Ég efast án þess að tala eins og hár vöðvastæltur ramma hans towered yfir stutt, pudgy líkami líf mitt hafa föst inni. “Er í lagi Ms. Mitchell?” Aftur rödd hans braut hugsanir mínar. “Já,” Ég neyðist bros, “Fyrirgefðu.” “Ekki vera,” Hann gaf mér ró, “Ég er að nota hana.” “Notað til að það?” I asked unafraid to look into his face. “I’m used to people being surprised by who I am, að klæða eins og ég klæða og að trúa því sem ég trúi.” “Jæja,” Ég hugleiddi um orðum hans, “þetta er áhugavert.” “Svo er lífið Ms. Mitchell. En aðeins ef við leyfum áhuga okkar til að vaxa.” Tónninn rödd hans var mjúk, ríkur og þroskaðri en ég bjóst. Ég brosti aftur og settist á tré bekkur og þrýsta upp á upptökutæki rödd mína.

“Hvað er það um lífið sem vekur áhuga þinn?” Ég spurði. Þegar hann brosti í staðinn, I knew he appreciated the opportunity to have his voice heard. Mujahid Abdus Samad was the top basketball recruit in the country. I sat there on the wooden bench overlooking the duck-filled pond to interview him for the school newspaper. “Life itself is what interests me Ms. Mitchell. Life itself.” “Vinsamlegast,” my smile was now more one of infatuation, “what is it that you mean?” “Take these ducks in the pond for example,” he looked out at the pond from the bench next to me, “to many they are creatures, animals or nothing more than scenery. They are a pleasant sight to see and for some this is the only reason they are there. We look at them and we forget they are alive, nema við sjáum einn sem er dauður. Jafnvel þá, það er ekki eðlilegt að gera sér grein fyrir að jafnvel önd hefur sál; jafnvel önd hefur fjölskyldu og gildistíma sem þeir vilja deyja. Þetta eru staðreyndir lífsins sem áhuga mér. Sólin skín björt. Blöð af grasi eru grænir. Skýin eru blá. The weather is for us all to enjoy. We breathe life. But so many of us take this for granted.

Eins Mujahid talaði ég fór að skammast og ókunnugt, bara eins grunnt og tjörn fyrir okkur. Ég fór að skammast, ungrateful and somehow mesmerized by his perception and intellect. I spent my afternoons on this bench reading, studying notes and conducting interviews but never had I looked at the ducks as anything more than just ducks. Never had I enjoyed the weather. For me it was always too hot, too humid or too cold. The sky was something that was just there, but in this moment it was filled with endless possibilities. “Why Columbia University?” Ég spurði. “Hvers vegna? You could’ve gone to any school in the country to play basketball. Hvers vegna ekki Kentucky eða Duke?”

“Jæja Ms. Mitchell,” hann dró fingrunum í gegnum hala-lok skegg hans, “eins og við horfa þessar endur fljóta, við sjáum glæsileika þeirra. Höfuð þeirra eru hækkaðir hár og stelling hennar er sterk. Undir þessu vatni fætur þeirra eru stöðugt að færa. Sérhver stund á hverjum degi, hérna í þessari tjörn, það er stöðug barátta fyrir önd að vera önd.” His metaphor struck me in the middle of my heart. Ég var önd fljótandi í tjörninni. Everyday I struggled just to be myself. “Bara að fljóta,” Hann talaði eins og hann vissi hvað ég var að hugsa,”A önd gerir allt þetta bara til að vera á floti.” Ég svaraði fljótt, “Það er viss virðast þannig.” “Og skynjun, Ms, Mitchell, að sumir er raunveruleiki.” Á því augnabliki sem ég skildi konar þar sem hann var fremstur. Í huga hans var að skynja hann sem bara annað körfuknattleiksmaður, the tala-einn ráða í landinu. Nú vegna töfrandi ákvörðun sína að samþykkja fræðileg námsstyrk, Mujahid hafði breyst hver og hvað hann var litið til vera.

“Faðir minn hefur verið fangelsaðir síðan ég var 5 ára.” Hann rétti lengi vopn sín yfir the toppur af the tré bekkur. Vænghaf hans framlengdur næstum alla lengd bekknum. “Fyrir 14 years of my life my father has been behind prison walls. Þegar ég var í leikskóla var hann dæmdur til 20 ár í fangelsi fyrir gjöldum eiturlyf. Fyrst ég grét á hverju kvöldi, og myndi vakna á morgnana til að horfa aðrir selja lyf á nánast hverju götuhorni í hverfinu mínu. Sumir af þessir gaurar voru frændur mínir, sumir frændur mínir og sumir voru vinir mínir’ feður. Sem krakki, þegar ég bað, Ég spurði alltaf hvernig koma það þurfti að vera faðir minn sem var læst í burtu. Ég hélt selja lyf var eðlilegur; bara ein leið til að setja mat á borðið. Veistu eitthvað um Íslam, Ms. Mitchell?” Spurningin bundin magann inn hnúta. I did not expect the question, and at that moment I realized I did not know anything about Islam other than what I heard or read in the mainstream media- Múslímar voru alltaf í stríði og þeir hata Ameríku. “Vilt þú áhuga á að segja mér?” Ég spurði. “Veistu hvað það þýðir að vera múslimi?” hann spurði “Það er allt í lagi ef þú gerir það ekki.” He explained that I was not alone and there is a vast number of people across the country who know nothing about Islam and what it means to be Muslim. “Jæja, Ég verð að viðurkenna að þér Mujahid, Ég er ekki raunverulega vita hvað það þýðir að vera múslimi.” “Jæja, Ms Mitchell, ef einn áfram í fáfræði þessi manneskja mun aldrei vaxa.” Hann gaf mér glóandi bros.

A Muslim is a person who has testified there is no deity worthy of worship besides one God (Allah) and that Muhammad is his final slave and messenger. Að trúa á þessari yfirlýsingu, við verðum að fylgja leiðsögn endanlega boðberi og tilbiðja Guð í leiðinni að Múhameð hefði að tilbiðja. Sjá, skynjun er að múslimar eru reið, veiklaðar og ógn við samfélagið. The expectation is that the son of an incarcerated father is most likely to wind up in prison. The von er að ungur, á hæð og athletically hæfileikaríkur African American ætti aðeins dreymir um að spila í NBA. Það er það sama eftirvænting fyrir önd í tjörninni, fyrir það aðeins að fljóta. Everyday is a struggle to be who I am, to strive become who it is I want to be. I started playing ball to take my mind away from reality. On the court I’m not a thug, a muslim or a terrorist. I am a prospect, a lightning quick guard and sometimes even just a good kid. But this is not my reality either. My reality, Ms. Mitchell, is what I am perceived to be. I am a tall, black Muslim man who you stared at in amazement the first time you saw me. I am the intelligent, well-spoken Columbia University student who you could not stop smiling at. I am the nigga from the hood who those who look like me, and come from where I come from, think I should always be. You see Ms. Mitchell I am the duck floating on the pond. My head is held high. My demeanor is cool, calm and relaxed. But to many I am nothing more than a sight to be had, to like or dislike, to talk about and criticize. To some I am different. To some I am unique. And to some I am the enemy just because of my religion. Why did I choose Columbia University you ask. If I would have chosen one of the top basketball schools in the country there would be no question as to why.

After a few seconds of searching my mind for a response, I looked at the pond and watched as the ducks swam and quacked as if communicating with each other. “Are you upset with him?” I turned toward Mujahid. “Upset with who?” he asked with his face turned up in confusion. “Your father.” “My father?” “Já, are you upset with him for being in prison?” Looking at the clouds in the sky, “Ms. Mitchell I’m from North Philadelphia. My neighborhood is treated as if it’s a toxic waste site. I walk around this campus with my kufi on my head, my robe falling down my body, and I am feared. I can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices and smell it in the air. Hér, I am the Muslim basketball player. In North Philly I am the good young brother. I could never be upset with my father. I understand who he is. Where I am from, I see him everyday. It is because of him that I am me. My progress is the result of his struggle. I am my father’s dream, the hope of my community and the definition of my culture. This is what I understand about myself. I am supposed to be feared. My actions ought to be predictable. I should be thankful for my opportunities or should I say my athletic ability. This is what America wants from me. The University of Kentucky wishes my name was Todd, Kevin or Mark. Duke University wishes I wasn’t as dark as I am. If it wasn’t for my skill to handle the basketball, my quick release and long wing span, I would have never received any interest, a letter, a phone call, or an invite to visit campus. Since I did, I am lucky. And because I declined, I am ungrateful.

Mujahid’s words took my mind on a ride it had never been on before. Until now I had looked at him as nothing but a big black kid who played basketball. But in this moment I wanted to know as much about him as I possibly could. “What does your name mean?” Ég spurði, “If you do not mind me asking.” “Mujahid means struggling soul and Abdus Samad means slave of Allah.” “Struggling Soul,” I repeated almost in a whisper, “Mujahid.” “Já, Ms.Mitchell, struggling soul. And everyday, it is a struggle just to be the man I am.”

After the interview, we went our separate ways. I found myself paying attention to life. The birds singing in the trees, flying in the sky. The squirrels playing in the grass. The bees buzzing by. Mujahid Abdus Samad. His name, his eyes and his voice danced in my mind and guided me into the night.

“Ann!” My roommate barged into my space to wake me up the next morning. “Ann,” she scowled, “Ann wake up! You are not going to believe what happened.” I snatched the covers back. “Hvað?” Ég spurði, “What happened?” “The campus police they shot and killed someone last night.” “Shot someone? Þegar? Where?” “The basketball player,” my roommate dropped a boulder onto my chest, “The Muslim guy. They said he had a gun.” “Mujahid!” I howled at the top of my lungs. “Ekki, not Mujahid!” I cried, cried and cried with my head buried in my palms. No one knew he was alive until he was dead. For most he was simply a mystery floating by. Who is going to march for the struggling soul? Hver er að fara að marsera til Mujahid?

  

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


Lestu þessa bók!

Veldu tungumál


Breyta Þýðing

Quick Shots

Category