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  • ชื่อรัฐบาล: Kenneth Thompson
  • ลงทะเบียนหมายเลข: 62502-066
  • อายุ:32
  • เวลาเสิร์ฟ:9 ปี
  • ทาวน์โฮม:นอร์ทเดลเฟีย, ซิลเวเนีย
  • ประโยค:20 ปี.
  • ค่าปัจจุบัน:สมบัติ (61 kilograms) มีเจตนาที่จะส่งมอบ
  • นามแฝง:เคน Roc
  • วันที่ออกข่าว:2024
  • สังกัดเรือนจำ:N / A
  • วงกลมของอิทธิพล:Emanuel Jones
  • สถาบัน:FCI McKean
  • การทดลองของเราอาจจะหนักและยากมากที่จะทน แต่, แน่นอนตราบใดที่เรายังคงมีผู้ป่วยและดำเนินการต่อไปนมัสการพระเจ้าในแบบที่เหมาะสม, รางวัลของเราจะยิ่งใหญ่กว่า.

Mujahid: The Story of a Struggling Soul

His skin was dark, เกือบจะเป็นสีดำเป็นท้องฟ้าเดือนมืดของคืนที่อลาบามา. ครั้งแรกที่ผมเห็นเขาผิวของฉัน tingled ด้วยความกลัว. My heart pumped fast. I grew weak. My wide blue eyes took in a sight they had never seen before- Mujahid. He stuck out his hand out for me to shake, only then did I realize that I was awestruck and it may have been ruder than I had ever intended it to be. “แหม, hi, I’m Ann” I shook his rough hand, “Ann Mitchell.”

Mujahid’s eyes were big, brown and filled with mystery. They made me wonder who he was. I questioned without speaking as his tall muscular frame towered over the short, pudgy body my life had been trapped inside. “Are you ok Ms. Mitchell?” Again his voice broke my thoughts. “ใช่,” I forced a smile, “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be,” he gave me calm, “I’m used to it.” “Used to what?” ผมถามไม่กลัวที่จะมองเข้าไปในใบหน้าของเขา. “ฉันใช้คนถูกประหลาดใจโดยฉันเป็นใคร, to dress the way I dress and to believe what I believe.” “ดี,” I pondered over his words, “that’s interesting.” “So is life Ms. Mitchell. But only if we allow our interest to grow.” The tone of his voice was smooth, rich and more mature than I expected. I smiled again and sat down on the wooden bench and pressed record on my voice recorder.

“What is it about life that interests you?” ฉันถาม. When he smiled in return, ผมรู้ว่าเขาชื่นชมโอกาสที่จะได้ได้ยินเสียงของเขา. Mujahid แับดุสซาหมัดเป็นรับสมัครบาสเก็ตชั้นนำในประเทศ. ฉันนั่งบนม้านั่งไม้ที่สามารถมองเห็นบ่อเป็ดที่เต็มไปด้วยการสัมภาษณ์เขาสำหรับหนังสือพิมพ์โรงเรียน. “Life itself is what interests me Ms. Mitchell. Life itself.” “กรุณา,” 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, unless we happen to see one that is dead. Even then, it is not natural for us to realize that even a duck has a soul; even a duck has a family and an expiration date on which they will die. These are the facts of life that interest me. The sun shines bright. The blades of grass are green. The skies are blue. สภาพอากาศที่สำหรับเราทุกคนเพลิดเพลินไปกับ. เราหายใจชีวิต. แต่พวกเราหลายคนใช้เวลานี้ให้ได้รับ”

As Mujahid spoke I began to feel embarrassed and ignorant, just as shallow as the pond before us. I began to feel ashamed, 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?” ฉันถาม. “ทำไม? You could’ve gone to any school in the country to play basketball. Why not Kentucky or Duke?”

“Well Ms. Mitchell,” he pulled his fingers through the tail-end of his beard, “as we watch these ducks float, we see their elegance. Their heads are raised high and their posture is strong. Underneath this water their legs are constantly moving. Every moment of every day, right here in this pond, there is a constant struggle for a duck to be a duck.” อุปมาของเขาหลงฉันอยู่ตรงกลางของหัวใจของฉัน. I was the duck floating in the pond. ทุกวันฉันต่อสู้เพียงเพื่อให้ตัวเอง. “Just to float,” he spoke as if he knew what I was thinking,”A duck does all this just to stay above water.” I quickly responded, “It sure does seem that way.” “And perception, นางสาว, Mitchell, to some is reality.” At that moment I kind of understood where he was leading. In his mind he was being perceived as just another basketball player, the number-one recruit in the country. Now because of his stunning decision to accept an academic scholarship, Mujahid had changed who and what he was perceived to be.

“My father has been incarcerated since I was 5 years old.” He stretched his long arms across the top of the wooden bench. His wingspan extended nearly the entire length of the bench. “สำหรับ 14 ปีที่ผ่านมาในชีวิตของฉันพ่อของฉันได้รับหลังกำแพงคุก. When I was in kindergarten he was sentenced to 20 years in prison for drug charges. At first I cried every night, and would wake up in the morning to watch others sell drugs on almost every street corner in my neighborhood. Some of these guys were my uncles, some my cousins and some were my friends’ บิดา. As a kid, when I prayed, I always asked how come it had to be my father who was locked away. I thought selling drugs was normal; just another way to put food on the table. Do you know anything about Islam, นางสาว. Mitchell?” The question tied my stomach into knots. ผมไม่ได้คาดหวังว่าคำถาม, และในขณะที่ผมรู้ว่าผมไม่ได้รู้อะไรเกี่ยวกับศาสนาอิสลามอื่น ๆ กว่าสิ่งที่ฉันได้ยินหรืออ่านในสื่อกระแสหลัก- Muslims were always at war and they hate america. “Would you like to tell me?” ฉันถาม. “Do you know what it means to be Muslim?” he quizzed “It’s fine if you don’t.” เขาอธิบายว่าผมไม่ได้อยู่คนเดียวและมีจำนวนมากมายของคนทั่วประเทศที่ไม่รู้เรื่องเกี่ยวกับศาสนาอิสลามและสิ่งที่มันหมายถึงการเป็นมุสลิม. “ดี, I must admit to you Mujahid, I do not truly know what it means to be Muslim.” “ดี, Ms Mitchell, if one continues in ignorance this person will never grow.” He gave me a glowing smile.

“มุสลิมเป็นคนที่ได้เบิกความไม่มีเทพที่คุ้มค่าของการเคารพบูชานอกจากพระเจ้าองค์เดียว (อัลเลาะห์) และมูฮัมหมัดเป็นทาสสุดท้ายของเขาและผู้ส่งสาร. Believing in this statement, we must follow the guidance of the final messenger and worship God in the way that Muhammad had worshipped. ดู, the perception is that Muslims are angry, deranged and a threat to society. ความคาดหวังว่าลูกชายของพ่อที่ถูกจองจำคือมักจะลมขึ้นในคุก. The expectation is for a young, tall and athletically gifted African American should only dream of playing in the NBA. It is the same expectation for the duck in the pond, for it only to float. 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, นางสาว. 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. ถ้าผมจะได้เลือกหนึ่งในโรงเรียนที่บาสเก็ตชั้นนำในประเทศจะมีคำถามว่าทำไมไม่มี”

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?” ผมหันไป Mujahid. “Upset with who?” เขาถามด้วยใบหน้าของเขาเปิดขึ้นในความสับสน. “Your father.” “My father?” “ใช่, are you upset with him for being in prison?” Looking at the clouds in the sky, “นางสาว. Mitchell I’m from North Philadelphia. ย่านของฉันคือการได้รับการปฏิบัติราวกับว่ามันเป็นเว็บไซต์ขยะพิษ. 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. ที่นี่, 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. ความคืบหน้าของฉันคือผลของการต่อสู้ของเขา. ผมฝันพ่อของฉัน, 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. จนถึงขณะนี้ผมได้มองไปที่เขาเป็นอะไร แต่เป็นเด็กสีดำขนาดใหญ่ที่เล่นบาสเกตบอล. แต่ในช่วงเวลานี้ฉันอยากจะรู้มากเกี่ยวกับเขาเท่าที่ฉันอาจจะ. “What does your name mean?” ฉันถาม, “If you do not mind me asking.” “Mujahid หมายถึงการดิ้นรนและจิตวิญญาณแับดุสซาหมัดหมายถึงการเป็นทาสของอัลลอ” “Struggling Soul,” I repeated almost in a whisper, “Mujahid.” “ใช่, 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.” ฉันคว้าปกหลัง. “สิ่งที่?” ฉันถาม, “เกิดอะไรขึ้น?” “The campus police they shot and killed someone last night.” “Shot someone? When? 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. “ไม่, 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? Who is going to march for Mujahid?

  

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