72 Virgins - Preface
Although the main part of the story takes place on US soil, the opening scene comes about in Tel Aviv, Israel. It sets the tone, the mood and the nature of what Islamic terrorism is about. These people do not commit their horrific act out of desperation, as many Westerners tend to believe. These suicide killers believe that their act of “martyrdom” would pave their path to heaven, next to Allah’s throne. They are the most selfish group of people on the face of the Earth.
Chapter 1
Sunday, October 27, 2002—Tel Aviv, Israel
It was noontime when the heaving bus entered the intersection across from the main entrance to the Dizengoff shopping mall in Tel Aviv. The cloudless blue skies painted a peaceful overture to an ordinary onset of another week. It was a beautiful autumn day. Dizengoff Street, one of the foremost symbols of the most vibrant city in Israel, home to many prestigious fashion designers, movie and theatre celebrities, authors and poets, as well as plain folk—was bursting with life. Office workers were out on their lunch break; shoppers were on the hunt for the usual bargains in and around the mall, and traffic was drawing near its customary gridlock that typified the first day of the working week in Israel.
The bus stopped at the traffic light, next to the main entrance to the mall, just ahead of King George Street. Then, in a flash, without warning, just as the traffic light was about to turn green, the sun turned dark. A Palestinian suicide bomber, sitting near the center of the bus, rose from his seat. His sad face cracked open in a sadistic smile; he looked up, filled his lungs, then shrieked, “Allahu Akbar!” (God is Greater (than any other God and every human VIP)) while igniting his explosives-filled belt.
The explosion went off inside the bus, blowing its top into smithereens, generating a massive fire throughout its interior. There were twenty-nine dead, all civilians, passengers and pedestrians, men, women, old, young, and younger. The enormous blast was heard throughout the city from the beachfront hotels to the Diamond Center in nearby Ramat Gan, and for a long, drawn out moment, the ordinary exuberance typifying life in this metropolis was brought to a standstill. The awful silence that followed the explosion was quickly interrupted by the screaming of urgent sirens. Ambulances and fire trucks converged on the scene as the local police force mobilized to cordon off the surrounding area.
Islamic University student, Abdullah Mansour from Gaza, the suicide bomber, was among the lifeless remains collected by the orange uniform-clad clean-up crew. One hour later, Mansour’s picture was revealed on Palestinian TV. His mother was proud; his older brother was energized; his recorded will was recited by the young Palestinian kids who would follow in his footsteps. Abdullah Mansour’s passage to Paradise was secured. It was paved with bloody and burnt corpses of innocent souls including his own—a prerequisite on the path to martyrdom. The moment he pulled the trigger was the happiest of his short life. Seventy-two virgins were awaiting his arrival in heaven. They’d be nursing his wounds and nurturing him forever. His place next to Allah’s throne was now secured. He’d just become the latest martyr.
The bus stopped at the traffic light, next to the main entrance to the mall, just ahead of King George Street. Then, in a flash, without warning, just as the traffic light was about to turn green, the sun turned dark. A Palestinian suicide bomber, sitting near the center of the bus, rose from his seat. His sad face cracked open in a sadistic smile; he looked up, filled his lungs, then shrieked, “Allahu Akbar!” (God is Greater (than any other God and every human VIP)) while igniting his explosives-filled belt.
The explosion went off inside the bus, blowing its top into smithereens, generating a massive fire throughout its interior. There were twenty-nine dead, all civilians, passengers and pedestrians, men, women, old, young, and younger. The enormous blast was heard throughout the city from the beachfront hotels to the Diamond Center in nearby Ramat Gan, and for a long, drawn out moment, the ordinary exuberance typifying life in this metropolis was brought to a standstill. The awful silence that followed the explosion was quickly interrupted by the screaming of urgent sirens. Ambulances and fire trucks converged on the scene as the local police force mobilized to cordon off the surrounding area.
Islamic University student, Abdullah Mansour from Gaza, the suicide bomber, was among the lifeless remains collected by the orange uniform-clad clean-up crew. One hour later, Mansour’s picture was revealed on Palestinian TV. His mother was proud; his older brother was energized; his recorded will was recited by the young Palestinian kids who would follow in his footsteps. Abdullah Mansour’s passage to Paradise was secured. It was paved with bloody and burnt corpses of innocent souls including his own—a prerequisite on the path to martyrdom. The moment he pulled the trigger was the happiest of his short life. Seventy-two virgins were awaiting his arrival in heaven. They’d be nursing his wounds and nurturing him forever. His place next to Allah’s throne was now secured. He’d just become the latest martyr.