It was never about religion. He had other reasons. But the riches were flashed before him, which made him cross the line. Now he had a chance to leave his village and travel the world. All he knew were the villages of East Java where he performed with a group reenacting Hindu classics and local folk lore. Trancing were their specialty.
He had always yearned to leave the volcanoes and the local gods of his native land and find something bigger and better in his life.
He got the taste of the good life at The Stadium in Jakarta. He made extra money moving drugs from the capital to Bali. He was working for the generals. He had signed his life away. He knew when the government was ready to make a morality stance; he’d end up facing the firing squad. He had signed his own death sentence and moved up the ladder and was recruited for a terrorist cell. A stint in Syria really taught him nothing. It only gave his group street cred.
He was let back into the country. The government needed a perceived enemy to take the heat off their own corrupt actions. A terrorist attack wouldn’t really put their lucrative operations to a standstill. It would take the heat off their actions and give them even more freedom to fuck over the population. There’d be a few losses, but they weren’t into the industry of saving lives.
Now he could help his family and get real respect. His family were being paid well for him being a martyr. What he just found out was that while he was in Syria, his wife left him for a rich foreigner who she was living with in Bali. She got the taste of the good life and wanted more. It only confirmed his belief that there was inequality in this world.
He was impressionable, and could easily induce trance like states. He was pliable and was perfect for the circus mission. He had been taught rudimentary bomb making. And the indoctrination was near complete. He had a grudge against westerners. They came to Indonesia and fucked his women. They corrupted the values of his women. He could never get the hot girls. They were always with rich foreigners. He had a grudge against Starbucks where many rich foreigners picked them up. He saw it time and again when he was working at the Stadium as a pimp and drug courier.
He loved getting fucked up on drugs and fucking whores. It was all promised him and more if he could pull off the attack on Western decadence. The night before, he was given his reward at a cheap warung on the outskirts of Jakarta in the slums. They were cheap warung whores.
“Just go in a trance,” said the leader of the group. “and take out as many as you can while we blow up Starbucks.” If the Borneo headhunters could trance out and chop off Madurese heads, he could kill a few infidels.
He would gladly do it. He had do it. His family were dead if he didn’t. He was given another ecstasy pill in the morning and prayed, working himself in an ecstatic state. He would right the wrongs and die a glorious death. What he didn’t know was that Indonesians would continue going to Starbucks and fucking rich foreigners. He’s was an inglorious death for a lost cause. Only money counted in the cutthroat world of human existence. He should have stuck to trances and picked up a few gigs in Bali.
The mystic were always wanting to overthrow the unjust ruler. If it wasn’t the Dutch, the British, then the Chinese, then mystics would find another enemy until they were the rulers. And another group of mystics would overthrow them for their abuse of power. The Indonesians had always been under the yoke of tyranny. It’s just that they didn’t know it.
He looked on in his trance state. He was peaking and now was in communion with his god. He saw dead and mangled bodies on the street. He had to pull this off.
He knew it was wrong. He was going to die one way or another. He walked in a daze as onlookers milled around the carnage. “I’m a dead man walking,” his brain registered in his stupor as he walked to his glorious death. He took a few down before he got a bullet in his head. He was just another statistic and the next day’s headline.
People like him would always be under the yoke of stupidity. Paradise was on this earth and he knew it was beyond him now. He had a taste of it and he wanted more. But it could never be sustainable for a poor guy like him.
He was fighting against a corrupt and cancerous system that rewarded the corrupt and punished the law abiders. He was also fighting for a slice of that pie of Paradise.
Indonesia had become a victim of its own greed again, and he and his group were no different. Home grown terrorism resulted from an oppressive and uncaring government that rewarded the rich and killed the poor. He was fodder for the system and Jakarta and Bali were the rich man’s playground.
His number was up. You can’t stop a horse bolting to the trough. Star Bucks would continue to be a symbol of the rich. And the poor would still be drinking their cheap coffee and fucking whores in the back of warungs on dirty mattresses full of ticks.
He had been fooled. If only he had taken that laboring job in Malaysia, he’d be alive now. But he couldn’t be sure he’d still have his wife.
He didn’t really blame the foreigners for his raw deal in life. They were just horn dogs that liked fucking promiscuous Muslim pussy.
He had to admit that the Indonesians were all just whores. “And look at the mess they have got me in.” He had been stooged for a cause that really didn’t exist. It really wasn’t about religion at all.
Always the innocent suffer from other’s avarice. He died like so many of his brothers, for a useless cause. Everyone in his cell had died. They had two hits, one dead and one injured civilian. Their strike rate was so low that if they weren’t dead, they would have got the sack by their Syrian backers.
If only he could come back from the grave and tell his jihad brothers about his revelation. They were all dead now. His island, his culture and his language had been corrupted to the core. “We are all whores to the system.” Indonesia was going through an identity crisis and young lives were being sacrificed for it’s schizoid behavior.
It was a shame he couldn’t figure out which corrupt system he belonged to. He needn’t have worried, he was just a slab of meat now.
In his game, you only get one shot. The story of his life, the one shot whores. He had ejected his load and for what? Terrorism won its war. The establishment won its war. And he the little foot soldier was dead. A premature death for a shallow ideology.
He snapped out of his trance. He was alive. He was at a country fair in Banyuwangi and the audience were applauding his great performance. He looked out at the volcano and the adoring eyes of the simple country folk. He had a vision of the terrorist attack through his own eyes. He was the terrorist.
He was glad to be alive in East Java. He’d also keep his revelation to himself. He knew better.
He had never been so happy working for peanuts on the trance circuit. He would live life on his own terms. It was here in East Java, among the volcanoes, where he belonged.
He wasn’t ever going to pray for Jakarta again. The media had glorified the response to the botched up terrorist attack and the sheep proclaimed their solidarity in standing up against terrorism. The government couldn’t have planned it any better.
Jakarta was the mother of whores that spawned evil. He was safer among the active volcanoes than the corrupt residents of the capital city where evil resided and thrived in a cauldron of corruption. He was glad he didn’t take up the offer to work in Jakarta. New recruits for terrorist cells were always promised the world on false pretexts. How many whores had he known who were promised a job in a restaurant in Bali, only to be sold into prostitution.
He didn’t have a high opinion of Bali either. Stay in the countryside, and you’ll be safe. Only the cities spawn madness. He knew those brain washed Solo terrorists were amateurs. They bombed Jakarta in the name of Islam but it was just a plot to destabilize the president.
Everyone knew the former furniture salesman from Solo had blood on his hands. He’d let off the generals who moved drugs while the innocent got bullets in the head.
He always had revelations when he was under the influence of a trance and he could easily understand why terrorism was so attractive to disillusioned minds. He’d have to keep check on his mystic bent. The best recruits were those who could fall under the spell of a trance and carry through their instructions under the invincibility of being under the influence of a higher power. It also allowed them to wash their hands of any wrong doing.
He could see through it all. He wasn’t going to be a stooge for one system or another. Some things were out of his control. He had resolved to himself that he would remain single too. He just didn’t need the hassles. He’d pay the whores to leave.
He had made his peace with himself and hurt no one in the process. He was the true mystic who had control of his own destiny. He was above the petty ideologies of this earth.
He had a word of advice, though. The extremists are fighting against corruption of their woman folk. He remembered the indoctrination training camp, and the instructor going hell for leather. “The Americans come here and fuck our women. The Australians come here and fuck our men. This is a war about showing a bit of courtesy to your host country.” Bali’s discos, the meat markets, were logical targets, and of course Star Fucks. Yes, it had nothing to do with religion.
He was even starting to think that the recent terror attacks were set up by the president to bolster his fledgling popularity. Anything could happen in a land heavily sedated by ideology.
Yes, he said again, smugly, ” I’m now free of terrorist indoctrination.” Life was just too precious to throw it away for the false gods who manipulated the earthly domain with money. And he didn’t give a fuck if foreigners were corrupting his women folk. It’s what the locals did anyway.
Who knows, he thought, “I might get a lucky break and a chance to work on a construction site in Malaysia.”
He, the ignored. He preferred it that way.
He never wanted to end up dead for a rotten cause.
You can read about my first hand account with terrorism in Garuda’s Travel.