Introduction

"Get the fuck down!"

Ibrahim and Malik did not get down. Instead, they stood perfectly still, clinging to the bulging brown shopping bags filled with food for their family…a mortal sin.

The soldier grimaced; he was going to enjoy this! "Stand against the wall!"

The two boys, again, did not obey. They continued their display of passive resistance as they kept standing there, looking the soldier directly in the eye, hoping maybe to pierce the veil of hatred. This was treason. They would pay.

The soldier couldn't help but chortle a bit at this rebellious display. Such a tactic might've proved effective years ago…when their people's opinion still mattered.

"All right then, if you won't comply…"

Two gunshots echoed through the alley. The boys abruptly dropped their bags to the pavement with two simultaneous thuds combined with a brief crackling of paper and plastic.

The boys, however frightened they were, continued to stand stock still, externally unfazed, silently voicing dissent. By now, the soldier was thoroughly amused; in his mind, their reticence was proof that he'd scared them good. He knew quite well that besides being against regulations, shooting at shopping bags was a waste of expensive ammunition. But if it scared them into compliance, that mattered more. It took him some time to realize, however, that he had not scared them at all, and that he really had just wasted ammo.

The color of his ruddy face became more sanguine as he pointed his rifle at little Ibrahim's eye. "Here's the deal, kiddo. When I say, get down, you better kiss the fuckin' ground! I have orders telling me that if any of you fuckin' Neanderthals put up trouble during these inspections, we can shoot you if need be. Don't make me put a bullet in your eye, kiddo, 'cause I'll get away with it. Why? 'Cause I'm an American, God damn it!"

Now, Ibrahim and Malik were every bit as American as the cruel soldier, but the fact that their parents were Saudi rather than South Carolinian meant that they weren't quite as "American" as he. That fact in itself was another mortal sin. Treason, as far as the armed man accosting them was concerned. They would pay.

Frustrated at the lack of a response, he aimed his weapon into ten-year old Malik's crotch and warned, "I'll shoot you down there, send it flying across the street, and nobody'll give a shit! If you don't comply, I just might have to! You have no rights here in the 'district'. Now, you gonna comply or not?"

Malik merely continued to stare silently at the angry man in front of him. Whatever anger the boy had, he didn't show it save through that defiant, unblinking stare.

Suddenly it wasn't funny anymore. The soldier was losing control of the situation. He had to save face somehow. "Can't speak English, you worthless turd?! Or are you just playin' dumb? That shit might work with the other guards but not with me! Now, get down on the fuckin' ground so I can inspect those bags! Do it!" He jabbed a finger at the boys and then at the pavement repeatedly in a meager attempt at sign language. The boys ignored it.

Defeated, the soldier lowered his rifle and barked, "I don't have time for this shit! Go on, get outta here! Just go! You disgust me--no, you and your whole race disgust me! I won't waste any more perfectly good bullets on you two turds…" The boys started to pick up their damaged goods, but their persecutor shouted, "Oh no, you leave those right there! Christmas is coming early for me! If I find a bomb in there…well, there's no place for you to hide here in the internment district, is there? Now, get out of my sight before I change my mind! Run, run, run! You filthy sand niggers!"

And so they ran down the alley, hoping to retreat into the street, where they could mingle with the crowds and elude more security patrols. But what were they going to tell their mother?! In those bags was medicine for her asthma. It had taken forever to scrounge up enough ration coupons to get that stuff, and it was always a nightmare to try to buy sufficient groceries with the heavily garnished wages their father was permitted to bring home. What were they going to do?! No matter, they were safe now. At least they had been given a chance to worry about what they would face once they got home. Sometimes, other people weren't so lucky.

The soldier sneered.

Two gunshots boomed through the alley.

Two bodies slumped to the dirty concrete.

Dead.

"Filthy sand niggers," the soldier grunted as he holstered his weapon.

I agonized for hours over how to introduce you to this unsettling collection, but I figured I would start with this brief anecdote. I am, of course, withholding the soldier's real name and rank to ensure his safety and dignity. If I left it up to my personal convictions rather than journalistic ethics, I doubt I would have done so. But I digress.

Let me introduce myself. For now, you can call me "Reporter X". That's what everybody else calls me now. For years I was an up-and-coming journalist; I wrote articles in the regular papers and on the Internet before this whole nightmare began. Now I'm a freelancer, publishing wherever and however I can, "going to where the silence is" as journalist Amy Goodman once put it. Maybe you've read some of my work, albeit under a different name. Maybe you haven't read a single word written by me before now. But I sincerely hope you stick around for this.

Journalism is about six things: the what, who, where, when, how, and why. This collection aims to shed light on the emerging new holocaust aimed at Arabs, Muslims, immigrants, and anyone else the US Government deemed "the enemy within". That takes care of the first three points.

As for when, I'm writing this with the benefit of several years of hindsight. I've seen how, following the infamous New Year's terror attacks in 2006, the War on Terror began transforming into a Stalinist free-for-all. I've seen how America forgot its roots, with a fearful and paranoid public all too willing to give the state extraordinary powers. I've seen the national call for a scapegoat. America needed someone to blame, someone to punish…anything to provide a sense of security, however false. And I've seen the victims of this morally reprehensible campaign.

The hows and the whys behind all this will become apparent as you read on, if they aren't already.

This is a story about history repeating itself. I compare the atrocities within this collection--and those still going on as I write this--to an emerging new holocaust. I assure you that I do not use that word lightly! The Nazis' "Final Solution" was a strategy designed to give their country a sense of security and vindication during insecure times. Except now, it's the Muslims and Arabs and other undesirables who are the scapegoats and victims. And it's not Europe, it's America. And it's not about ethnic cleansing; it's merely "in the interest of national security."

To that end, I have tracked down several brave souls who lived and experienced--and still experience--this atrocity. These are their stories. Some asked me to put their pain onto paper for them; others were willing to put it down themselves. To protect their dignity--and in some cases, their lives--I have altered their names and some minor details regarding their respective backgrounds. Everything else remains unchanged and uncensored; personal accounts of life in Hell.

These are voices from the Muslim Holocaust.