When I was 16, a new student named Zakariya showed up at school. His forehead bore fan-shaped scars that identified him as a member of the Dinka people group—south Sudanese minority rebels, many of whom were Christian. My enemies. Zakariya was nice to everyone and scored the top grades in class, which made me hate him more.
As devout Muslims, my family and I were committed to Islam’s central place in the government. But our application of our religion was radical, since we prayed for Allah to destroy those who opposed us.
For two years, I added a request for Zakariya’s destruction to my daily noontime prayers. One night, that prayer was answered. My friends and I climbed a tree with our bayonet-fixed rifles and watched as a flashlight approached in the distance. It was Zakariya, who we knew walked this way each evening.
When he was beneath our tree, we ambushed him, beating him mercilessly with our fists and rifle butts. In a frenzy, I stabbed him repeatedly with my bayonet.
“Allahu Akbar,” I muttered in pride as we walked away from his mangled body. We left him for dead, and he never returned to school.
I was born into one of independent Sudan’s three leading families. My great-grandfather had joined the 1881 Islamic revolt against the British. Members of my family helped enshrine sharia law in our country. My father led the military in Darfur, where he later served as governor.
As the only son, I was to inherit this legacy. Our family believed our highest allegiance transcended the nation to include all Muslims in a global Islamic community called an umma. This inspired a tradition—unknown to me at the time—of early commitment to religious learning. So when I was 8 years old, my father drove me 500 miles north of Khartoum and dropped me at a desert madrasa to learn the Quran. He gave me no explanation and barely said goodbye.
At the madrasa, I was shaved bald and given a white robe and prayer cap for my daily uniform. Our group of ten boys sat in a straw hut and memorized Arabic verses with a long-bearded shaykh. The Quran was in his right hand; in his left he held a leather whip to punish our frequent mistakes. Allah must be like this too, I thought. I cried at night for 17 days straight.
When my father came to pick me up two years later, there was no embrace, but I saw he was proud of me. At home, I recited the entire Quran to my family and received a camel as my reward.
In my family’s eyes, I was now a man. Instead of playing soccer, I practiced disassembling and reassembling a Kalashnikov rifle and playacted ambushes against our enemies. Maybe it was preparation for Zakariya. By the time I graduated from high school in 1989, I was ready for jihad and to die as a martyr. I was the perfect son my father had dreamed of.
But my role model wasn’t my father. It was…
This article was originally published in the September/October print edition of Christianity Today. Please click here to read the full text.
Jayson Casper 