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79 pages

English

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While fictional, this is an account of one man’s harrowing journey inside the walls and barbed wire fences of New York state’s correctional system. Some passages in this book are the true experiences of the author and have been added for the purposes of enhancement and entertainment.
In this gritty tale of life behind New York state’s prison walls and barbed wire fences, Jihad will envelop you in a world seen firsthand by the author. This is a fictional story of survival, friendship and hope, all shattered. As the shards rip through the hands of one man holding on for dear life, he finds himself facing dangerous obstacles and deadly encounters inherent to life behind bars that continually put his freedom and life in jeopardy. This harrowing story is filled with grizzly moments of aggression and, at times, humorous conversations between hardened criminals just trying to get home in one piece. It is a gut-wrenching saga that describes the sheer will and determination to survive it all.

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Thrillers

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Publié par	AuthorHouse
Date de parution	14 juin 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9798823008860
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

JIHAD

The Struggle Within The Forgiveness of Sins

H. Courtney Williams
Aka Bilal Abdul Khaaliq

AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: 833-262-8899

© 2023 H. Courtney Williams. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/24/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-0887-7 (sc)
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0886-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023910203

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Disclaimer
Certain long-standing institutions and agencies are mentioned in this book, but the characters involved are imaginary. Although its form is a memoir, the opinions expressed about religions, institutions, and groups are those of the characters and should not be confused with the authors’. Some passages in this book are actual experiences of the author that have been enhanced for entertainment. Any names or persons resembling any of the characters in this book are purely coincidental.
Book cover illustrated by Twelvv Ramos
CONTENTS
Poem: Jail - by H. Courtney Williams

Chapter 1 The Road to Hell
Chapter 2 The Dogs
Chapter 3 Infirmary
Chapter 4 T.O.S.
Chapter 5 Nominations
Chapter 6 Takbir!
Chapter 7 Déjà Vu
JAIL
I’ve met guys who’ve killed their w ives.
I’ve met guys who’ve killed for fun.
I’ve met stickup kids and burg lars,
and children caught with guns.
I’ve met guys doing time,
who were caught while on the run.
I’ve met guys who’ve committed cr imes
and are doing time for fun.
Misdemeanors, felonies, probation and pa role,
all these words are new t o me,
I want no part of them at all.
I just want to get back home
in one piece and do my time,
and never see this place a gain
or commit another c rime.
by H. Courtney Will iams
CHAPTER 1
The Road to Hell
“Be patient! You’re a man. You’re a Muslim ,” was an oath I made the very first time the reality of imprisonment overwhelmed my thoughts, when the painful anguish of solitary confinement was all that was left to living. Death by suicide was not an option. There would be a heavy punishment in the Hereafter for anyone who traveled that route, and to escape from one hell only to find oneself engulfed by eternal damnation for committing this major offence against God, was not worth the trade-off. The virtue, patience, is what I practiced to maintain my sanity. “In God’s time, in God’s time,” I would say to myself repeatedly until my anxiety subsided.
As I uncovered my face only moments after waking, the cold air in this dimly lit room, which was now my permanent residence, was filled with the sounds of rattling window sashes, howling winds and the rustling leafless branches of winter weathered trees. I was an avid outdoorsman, who had spent many a bone-chilling night under the cover of northern New York’s darkest skies and had never seen a night the likes of this in early spring. Pausing momentarily to listen to the havoc Mother Nature was wreaking on all God’s creatures that weren’t indoors, left me with the feeling that I was somewhat fortunate not to have ever experienced, a night like this in the woods. I arose from my bunk and draped my state issued, green winter jacket over my shoulders, then sat staring in a daze at the window to my cubicle only four feet in front of me. It was the type of daze some do upon awakening after sleep or a long nap. Conscious of this fact, I was still unwilling to snap out of it. It was a comforting feeling, and in jail there are few times when you are at peace with yourself. Relishing in this serene inner calmness, my eyes caught a glimpse of the minute movement of the rattling window before me. I know I saw it move , I thought. For some reason at that moment, I felt it was more important to leave my comfort zone and finally snap out of it. Now focusing on the window and awaiting another gale-force wind, there came a howling gust.
There, I knew I saw it move. Oh well , I thought, that and a box of Oreo cookies won’t get me on the go-back bus (vehicle used to transport inmates, usually to and from court while incarcerated). For some reason though, it made me feel secure, in that I was still on top of things in my environment. As a child, I remember first hearing the phrase always watch your back and now in jail that saying had more relevance than apple pie and Chevrolets have to America.
“April?” I questioned myself aloud.
It came as a surprise to me to be experiencing harsh, winter weather conditions in the middle of April. It was spring. Although I had an extensive outdoor background, I was a city boy who used northern New York’s woods year-round for recreational purposes only. Hunting, fishing and weekend retreats is how I spent most of my time in the wilds. I had never lived through the full gamut of weather conditions of a sub-Canadian winter until now, less than one hundred miles south of the border, living as a prisoner, at this “medium security” camp called Mohawk.
“Good morning, akhi !”
Akhi (ah-kee) is brother in Arabic. Muslim men refer to each other as akhi or akh (ah-kuh) and all inmates including non-Muslims eventually become aware of the term).
As I turned toward my contradictory greeter, “ Walaikum ,” I responded, “what’s up?”
“Who’s April, your wife?” he asked.
“No!” I chuckled.
“Oh, you Muslims dream about women too, huh?”
“No, April like the month is what I meant, and it sounds like the dead of winter out there,” I said.
“Yeah, that fucking wind kept me up all night,” he said.
“All night? What time is it now?” I asked.
“Uhm, 4:35,” he replied.
“You’d better be getting ready, akh ,” he said while looking at his watch.
“Yeah, how’s the water, hot?” I asked, referring to the showers.
“Yeah, but you know how it don’t last long on cold days like this, and God forbid, excuse me akh , I mean Allah forbid, you wind up at the back of the line and gotta take a cold one,” he said.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said.
“Ok akh , I’m gonna see if I can get a little shut-eye before daybreak,” he said.
“Yeah, you do that,” I said. With that, he turned and stepped into his cubicle next to mine.
“ Asalaamu alaikum ,” he said.
“ Walaikum salaam ,” I responded.
“Hey akh , what’s that mean anyway?” he asked.
At that point, I lowered my head and smiled. It was always a pleasure for me to discuss religion, especially my religion or way of life, Islam, to anyone who showed true interest.
“Weren’t you taught never to use big words that you didn’t understand?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he responded, with a dumbfounded smile.
“It means may Allah’s peace be upon you ,” I said.
“Wow, that’s some deep shit, akh . You Muslins be really deep man. I always wanted to talk to a Muslim about Allah and shit. Damn, excuse me, akh . I fucked up again. I’m sorry man, no disrespect,” he said apologetically.
“Yeah, old habits are hard to break. Allah knows what’s in your heart,” I said.
“You know…” he started, “I don’t even know if I believe in God anymore.”
“Did you ever?” I asked.
“Yeah, I thought I did, up till my little brother got pushed off a roof in the Bronx the same year my father blew his brains out.” Mel paused, then forcibly inhaled deeply, then exhaled and continued in a somber voice. “My mother, before she died, used to read the Bible to me and my brother Tommy every night after she tucked us in. She was real religious. Man, I remember her whipping my ass and reciting psalms and verses and shit from the Bible at the same time. She was a good Christian and a damn good mother. She was just fucked up on that shit. They found her nude body in Edgecombe Park, Uptown, Sugar Hill, around the corner from my house with her pantyhose knotted around her neck. Shit was embarrassing too, for the whole damn neighborhood to be looking at your moms with no clothes on, strapped up with a spike in her arm. It’s funny though, sometimes I’d get into fights because somebody would call my moms a hoe, teasing me and shit. But after that shit in the park, nobody ever fucked with me like that again. I was only nine years old, but I remember that shit like it was yesterday.”
He continued with, “Right then and there, while I was looking at my father trying to break loose from the cops. He was just trying to get closer to my mother’s body, but that was the first time I ever questioned if there was a God or not. I just couldn’t see how a real God would allow some shit like that to happen to somebody who believed in him as much as my moms did. I prayed that night for the first time on my own without my moms having to tell me to. I didn’t remember all the words to the Our Father and The Hail Mary, but me and my brother Tommy kept saying them over and over till my pops made us stop to g