Read Online The Prophet's Ladder by Jonathan Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Williams
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functioned, especially when it came to money.
“Well no…. they can talk about whatever they want on Tunisia Today without paying anybody, and also I wrote the blog anonymously.”
“Why would you write anonymously, my son?” replied Hassan, perplexed. “Aren’t you proud of your work? Your articles in the paper have your name above them.”
“Of course I am proud of my work father, but it is very typical to post anonymously on these types of websites, or blogs, under a pseudonym. This way I can write what I want without worrying about every post being perfect.”
“Nothing man creates is perfect my son, only Allah is perfect.”
“Thanks be to God father, you are right, of course,” replied Ali, chastised.
“Father, you don’t understand,” Ali’s other brother Youssef protested. “The Imam on TV was saying Ali’s writings were heretical!”
“Are they, Ali?” Ali’s mother inquired, quietly. The party turned to review her sallow, sunken features. “They aren’t, are they?”
“No, of course not, mother!” Ali grew testy. “What I wrote is merely an extension of what we all fought for during the Arab Spring. We protested and overthrew a corrupt government, and we’re supposed to rest on our laurels? No! Now is the time for the real change, the lasting change, to be implemented. Our society, our culture, must grow and adapt to the needs of the 21st century; my blog criticizes old assumptions, about what is sacred, what is not: Conservative Imams in the community, religious institutions abusing their positions, that sort of thing. But I write from a deep reverence for the Quran, a love for Allah and the prophet. You know this mother, you know me.”
Ali’s father looked at him and nodded. “I know you are a good son, Ali. Just be careful. You say this website is anonymous, that’s fine. I didn’t see what they said on Tunisia Today . They’re usually a bunch of idiots anyways on the TV. But don’t get this family into trouble, you understand me? Don’t bring shame on your mother.”
“Yes, father. Of course.” Ali’s parents looked mollified. The matter seemed settled given Hassan’s proclamation. Though the urge to jump online and check his subscriber numbers was almost overwhelming, Ali resisted the impulse. Instead, he stayed in the living room and chatted with his entire family, a rare occurrence these days. Ali knew why Abdel and Youssef resented him; he’d been the only one in the family to win a scholarship and attend university, the only sibling to get a chance at starting a better life outside the medina, a modicum of social mobility that was denied to his older brothers. That was why they had so quickly brought this scandal to his father’s attention. He didn’t blame them, not really. It was the way of things just as it’d always been.
Youssef talked about his wife’s pregnancy and Abdel complained about the hanut not getting as much foot traffic as it had in past years. Ali’s father made a show of being overly concerned about his wife’s health, fretting over not eating, offering to fetch her more pillows; all an attempt to placate his son’s concerns, or so Ali thought.
Eventually the siblings departed, heading back to their wives and families in nearby apartments several blocks distant. Ali stayed and cleaned up while his father departed for the jamea .
After his mother had again drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the company, Ali opened his laptop and reviewed his website. It was as he had expected: a massive upsurge in traffic. Hundreds upon hundreds of vitriolic comments lay beneath his most recent posts. There was, however, an equally impressive amount of new subscribers, almost quadruple what he’d had yesterday evening. There were even some subscribers from other countries: Morocco, Algeria, France, even the UK and Germany! I guess that show has a wider audience than I’d thought.
There were too many comments to read, too much emotion to
“Well no…. they can talk about whatever they want on Tunisia Today without paying anybody, and also I wrote the blog anonymously.”
“Why would you write anonymously, my son?” replied Hassan, perplexed. “Aren’t you proud of your work? Your articles in the paper have your name above them.”
“Of course I am proud of my work father, but it is very typical to post anonymously on these types of websites, or blogs, under a pseudonym. This way I can write what I want without worrying about every post being perfect.”
“Nothing man creates is perfect my son, only Allah is perfect.”
“Thanks be to God father, you are right, of course,” replied Ali, chastised.
“Father, you don’t understand,” Ali’s other brother Youssef protested. “The Imam on TV was saying Ali’s writings were heretical!”
“Are they, Ali?” Ali’s mother inquired, quietly. The party turned to review her sallow, sunken features. “They aren’t, are they?”
“No, of course not, mother!” Ali grew testy. “What I wrote is merely an extension of what we all fought for during the Arab Spring. We protested and overthrew a corrupt government, and we’re supposed to rest on our laurels? No! Now is the time for the real change, the lasting change, to be implemented. Our society, our culture, must grow and adapt to the needs of the 21st century; my blog criticizes old assumptions, about what is sacred, what is not: Conservative Imams in the community, religious institutions abusing their positions, that sort of thing. But I write from a deep reverence for the Quran, a love for Allah and the prophet. You know this mother, you know me.”
Ali’s father looked at him and nodded. “I know you are a good son, Ali. Just be careful. You say this website is anonymous, that’s fine. I didn’t see what they said on Tunisia Today . They’re usually a bunch of idiots anyways on the TV. But don’t get this family into trouble, you understand me? Don’t bring shame on your mother.”
“Yes, father. Of course.” Ali’s parents looked mollified. The matter seemed settled given Hassan’s proclamation. Though the urge to jump online and check his subscriber numbers was almost overwhelming, Ali resisted the impulse. Instead, he stayed in the living room and chatted with his entire family, a rare occurrence these days. Ali knew why Abdel and Youssef resented him; he’d been the only one in the family to win a scholarship and attend university, the only sibling to get a chance at starting a better life outside the medina, a modicum of social mobility that was denied to his older brothers. That was why they had so quickly brought this scandal to his father’s attention. He didn’t blame them, not really. It was the way of things just as it’d always been.
Youssef talked about his wife’s pregnancy and Abdel complained about the hanut not getting as much foot traffic as it had in past years. Ali’s father made a show of being overly concerned about his wife’s health, fretting over not eating, offering to fetch her more pillows; all an attempt to placate his son’s concerns, or so Ali thought.
Eventually the siblings departed, heading back to their wives and families in nearby apartments several blocks distant. Ali stayed and cleaned up while his father departed for the jamea .
After his mother had again drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the company, Ali opened his laptop and reviewed his website. It was as he had expected: a massive upsurge in traffic. Hundreds upon hundreds of vitriolic comments lay beneath his most recent posts. There was, however, an equally impressive amount of new subscribers, almost quadruple what he’d had yesterday evening. There were even some subscribers from other countries: Morocco, Algeria, France, even the UK and Germany! I guess that show has a wider audience than I’d thought.
There were too many comments to read, too much emotion to
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