In the name of God, the Most Merciful, the Most Just. and yet, justice remains missing.
Obey your parents, says Surah Al-Isra (17:23), for Paradise lies beneath their feet.
But what if their feet are soaked in liquor, their tongues barbed with curses, their fists lawless?
Obey those in authority (An-Nisa 4:59).
But what if authority wears white hats, hoards wheat, steals daughters, and quotes fire while feeding on forgiveness?
Slaves are your property (An-Nahl 16:75).
Strike them if they disobey (An-Nisa 4:34).
Kill the disbelievers wherever you find them (Al-Baqarah 2:191).
Women must stay hidden, men must not befriend Jews or Christians (Al-Ma'idah 5:51).
Do not take interest, do not listen to music, do not take pictures, do not expose your hair, do not skip a prayer, do not mock the pious, do not question the Book.
And still — God is Most Merciful.
If obedience is the metric, then all are damned. If faith is the standard, then all are liars. And if truth is the Word, then hell has never been more populated by believers.
Islam, when read with love, is luminous. When read literally, it is labyrinthine. Kafka's castle had fewer corridors. Fewer contradictions. Josef K. stood trial without knowing his crime; the Muslim knows his crime is being born, and the trial never ends.
Arslan never read the Quran as metaphor. He wasn't allowed to. In Uch Sharif, metaphor is blasphemy. The Word is literal. Unquestionable. Immutable. And those who wield it have no need for interpretation.
only volume.
He was born in 1985, in a town that hadn't met electricity yet. Uch Sharif a place older than memory, where saints rot in shrines and devils preach in mosques. His birth was not celebrated. It was tolerated. His mother, seventeen, gambling-addicted and impatient, shoved him aside the moment he cried. His father, eighteen, eldest of seven and drunk on dreams of lottery jackpots and cricket bets, never held him. Not once.
The child's name was Arslan. He cried and was slapped. He crawled and was kicked. He asked for milk and was hurled like waste behind the courtyard drum. In a house of twelve, his existence was an insult to their desperation. Uncles who never worked used him as punching therapy. Rehan, perpetually drunk. Imran, a man whose strength began and ended in violence. Irfan, who tortured without emotion. And Rizwan a soulless cruel beast who made devils shiver. Rizwan didn't hit. He carved. With keys. With hot spoons. With silence. Arslan's body bore maps of pain a child's flesh becoming parchment for a psychopath's amusement.
Only Lal, the grandmother, dared slip him stale bread at night. She whispered, "Sab theek ho jaega" everything will be fine. But she was old, toothless, voiceless. In Pakistan, weakness is heresy.
And in that house, the name of God was currency. Minted, spent, traded, and weaponized. Prayer time meant punishment if missed never comfort if obeyed. Every act of cruelty came with a verse. Every scar came with scripture.
At six, Arslan was washing dishes for neighbors. At seven, carrying sacks for shopkeepers. At eight, scrubbing blood off Rizwan's sandals after he killed a stray dog "in the name of cleanliness." That was his madrassah. That was his seminary. The town's imams smiled and collected donations rice, goats, virgins while ignoring the bruises on Arslan's face. He once asked a mullah why his parents hated him. The man laughed, stroked his beard, and quoted Surah Al-Baqarah: "Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear."
At ten, Arslan began talking to walls. By twelve, to trees. By fourteen, to God. But God never answered not in mercy, not in madness. Just silence. The kind of silence that hums in your ears while you're being kicked in the stomach for dropping a glass. The kind of silence that follows a molvi's sermon justifying child marriage, then collecting money for a new speaker system.
The internet arrived in Uch Sharif like a false messiah. Mullahs rebranded. Facebook pages, YouTube channels, ring lights. Suddenly, Islam was love, not law. Compassion, not control. Every bearded man now spoke of harmony online. But their hands still beat wives. Their sons still spat at Shias. Their sermons offline still spoke of slaughter.
Arslan never understood duality. He was raised on singularities. He was told Islam was perfect. But its enforcers were vile. He was told God loved him. But His followers didn't. He was told the Devil whispers but Rizwan roared.
He read Kafka in pages salvaged from trash: The Trial, The Castle, fragments of absurdity that made too much sense. He once wrote in a stolen notebook: "In Pakistan, you are born guilty. You die unheard. And you're buried with a certificate signed by your abuser."
He didn't blame God. He blamed free will. That was the ultimate betrayal. The Devil rebelled once and was damned. Humans rebel every day and are praised if powerful. God gave people freedom. And they used it to enslave the weak, sanctified in the Book. His father once told him, "Slavery is halal." Then demanded he fetch water and slapped him when it wasn't cold enough.
He did the math early. The gates of heaven had more conditions than a bank loan. Ablution rules. Dress codes. Eye contact restrictions. No music, no dogs, no photography, no laughter in excess. Interest is sin. Friendship with Christians is betrayal. Women must be unseen. Every sin had a verse. Every pleasure, a punishment.
He calculated the odds of entering paradise by fifteen:
1 in 10^99.
Hell was a certainty. Heaven, a myth sold to the desperate by those who already owned air-conditioned homes on Earth.
In June 2026, at the height of the heatwave, he collapsed. Fifty degrees. No breeze. Garbage steaming. Pushing a banana cart with a splintered wheel. He hadn't eaten in two days. His father had sold his dinner to repay a bet. When he collapsed, the world watched.
Not to help. To loot.
Children stole bananas. Fathers shouted instructions: "Take the bunch! Don't leave anything!" No one saw a dying man. Just free fruit. Some laughed. Some filmed.
Arslan coughed blood. He smiled. He had waited for this. The end. The silence. The absence of thought. He wasn't afraid of hell. He had lived there. God had said He was testing him. But twenty-five years was enough.
He whispered the Shahada. Not in hope. In resignation.
"Fanah fi Allah."
Annihilation in God.
And then —
Darkness.
---
Let us follow the case a bit further
He obeyed. He submitted. He never cursed God. And he was broken.
But this is not about Arslan. This is about the machine. The one that crushes Arslans, recycles their corpses into moral lessons, and powers itself on their despair.
Religion, in its purest form, may be divine. But its execution is entirely human and humanity is cruel. Especially when armed with the divine. The name of God gives men license. To command. To hurt. To silence.
Every verse is a tool. And tools, in the wrong hands, build gallows.
Heaven is the most elegant lie in history. Its terms are unreadable. Its access impossible. It is a carrot tied to a stick held by those who never walk they ride. The ones who preach fear never feel it. The ones who speak of hell build their mansions with charity. They take grain from starving widows and call it zakat. They collect their "share" and marry their third wife.
The Devil was banished for disobedience. But disobedience was the first act of free will. And now, those who obey blindly do more evil than the Devil ever could.
The child died. The system didn't.
And somewhere, in another home, another child recites a verse through cracked lips not because he believes, but because belief is beaten into him. Because no one ever reads the terms and conditions before they sell their soul.
And the machine grinds on.
He lay beneath the sun like forgotten meat, his ribs rising only because his lungs still begged to be punished. Flies crowned him before any prayer did. A plastic sandal a few feet away. One cracked banana leaking sugar into the dirt. And above all silence. The kind of silence that only surrounds the poor when they die.
No mother wailed. No imam ran. No child cried.
Just Arslan, breath slipping from a body that had long ago stopped living. And if this was a crime scene, then let us dissect the murder like God Himself was on trial.
Who killed him?
The villagers would say: "He was always weak."
The mosque would say: "He was tested by God."
The family would say: "He was a burden."
And the truth would say:
His killer was sanctified.
The name was divine. The weapon, doctrine. The motive, obedience. The accomplice? Society.
---
First, the weapon:
Verses.
Uninterpreted, unquestioned, repeated like nursery rhymes dipped in acid. Verses used like a father uses his belt not to teach, but to silence.
"Do not raise your voice to your parents."
"Your father is your door to paradise."
"Obey those in authority over you."
"The woman is deficient in intellect."
"Slavery is part of God's wisdom."
"Strike them if they disobey."
These weren't misinterpretations. These were the verses themselves.
Not poetic metaphors. Not modern liberal readings.
Literal. Canon. Untouched by context.
Perfect. Eternal. And deadly.
Arslan obeyed them all. That was his first mistake.
---
Next, the cause:
Control.
He wasn't raised. He was conditioned. Fed on guilt. Weaned on sin. Rewarded only when silent. Beaten when curious. And told it was love because it came from God's deputies. His parents. His uncles. His imams.
They took everything from him and called it purification. They starved him and said it was fasting. They humiliated him and called it humility. They enslaved him and pointed to scripture. They demanded his gratitude.
"Arslan, you are lucky to be born a Muslim."
"Do not question Allah."
"Do not shame the family."
What do you call a man who suffers his whole life under divine legislation?
A student of God?
Or a hostage?
---
Then the scene:
1.
Online, Islam was a flower soft petals of peace, reels of love, hashtags of mercy.
Offline, Islam was a courtroom judges with turbans, verdicts with fists.
Online, the youth quoted Rumi with latte cups.
Offline, the mullahs banned music and blamed rape on perfume.
Online, they said "Islam is a religion of peace."
Offline, they said "Death to Shias. Death to Jews. Women belong at home. Apostates must die."
They meant both. They lived both.
Duality was not hypocrisy. It was theology.
And Arslan? He saw it all. From the bottom. From the pit. From the banana cart he pushed in the heat while influencers posted "Ramadan Mubarak" in Versace scarves.
---
And the body:
Collapsed.
Mouth open. Reciting prayers. Maybe out of habit. Maybe in desperation. Maybe both.
He didn't die angry. He died confused.
He didn't curse. He whispered.
He didn't resist. He submitted even at the end.
And that, perhaps, was the final tragedy:
That he obeyed every command.
That he fulfilled every demand.
That he never once rebelled.
And still, he died unloved.
A good Muslim.
A perfect servant.
A corpse.
---
The murderer?
God? No.
The men who used His name? Yes.
The Book? Maybe.
The readers? Definitely.
The system? Absolutely.
When every institution that claims holiness allows abuse, it is no longer a misunderstanding. It is a blueprint.
"He should've spoken up."
"He should've left."
"He should've been stronger."
No.
He should've been loved.
---
Final Evidence:
Arslan's only crime was existing without power.
And the murderer?
The man with the white turban who quoted verses and touched boys.
The woman who hit him and called it honor.
The father who used God's name as an alibi.
The town that pitied him in public but spat in his tea.
The internet that told him Islam is beautiful while he bled for its beauty.
---
So tell me again:
Was it a death?
Or a sacrifice?
Or was it judgment every soul must face?
And if it was a sacrifice, then who is the god that required it?
Because Arslan died without sin.
But the religion the one in practice, not theory bled all over him.
And now he is gone.
And the sermon continues.
And the children memorize the same verses.
And the crowd walks past another body.
And the believers post another quote.
In the name of God.