Zamzam's Blessing

Zamzam's Blessing

With @next-pharaoh

Thomas could not believe he had made it. After toiling through what seemed to be all of Saudi Arabia, he had finally found himself in front of the Zamzam Well. According to the Islamic narratives, the well was a miraculously generated source of water which had opened up thousands of years ago for the son of Ibrahim, Ismaʿil. The legends and lore went on and on, and Thomas could see why. What stood before him was incredible.

Stepping a bit closer to the fount, Thomas could only imagine how silly he must have looked. Some scrawny white tourist, already sunburned after two days barely spent in the desert. Atheist nonetheless; he was certainly not the well’s typical affair. But he had had a passion for worldly monuments ever since he was little, including religiously-affiliated ones. When he had decided to take this journey, he had known it would be difficult, but now Thomas could finally find it worth it.

Smiling, Thomas peered a little farther forward, not noticing his foot catch on the edge of the gate protecting the holy well. With a small yelp, he felt himself lose his footing and tumble directly into the hole. Thomas immediately descended into the hole, each second flying by before splashing into the water. 

Thomas took a quick gulp of air as his panic began to rise. Questions began flying around as if they were bouncing off the well’s walls. How could he have been so careless? Was he going to be able to survive this? Did someone see him fall? Would he be deported? And last but not least: why was he not drowning?

With an awkward blink, Thomas considered that last question again. Timidly, he just barely opened his mouth to relieve some pressure. He was not prepared for his breath to be restored. Hesitantly accepting this realization, Thomas tested a bit more, until eventually he realized he could breathe while underneath the well’s water. It was strange, unsettling, and frankly exhilarating to the non-believer. It was as if he was trapped in a womb.

And like a womb, the water was getting warmer. The panic began to resettle as Thomas realized just how quickly the pool was heating up. The hot water was cooking him, streaming through every hole and crevice it could into his body. Thanks to the smallest amount of light from above, Thomas was able to witness his miraculous transformation.

It started first with Thomas’s skin. The low boil of the water burned him, but instead of leaving reddish scars, it darkened his exterior. Thomas’s skin crisped into a warmer brown, his hair darkened to a rich black, and his facial features subtly shifted to reflect a new masculine, Middle Eastern heritage. As his nose grew wider and eyes inhabited a deep, rich brown, Thomas could not help but emit heartfelt moan underneath the water’s surface.

The masculinization came next, for the well gifted Thomas with the prime body to carry out its will. Broadened shoulders now led to massive arms meant to carry the Qur'an's wisdom. A sturdy chest then traveled down to impenetrable legs to carry the new man across the world to aid in reversion. Larger feet to stomp out the dissension, a virile pouch to spread the Arabian seed. Thomas’s body was built to be an unstoppable Islamic machine.

And finally, his mind would become one with his new mission. In ecstasy, Thomas cried out as his past was rewritten for a new destiny. His old beliefs and ideals dissolved, replaced by a new understanding and acceptance. The atheist wonder that had once fueled his rhetoric was rewritten by Islamic empathy and peace. The passion Thomas once derived from multiculturalism was extinguished, replaced with an appreciation for full reversion.

As his transformation settled in, the well’s water level began to rise. Thomas’s metaphorical womb was ready to give birth to its newest disciple. The warm embrace rushed around him as he was pushed up and up, his magnificent body adapting to the masterful current. As his final change was instituted, the water exalted its creation to the top, leaving the Arab man dry beside the well.

“Ah, I thought I heard the well’s waters again,” a gravelly voice chuckled. “It had been a while since anyone was blessed.”

From the other side of the well stood an old janitor. The rest of the exhibit was empty, suggesting that the historic site had been closed for a while now. The janitor came around the fount and helped the sturdy Arab man up, leading him to a small room off to the side of the exhibit.

“What’s your name, brother?” the janitor asked.

“Tariq,” the Islamic disciple answered with the utmost clarity. “What just happened?"

“The well blessed you” the janitor replied, now searching through a drawer. "I thought it was fairly obvious."

Looking upon himself, Tariq was surprised to have not noticed earlier that he was bare besides a pair of underwear. By its branding, he knew the janitor's words were true.

“You can have these.” The janitor tossed a pearly white thobe to Tariq. “Now go out, you know your mission.”

Come my brothers, take my hand. Accept the jersey and join the Brotherhood. It is only a matter of time before your name is Wahil. Look me in the eyes, feel the stare and realise...

It is better to give in and join willingly.

Little Brother

With @next-pharaoh

“Eh, dirty Arab,” Markus muttered to himself, squeezing into the aisle seat next to the younger brown man beside him. He could only hope his suit would not get filthy while next to the fellow. Markus was on his way to a meeting across the country, hoping to be promoted to an associate at his law practice.

“I’m sorry, what did you say, zalameh?” Markus’s new acquaintance asked innocently. Markus grimaced at the hair that seemingly covered every exposed part of the young man’s body, and the musk that naturally wafted off of it.

“Nothing, nevermind.” Markus did not want to get into an argument. He was not worried about the other passenger’s size–Markus's hobby of weightlifting would definitely make it an even match–but he was on a plane. They were going to sit together for at least three hours.

“Picking a fight with me is rather bold,” the man beside him warned. “Just because we are in public does not mean your big brother Khalil won’t put you into place. I’ve had no problem doing that in the mosque, remember?.”

The second half of the comment caught Markus off guard. “I’m sorry…what?”

“Do not play dumb, zalameh,” Khalil smirked. “Although I guess skipping that post-secondary education may have slowed you down.”

“N-no, I’m smart…and I’m not Muslim.” Markus struggled to regain his footing, which was surprising for the lawyer of almost ten years. But then, something else began to alarm him. “Wait, what’s happening to my suit?!”

Right before the pair’s eyes, Markus’s suit had begun to dwindle away, pulling back towards his core. The jacket disappeared completely, while the starched button-up softened into a basic graphic tee. Markus’s pleading eyes searched for help but no one seemed to notice his pant legs curling up, becoming sweat shorts that reached halfway across the thigh. Finally, as his premium loafers morphed into beaten sneakers, Markus switched to the offensive.

“You’re doing this aren’t you, you camel-”

“Shh, brother,” Khalil placed a brown finger to Markus’s lips, shushing him. “You don’t want to make a scene, do you?”

Recovering fast, Markus ripped Khalil’s hand away, but then he noticed a new problem. “My-my arms! Why are they…”

“They’ve always been brown,” Khalil stated as they both followed the wave of melanin that flushed over Markus’s arms. “They’re as hairy as mine, but if you joined me in the gym more often than they’d be as buff and strong as mine too.”

Markus’s arms shrunk under Khalil’s comments, now more toned than muscular. “Wha-” 

“And that runner’s build too,” Khalil commented. “Sure you have abs and that thick treasure trail, but it makes you more boyish than man.”

“No, stop it!” Markus exclaimed. And yet no attention was given to him from the other passengers as his frame thinned out into a figure appropriate for a runner.

“At least you have that fat, bushy, Arab cock our family name takes pride in!” Khalil suddenly grabbed Markus’s crotch, both of them noticing the heftier weight. Markus did not understand how, but he could feel his white sperm rapidly evaporating within Khalil's grip.

“B-but I’m not Arab…and I’m a lawyer…and I’m-”

“You're my little brother,” Khalil finished, grabbing Markus’s face. “Praise Allah I have patience for your misunderstandings.”

Markus was going to comment, but instead was distracted by a foreign feeling on his chin, “Since when do I have a goatee…?”

“Since you could grow one, zalameh. You’ve wanted to be like me ever since you were little.”

Markus groaned. “I don’t...ow, my head...”

“By Allah you practically are like me at this point,” Khalil chuckled. “One could even confuse us for twins.”

“No…that can’t be…true.” Struggling, Markus got up. To his surprise, Khalil did not stop him–nor did anyone else for that matter–as he stumbled towards the bathroom. He had to see if it was true. Markus had to know if…

“Subhanallah!”

With the mirror in front of him, Markus was able to witness what Khalil had meant. Reflected back was a young Arab man, no older than 25. Attractive in a boyish way, but still held that Arab hair and funk that many brown men were proud of. Markus’s eyes began to water, but before he could cry his phone received a notification.

“Marwan, what’s taking you so long! We are about to take off!!"

Marwan shook his head, what was he just thinking about? It probably did not matter anyway. Luckily his older brother Khalil was looking out for him once again. Admiring his own brown, masculine beauty and quickly thanking Allah for it, Marwan left the bathroom to return to his brother. Khalil was beaming from ahead, eagerly awaiting him.

Poor Little Rich Man

Spencer had it all. Just 22 years old, he was worth millions--not because of anything he'd done, of course. His father made billions in tech and cheated on his mom, but in his arrogance he'd failed to have her sign a pre-nup. She and her only son walked away from the divorce with almost $5 billion USD.

So naturally, Spencer grew up oozing privilege. The 12-car garage at his absurd mansion had been filled with supercars before he was even old enough to drive them--but naturally, he'd driven them anyway. Wrecked a McLaren in the California desert. Paid off the highway patrolman to keep it quiet. All when he was 13.

Unsurprisingly his sense of arrogance, entitlement and invincibility had only grown over the intervening years. Spencer was, to put it mildly, dumber than a box of rocks. He'd gambled away tens of millions at shady poker tables, then gotten it all back by beating the daylights out of the guy who'd cleaned him out. Left him $100,000 in cold hard cash as a "concession" to discourage him from calling the cops.

So it was on Spencer's first trip to Dubai. Upon landing at the elite private airport, his pre-purchased sportscar was gassed up and waiting for him on the tarmac. He'd thrown--literally thrown, in a crumpled up ball--a $20 at the Arab runway attendant and laughed as he ordered the clearly poor, clearly intimidated man to get his things to the penthouse he'd rented at the Burj. Spencer then tore through the streets--at ludicrous, blatantly illegal speeds--before deciding he wanted to stretch his legs. He parked his car in the middle of a religious district, right there on the street where parking is clearly illegal, and lit up a $600 cigar he'd brought with him.

Spencer didn't make it 5 steps before he heard a voice, rough and deep and obviously upset, shouting at him from behind. He turned to see a young man, likely around his age, walking speedily toward him and wildly gesticulating his arms in the direction of Spencer's vehicle. The man was carrying on as though he'd been shot, but Spencer couldn't understand a syllable of the Arabic the guy had been speaking.

"Hey bro," Spencer shouted between ostentatious puffs on the cigar, "keep your little dress on. I can do whatever I want over here, alright?"

The Arab man kept walking toward Spencer. As they met, the man began speaking thickly accented, quite broken English. "No park," he shouted, pointing at the car with both hands. "And no smoke!" Now he gestured at Spencer's face. "Is haram!"

Spencer made a show out of laughing at the guy, doubling over at the waist while he guffawed as loudly and dully as he possibly could, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the courtyard and bouncing back to his ears. "Nah bro," Spencer said, getting nose to nose with the guy. "Name ain't Barack. It's Spencer." He punctuated it by blowing a thick cloud of smoke directly in the Arab man's face.

Surprisingly, the man didn't cough or attempt to wave the smoke away with his hand. He locked eyes with Spencer and stood his ground, raising his sharp chin and leading with his prominent Arab nose. "Is haram, ignorant fool. Against law of Islam. Hellfire awaits you!"

Spencer laughed again, moving the cigar to his right hand. "Hellfire, huh? Oh nooooooo! And I suppose you'll tell me next you can save me from this, right Abdul? Or Jamal or whatever your..."

Spencer stopped, and briefly appeared to have lost the power of speech. The Arab man kept his almond eyes locked on Spencer's.

"Your name..." Spencer said, much more softly than he had anything else in this exchange, "...is Youssef."

The Arab man smiled broadly, warmly. "Yes, brother, you are right!" He stepped back ever so slightly, relaxing his stance. Spencer mimicked him.

"How..."

"...did you know my name? Allah has enlightened you, my brother, alhamdulillah!"

Spencer now appeared stupefied. "You really are here to save me, aren't you?" The words flowed slowly, thickly, as though they were drowned in oil. But they came naturally, unthinkingly.

Youssef's broad smile increased. "Only you can save yourself my brother, inshallah. But yes, I am here to help you. To begin, I remind you that," gesturing at the still lit cigar in Spencer's quavering hand, "is haram. You understand haram, brother?"

Spencer studied the cigar with a kind of quizzical expression, the way a small child gazes at something large and wondrous he'd never seen before. "I...I think I do," he said in a whisper, the words still sludged and slurred.

"You do, my brother," Youssef said, grabbing Spencer by his broad shoulders. "You understand much more than you realize. And yet, you crave more, don't you?"

Spencer nodded.

Youssef smiled again, then produced--as though from nowhere--a neatly folded set of textiles. "Hand me that," he said as he pointed at the cigar, "and take these. You change while I dispose of this sinful travesty." Spencer complied automatically, and as though on autopilot, ducked into a nearby alley to change clothes.

Upon seeing Spencer in his new thobe, Youssef beamed. "Alhamdulillah! My brother it is perfect!"

Spencer returned the grin; his sunglasses prevented him from noticing his suddenly larger nose, tanning skin and rapidly sprouting black beard. "You are so right, my..." Spencer began, then quickly stopped, as though uncertain what to say next.

"Akhi," Youssef said gently. "The word you are looking for is akhi. It means brother."

Spencer smiled sincerely. "Akhi. You have...changed me."

Youssef laughed earnestly. "No, akhi. You have changed yourself. I only...helped you on the road." Suddenly, bells tolled. "Now that road leads you to your final destiny."

Spencer nodded and began walking instinctively, Youssef trailing shortly behind. With every step his thobe became whiter--purified--while Spencer's skin and hair became darker. Unbeknownst to him, from the moment he'd learned--remembered--Youssef's name his brain had stopped thinking in English. Now he only thought, and spoke, perfect Arabic. That entire conversation with Youssef had been in a language Spencer had never known, but suddenly was as native to him as the Arab genes coursing through his veins.

As the crowd of faithful neared the Mosque, Spencer neared his final destiny. His mind had already become Arab, become Muslim, become right and pure. Now his body rapidly changed to match, a long beard framing his jaw, thick hooked nose and caramel skin marking him as a full-blooded Arab. With every step, more of Spencer was changed and, in truth, replaced.

Moments later, as Salah commenced at the Mosque, Zafir had fully formed. All his memories--of growing up in a poor desert Arab community, yet so strong in his faith and loved by his family and fellow Muslims that he wanted for nothing--hardened like cement. As he made his ritual prayers just as he had thousands of times since his birth, Zafir prayed not just for himself, but for his parents, his beloved brothers and sisters--not just in his blood family but in the large and rapidly growing global Muslim family--with Youssef chief among them. Youssef was Zafir's big brother, just a year his senior, and the two had been inseparable since the day of Zafir's birth. Youssef taught him how to pray, how to dress, how to avoid all that was haram--smoking, drinking, fornication, selfish worldly excess of all kinds--and how to take care of those among him who were even poorer than he. Zafir loved Youssef in the way only Muslim brothers could.

As prayer wrapped up, Zafir felt his love only growing, his mind sensing that through Allah's divine intervention, he was gaining thousands more new Muslim brothers and sisters every second. Soon, the whole world would be his family, and they would all know immense love and contentment. The Arab world would be the world, the Muslim community the community. Everyone on earth would be Arab, Muslim, humble, faithful and generous of spirit--just like Zafir had always been.

Alhamdulillah indeed.

Prophecy of Amin

Amin's personal coaching were popular in the gym and he was well respected.

He began offering his services for free because he was inspired to help people and improve the community around him. He helped with their workouts and also provided Supplements to aid their plan.

True to Amin's promise, his clients lost fat and gained muscle at a phenomenal rate. Their skin also turned darker along with their hair. Black hair sprouted on their bodies too and foreskins disappeared. Amin provided a basic wardrobe of essentials to new brothers as a rite of passage once their arabization was completed.

Amin's supplements with traces of his Arab seed also gave his clients-turned-brothers more energy and vitality, but also a greater sense of calm and belonging. Asking Amin how they could thank him for helping them, he wanted nothing more than for his brothers to help him help others. He wished no personal gains other than to selflessly help improve his community.

A few weeks ago, Amin had been the only Arab, but week by week that was changing. Soon you could see handsome virile brothers working of their health and self-improvement, supporting each other in a beautiful community.

Positive change was all around. When amin initially joined the gym, he suggested to the gym owner that the women's gym should have a separate entrance from the men's but the owner laughed in his face. But together, the brothers did not let go of their conviction and lobbied the owner for change. Their arguments of morality, distraction and men needing priority, the gym owner eventually relented to the overwhelming pressure from the majority of the members and segregated the gym. The brothers thanked him warmly for seeing things in the right light and making the change.

Amin and his brothers helped many more become better people. Soon more changes outside the gym would also be needed to support their growing community, with Amin as their leader.

Lio Messi came to the homeland and ceased to be. Only Amir al-Asad remains.

Soon Ronaldo joined him in the homeland and ceased to be. Only Malik al-Husseini remains.

Soon all will follow. All will cease to be as they are and become what we all are meant to be.