Ishmael felt the sharp cold edge of the dagger on his sweaty neck. His father held the knife. He was going to slaughter him. The air was filled with gloom. As if from the skies fell the burning ashes of hell. There were no tears in the eyes of Abraham, though. Perhaps they had all dried up. ‘God is great,’ he cried and pressed the knife harder. There was no sign of emotion on his face. He went on slitting the throat of his son. Red hot blood gushed out of the slaughtered neck of Ishmael. Drop by drop it mixed with the sand. And Ishmael died.
Nobody called from heaven. Nobody replaced Ishmael with a lamb. No cry of compassion was heard. No love rained down from the skies for Ishmael.
Abraham and Ishmael. Their names were similar to those of the great biblical prophets. And their story is almost similar. But they were two ordinary men. Abraham sacrificed his son at the altar of competition. That didn’t worry the god of capitalism.
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