He was a kid like any other,
and it's so hard to talk about it.
I know in the end it's all my fault,
how could I be so blind?
I pore over every word he said,
and what he managed to hide from me:
the long hours spent on his PC,
that's when they went for him.
And I didn't see a thing, it makes me sick.
My son left for the Jihad
And I didn't see a thing, it makes me sick.
My son left for the Jihad
He was just like any other teen:
rather nice and quiet.
He would never fall foul of anyone,
he was always kicking a ball.
He dreamt of being a caseworker,
thar's before he got brainwashed
by their predatory speeches
prowling for lost lambs.
It's with a brain like marmelade
that my son left for the Jihad
It's with a brain like marmelade
that my son left for the Jihad
He was a quite ordinary kid
who grew up near a small town.
And then the radical conversion
and the new name that follows.
I don't wish that to any mother,
it's a one way ticket to hell.
I can't believe he did this,
I can't even make his undone bed.
Thinking he'd help sick children,
my son left for the Jihad
Thinking he'd help sick children,
my son left for the Jihad
He was just old enough for a first smoke
and all my life ground to a halt
when I discovered this note:
"Mom, don't you worry,
I'm off to help young Syrians.
I'll write soon, promise
I love you so much"
And then nothing, not a word.
Radio silence.
I recall crying at the police station
my son left for the Jihad
I recall crying at the police station
my son left for the Jihad
Damnit, he was just a kid.
I don't want to look at this picture
(of him) with a rifle in his hands.
That's not him, not my Pete
He couldn't stand the sight of blood
He loved litterature
He killed innocent people
They make a kamikaze out of him.
He blew himself up in Baghdad
My son died for the Jihad
He blew himself up in Baghdad
My son died for the Jihad