by Walt Gragg
He wouldn’t give the others the satisfaction of knowing their abiding torture was tearing away what little remained of his battered psyche. So he internalized the pain, hiding behind a stoic façade of callous indifference. Once again, he was totally alone.
Slowly his classmates recognized the true modesty of the timid newcomer. And they began to realize having the brilliant Muhammad as an ally when their schoolwork grew overwhelming was quite a wise decision to make. Bit by bit, the beatings decreased until they stopped altogether.
Acceptance of him finally arrived. Nevertheless, in three long years he’d never make a lasting friendship among them. For he was far too different to ever fit in.
During his difficult days in Algiers his life also would be devoid of even the briefest of female contact. His was a male-dominated realm and no woman had ever dared to enter the sanctity of the frightening school’s foreboding walls.
On rare occasions the students would leave the compound to venture into the center of the city. Yet Muhammad’s fear of what waited on the other side of the wrought-iron gates was far too great for him to overcome. Despite the encouragement of his classmates, for the first year of his stay in Algiers, he remained locked away in this cloistered kingdom.
If it hadn’t been for his teachers’ insistence that he accompany them on a visit to Algiers’s grand mosque, he might never have left the sheltering safety of the school yard. The exulting teachers had been ordered by the highest of the clergy to bring Muhammad to them. The time had come for an intense examination of the extravagant claims they’d made of the teenager’s phenomenal religious capacities. Such a summons couldn’t be refused.
At sixteen he made his initial appearance in the central mosque. Filled with idealism and innocence, his answers amazed the Quran’s most learned scholars. The shy country boy understood neither the significance of the inquisition nor the results of his extraordinary responses.
For the first time in his life, the elders whispered the sacred name. After watching his incredible performance each cleric was certain the Mahdi—the Chosen One—the one who’d unite Islam and guide them in their conquest of the world, had revealed himself to them. Word of the reticent teenager’s exploits spread throughout the Middle East.
From that moment on, he had no choice but to leave the concealing compound on a weekly basis to attend prayers in the mosque. Once these regular visits into the heart of Algiers became routine, he even allowed himself an occasional nonreligious foray into the bazaar. His aversion to the city abated, though each venture outside the school’s austere surroundings remained full of uneasiness. He soon realized it would always be this way. For this wasn’t his world. And he knew that would never change.
Muhammad never forgot his diffident past. Not a day went by when he didn’t long to return to the tiny oasis of his birth. At the end of his third year at the ancient seminary he decided there was nothing further within its somber gray halls needing to be learned. He’d mastered his studies with ease. The time had come to fulfill his promise to his uncle. Filled with knowledge, he’d go back to Aynorian.
Leaving, however, wasn’t going to be as simple as that. On a sweltering summer day, the eighteen-year-old student approached the headmaster to inform him of his decision to return home. The naive teenager was shocked at the furor his announcement created. Students his age were embarking every week, and no one appeared to take the slightest notice of their departures.
Nevertheless, this time it was different. For this young man was special. His panicked teachers were at a loss. He couldn’t go back to his difficult life in the endless desert when the entire Middle East was waiting for him to guide them in their virtuous battle to destroy the nonbelievers and lead the world toward its judgment day.
For fourteen hundred years the prophecy had remained unfulfilled. Islam had yet to complete its conquest. Each day two billion voices prayed for Allah to give them a sign. Each evening they searched the heavens for the Mahdi’s arrival. At last their prayers had been answered. The devout clerics recognized the greatness within the demure boy. Their guide, the Chosen One, had shown himself. The time had come for Islam to conquer. The time had come for the world to end.
And what happened? The unpretentious youth announced he wanted to go home to his meager village. The clerics’ dreams of Arab greatness were shattered by a simple statement from the innocent teen. For days without end they reasoned with him. They begged, they pleaded, they cajoled. Yet when they were through, there was nothing they could do to change Muhammad’s mind. Unfortunately, there was only one person who failed to recognize the greatness the humble boy carried within him. And that person was the boy himself.
He could recite the holy passages with ease. He understood the significance of the prophecy of the Mahdi’s arrival. Like them he prayed for the Chosen One’s appearance. To suddenly discover the sainted scholars believed he was that righteous warrior was beyond his understanding.
Until now Muhammad had valued their wisdom without question. But their pronouncement of his singular importance was too much for the quiet lad to bear. The more they praised his coming greatness, the more he wished to escape their confusing world. He needed a place to hide from their forthright glare.
Despite their fervent wails and endless protests, he gathered his scant belongings, joined a caravan, and traveled to Aynorian.
* * *
—
Back home, he couldn’t have been happier. He threw himself into his work in Uncle Sallah’s shops. He returned with the intention of living out the remainder of his years in the obscurity of the unassuming outpost. After his struggles in Algiers, Muhammad’s desires were to never again venture into the bewildering world beyond the horizon. Yet despite his plans, he wouldn’t be in Aynorian for long. He couldn’t know it, but in two months an even greater adventure awaited.
It was obvious to Sallah his charge had learned many lessons. His knowledge of Arabic and mathematics was impressive. His French and English were without flaw. His uncle was extremely proud of the young man who’d come home to help his village. Still it was soon apparent that the anxious teenager hadn’t mastered the primary lesson he’d been sent to Algiers to learn.
One day, as he worked in the shops, his uncle approached. “Muhammad.”
From the look on Sallah’s face, he could see something was wrong. “Yes, Uncle.”
“You’ve failed me, Muhammad.”
“Failed you? I don’t understand. I labor from sunup to sundown to please you. In what way have I failed you?”
“You’ve failed to learn the one thing I sent you to Algiers to learn.”
“Uncle, I toiled over my books for hours without end. My teachers heaped nothing but praise upon my efforts. I learned everything there was for them to teach me.”
“But you didn’t learn what I sent you there to explore. Once more, you’ll go back into the outside world. This time you’ll stay until this lesson is mastered.”
“Please, Uncle, no. I’ll not return to Algiers. There’s nothing left in their books for me to discover.”
“You’re wrong, my nephew. While you were in Algiers you learned much from your books and the clerics. But what’s written in the pages of books wasn’t the real reason I sent you. It was something else entirely. In Algiers you acquired no knowledge of the things mattering most to our people. You failed to learn anything about what you were sent there to acquire. If this place is going to survive and someday prosper, we must comprehend how those outside of Aynorian view the world. And of all those here, only you have the ability to secure understanding of such things.”
“Please, Uncle, I love my life in Aynorian. Please don’t make me return to Algiers. It’s not a place I wish to ever see again.”
“I’ve heard your words, Muhammad. And I agree with your assessment. There’s nothing left for you in Algiers. You’ll not return there.”
> “Thank you, Uncle.”
“Instead, you’ll go to the university in France.”
8
Forced to live among the hated infidels, Muhammad was confounded by the complexities of Marseille. This time there’d be no high walls to hide behind. He’d have to survive in the midst of his enemy. All the exceptionally poor Algerian could afford was a cold-water walk-up near the busy docks. It was located in the most dangerous part of the city. The area around his pitiful apartment teemed with ruthless thieves and heartless murderers. It was a treacherous place for even a seasoned traveler. Each morning, filled with dread, he’d venture forth to walk across town to the university. Each night, after studying in the library until well after dark, he’d return to his sparsely furnished flat. Every minute, Muhammad was terrified. He lived in continual fear of a revolting world of which he didn’t wish to be a part.
The hours spent at the university were no better. It wasn’t the work that bothered him. His studies were scarcely more challenging than those he’d faced in Algiers. It was the heretics’ strange rules that were beyond his reasoning. He couldn’t believe his eyes on the first day of classes when a young woman dared to sit at the desk next to his. Sharing a classroom with female students overwhelmed his sensibilities. Such a thing broke every tenet of his religious teachings. And the scandalous dress of the French women was worse than that of the most obvious of harlots. The astonished desert dweller couldn’t cope in this alien existence. Sullen and depressed, he withdrew into himself even further. Months passed. He grew so morose he’d no desire to leave his wretched bed. But his uncle’s orders couldn’t be disobeyed. So day after day he arose and headed for the university. There was a scowl upon his face. And an all-consuming anger burning deep within his heart.
The late 1960s were a turbulent time. In the world of the Arab, such was especially true. They blamed the West for the miseries that had befallen them. The birth of the modern terrorist movement was beginning to make its sadistic mark upon the planet. After their defeat by the Israelis in 1967, many Arab leaders announced the time had come for holy war. To carry out their jihadist intentions they recruited Arab-born university students throughout the Western world. Muhammad was an easy target for those whose agenda of violence needed willing foot soldiers. It wasn’t long before he was approached. It didn’t take many attempts to convince the naive Algerian to enlist in their noble cause.
The faction he joined was small and poorly organized. The motley band of misfits gave themselves the impressive name of the Martyrs’ Brigade. Its self-proclaimed leader was a student from Syria no older than Muhammad. The cell leader did nothing more than spout clichéd venom against the West and chain-smoke French cigarettes. For half a year, their clandestine meetings served no purpose. Yet finally, their courage gathered, they drew up their first incendiary plot.
The five of them would place a homemade bomb at a bus stop near the Israeli consulate. None of the amateur terrorists, however, had any experience with explosives. It took them a month to create a crude explosive device. Muhammad was elected to put it beneath the bench.
On a busy Tuesday morning the nervous little Algerian approached the bus stop. As usual, the buses were running late. An annoyed group of men, women, and children was gathered at the intersection. Muhammad stood at the edge of the crowd for a few minutes. When he spied an approaching bus, he placed the package beneath the bench and turned away. The cell leader pressed the electronic detonator.
Nothing happened.
A few months later they tried again. A different plan, a different location, and another defective bomb. Their ineptness frustrated them all. There was strong talk of disbanding the cell. Still this was holy war and they weren’t going to be denied their victory over the nonbelievers.
Near the end of Muhammad’s sophomore year, they tried once more. One of them placed a bomb on a bustling street. He walked around the corner. The cell leader pushed the detonator. Six people, including two small children, were killed in the blast.
Muhammad’s career as a fledgling terrorist had entered a new phase. The group began planning their next mission. It wouldn’t be long before the heretics would feel their wrath once more. The first taste of blood was fresh on Muhammad’s lips. He’d finally gained a small measure of retribution for the deaths of his parents. He wanted even more.
One evening, while he studied at a poorly lit table in the university’s nearly deserted library, a sweet voice spoke to him in perfect Arabic. “Is this seat taken?”
He looked up with a start. Standing there was the most attractive woman he’d ever seen. She was dressed in an expensive Western-style outfit. Her face contained a light brush of makeup. Her lips were painted in the Western way. If not for her raven hair and enchanting dark eyes, she easily could’ve been mistaken for a woman of the infidels. Yet there could be no denying. This girl was Arab. A beautiful North African girl of nineteen.
The second miracle of Muhammad’s life was about to begin.
9
What?” Muhammad said.
“I said, is this seat taken?”
He scanned the empty tables throughout the cavernous room. The small Algerian looked up at her with a confused expression.
“Aw . . . aw . . . no,” he said. “No, it’s not.” He could feel his cheeks turning red.
“May I?” the stranger asked. She motioned to the chair across from him.
Without waiting for an answer, the enchanting girl sat down. Muhammad stared at her in complete astonishment. She raised her delicate hands and placed them beneath her chin. For fifteen long seconds the young woman searched the sun-weathered features of his gaunt face. He fidgeted in his chair, waiting for her rapt inquiry to end. By the time her examination was over, her dark eyes had filled with a thousand questions. Muhammad had no idea what to think. The painfully shy Saharan had never before been approached in such a manner. He’d no experience in dealing with women. And until this moment, no desire to learn how to do so.
She reached out her hand to shake his in the Western manner. Muhammad was taken aback by her continuing boldness. Not once had he known an Arab woman who’d make contact with a man in such a way. Unable to think of any other response, he reached out a quivering hand and shook hers in return.
“My name’s Sharif Bahrami,” she said.
“I’m Muhammad Mourad.”
“I know who you are. I’ve been watching you for many months.”
Once more the fetching woman’s brazenness sprang forth in her words. He was at a loss to explain why he was letting the unusual scene happen.
“We shouldn’t be talking in this manner,” he said. “I don’t know where you learned to act in such ways, but I was raised to honor Allah. Where I come from such contact between a man and a woman is highly improper.”
“I was born and raised in Cairo. And I too was taught to believe with all my heart in the one true God. But I don’t understand how our talking is in any way wrong. We’re fellow students at this great university. Why shouldn’t we sit together and exchange ideas?”
“I’m sorry, that’s just not my way.”
Sharif, however, wasn’t going to let the ancient protocols deter her. She was the epitome of the modern North African woman. And her curiosity over the whispered rumors she’d heard about the reserved little man had gotten the better of her. She ignored his protests.
“You’re the Mahdi, aren’t you?”
“Some have called me that,” he said.
“Then, I’m puzzled. If you’re the Chosen One, why are you letting them make such a fool of you?”
“Letting who make a fool of me?”
“The handlers of those with whom you’ve become involved,” Sharif answered.
“I’m certain I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a poor liar, Muhammad Mourad. Obviously you’ve little practice at
it. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m talking about your involvement with the Martyrs’ Brigade. I’m talking about your actions in last month’s killing of six innocent people in Marseille’s central square.”
“Woman, you forget yourself. Jihad’s been called. If you love Allah as much as you claim, you understand the significance of such an order. With holy war, there are no longer any innocents. There are only those who follow the righteous path to obtaining paradise, and those who do not. The Quran’s teachings are clear. Those who fail to heed its sacred words, Arab and outsider alike, must be eliminated so Islam can claim its proper place as the world’s honored religion.”
“What you say is true. But I’ll wager you’re so unaware you think those so-called friends of yours are carrying out these attacks on their own. I’ll bet you don’t even realize who’s pulling the strings behind that sorry group of which you’ve become an integral part.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“So I guess you’ll die next week like the Syrian puppet you are. Because that’s where the orders are coming from.”
“Die? What makes you think I’m about to die?”
She looked into his eyes. “You’re such a fool. The plans for your death are under way as we speak. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know why I’m bothering with you.” Sharif rose from the chair. “Go ahead and die for Syria.”
“Wait.” He motioned for her to sit back down. “I’m a devout warrior for Islam. If I should die fighting in our chaste cause, it won’t be to serve Syria, it’ll be in the service of Allah. And in my death I’ll find paradise. As a martyr of the jihad the Prophet’s promise will be fulfilled and I’ll instantly find my way to the wondrous place reserved for all who give their lives in our noble struggle.”
“I agree with you on one thing. Whether it’s for Allah, or for Syria, you will die. And quite soon. The orders have arrived from Damascus. Next week, you’ll enter a crowded city bus. There’ll be thirty pounds of high explosives beneath your jacket. At precisely the right moment a radio signal will be sent to the bomb’s timing mechanism. In an instant, many lives will end. Yours, of course, will be one of them.”