by Al Pessin
“Ahlan wa sahlan,” the woman said, offering the traditional Arabic welcome with a decidedly Down Under accent. She put her hand on her heart in greeting but did not offer to shake Faraz’s hand. She was tall and wore a calf-length skirt over jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, sandals, and a snug hijab that framed her face. One wisp of red hair escaped.
“Thank you, my brothers,” Trevor said to the men in the van.
One of the men tossed Faraz’s backpack to him and closed the doors. The vehicle started moving immediately.
“I’m Karim,” was all Faraz could think of to say as he adjusted his backpack on his shoulder.
“Oh, we know who you are, all right,” Trevor said. “Been expecting you. You’ll be with us for a night or two until we can sort out your travel.” Trevor put his arm around Faraz’s shoulder and moved him toward the farmhouse. It was an old wood-frame, with peeling white paint and homemade furniture on the porch. But Faraz noticed small security cameras mounted on the overhang. “Let’s get you settled and feed you a decent meal. Still stale bread and water on the journey, I’m guessing.”
“Yes, thanks,” Faraz said. They mounted five wooden steps to the porch, and Trevor opened the door. The woman went around to a side entrance. Trevor switched to a whisper. “That’s Melissa. She’s a quiet one, but not a bad cook. That’s why I married her.”
Faraz forced a laugh.
“Smart as a whip, too, by the way. She’s the one who helped me find the path. She’s a gem, really.”
They went along a hallway, skirting around a small gray safe on the floor with a digital lock.
“Seems like an odd spot for that,” Faraz said.
“Good central location, though, don’t you think?” Trevor slapped him on the back.
They went into the last room on the left, next to the back door. It was a normal bedroom with twin beds that must have once belonged to a family’s children.
“Make yourself at home, mate. Loo’s across the hall. Come to the kitchen when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
“Um, you’ll find the back door locked. Just a precaution, you know. Some folks catch a bit of panic when they get this far.” Trevor stood facing Faraz and looked him over. “How you feeling?”
“Fine, fine. I’m glad to be here. Yeah, nervous about what comes next, but that’s what I came for.”
“Excellent,” Trevor said with his outback enthusiasm. “No place to run, anyway. We are right far out in the sticks here. If you turn the wrong way, you could run into lots of Syrians with guns. Not friendly fellows.”
“Ah, okay. I’m not going anywhere. See you in the kitchen in a few minutes.”
“Good.” Trevor grinned. He gave Faraz another slap on the back. “We’ll keep you inside until after dark. Then you can get some fresh air. Never know who’s watching.” Trevor pointed out the window toward the sky, chuckled, and left.
* * *
After a dinner of goat meat over rice with stewed vegetables, Faraz and Trevor sat on the porch while Melissa cleaned up.
“She won’t join us?” Faraz asked.
“Like I said, not a big talker. Also, she feels it’s not right to fraternize with strange men. Leaves that to me. She takes charge when the girls come through.”
“Girls?”
“Yeah. Good number of them, too. Allah bless them, they’re as committed as the men.”
“Hmm. I’m surprised there’s no security team here.”
“Don’t need it. We’re flying under the radar—a couple of converts to Islam homesteading in the countryside. We have some tech, but no need for guys with guns. Only drawback is, I actually have to do some farming. For appearance’s sake, you know. But, hey, we’re doing our part in the jihad, eh.”
* * *
Trevor woke Faraz a little after two a.m. “Sorry, mate. Your ride is here. No time to provide our full hospitality service, but Melissa will pack you a snack.”
When Faraz came into the living room five minutes later, Melissa handed him a cloth bag. “I wish you a safe journey,” she said. “Allah yukhaleek.” May Allah protect you. She offered a shy smile and left the men alone.
Trevor took Faraz outside to an ancient Ford SUV with blackened windows and a generous coating of backroads mud. Two men sat in front, and the driver signaled them to hurry.
“They’ll take you to the fellows we call the guides, Trevor said. “Next stop, the Syrian Arab Republic.”
“Thanks for your help.” Faraz held out his right hand, and Trevor shook it.
“Don’t mention it. I mean, really, when they catch you, interrogate you, torture you, don’t mention it.”
“Excuse me?”
Trevor burst out laughing. “Sorry, mate. I’ve got to get my entertainment where I can. Have a safe journey.”
* * *
The ride was short, and the two men in the SUV didn’t seem to speak much English. The last several minutes, they were driving through tall vegetation.
The driver stopped where the rough two-track ended in a clearing barely large enough for him to turn the vehicle around. The man in the passenger seat got out and whistled three notes, two short and high, the third long and low. The same signal came back. He whistled again, this time short-long-short. And again, the response came.
The man opened the van door, took Faraz by the arm, and led him into the overgrown field.
Two men appeared, wearing black cotton pants and black padded jackets, with traditional kaffiyehs on their heads and AK-47s in their hands. They kissed Faraz’s escort on both cheeks and greeted Faraz with handshakes, but no one spoke. One of the guides set off in the direction they had come. The other wagged his head for Faraz to follow and took up a position behind him.
There was no fence or marker, but somewhere along the narrow, winding, path, Faraz’s short stay in Turkey ended. After twenty minutes, they climbed an embankment to a road, and Faraz boarded a van with Syrian license plates.
Chapter Twenty-two
Faraz imagined that many sand cats were shocked when the van doors opened on the ramshackle camp. But to him, the scene felt both familiar and depressing.
The compound was small enough that he could see most of it from where he stood. It was surrounded by a wooden wall with guard towers on each side of the main gate. The road went straight through to a rear gate, with pathways and driveways leading off on both sides.
A building near the front gate seemed to be the headquarters. Past that were smaller buildings to the right and left for storage or sleeping quarters for senior fighters. Tents toward the back of the camp bore United Nations logos, apparently pilfered from refugee supplies. To the far right, smoke wafted from a chimney. Beyond it was another barracks building. Whatever latrine or sewage system they had was not functioning well. The whole place smelled like a ballpark men’s room.
It was barely six a.m., but the camp was busy with people crossing in all directions. The only surprise for Faraz was that there were women among them.
A man who looked to be in his late twenties came out of the large building, walked down two steps, and held out his hand. “I’m Nic,” he said in American-accented English. “You, I assume, are Karim. Welcome to the jihad.”
“Thanks. It’s good to be here.”
“Well, that’s a lie. This place is a shithole. At least you don’t have the deer-in-the-headlights look we usually get. You’ll do fine. Come on, I’ll show you your tent and give you the grand tour. Won’t take long.”
Nic led the way as they walked through the open center area. He wore a threadbare brown sweater, tan cotton pants, and old running shoes. He was shorter than Faraz, with a few extra pounds around his midsection. Nic pointed out the clinic, showers, and toilets. “That’s the kitchen,” he said pointing to the building with the chimney. “The women have a barracks and some tents on the other side of it. That’s a no-go zone for us, obviously.”
“Right,” Faraz said. He got brief greetings from several people as
he and Nic turned left into a cluster of small gray tents arrayed near a side gate, probably meant for taking out the trash.
“This is yours,” Nic said. “It’s a two-man, but you’re alone for now.”
Faraz bent over and went inside. It was little more than an overgrown pup tent. There were two sleeping mats, with only about two feet of space between them. Two wooden crates were the furniture, providing storage space and a surface on which to put things. Faraz put his backpack on the mat on the right and came back out. “All moved in,” he said.
“Good. Let’s wash up and get some food.”
The two men walked back along the same route, then crossed the compound toward the kitchen.
“Where are you from?” Faraz said. “Wait, can I ask that?”
“You can ask anything you want. I’m from San Diego.”
Faraz nearly said “me, too.” But he stopped himself. That was the truth he had been trying to push aside for weeks—for more than a year, really. The last thing he wanted to think about was San Diego.
“I’m from Detroit,” he said. He was trying to figure out Nic’s ethnicity. His skin was a light shade of tan, but his accent indicated he had grown up in the U.S.
“How did you find yourself here?” Faraz tried.
“Usual story, really. Short version is my grandfather was Egyptian, used to take me to the mosque. Years later, I fell in with the wrong crowd, got strung out, found my way back through Islam. Turns out, what I was trying to escape through the drugs was the oppression and lies of a society where I didn’t belong. Sorry if I sound like one of those websites, but it’s the truth.”
“You feel better here?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. My story’s something like yours, but both parents Muslim, and without the drugs.”
Nic stopped near the entrance to the kitchen, turned, and gestured toward the rest of the camp. “You know, this is not exactly what anyone expects, but it’s good to be on the right side of the fight.”
“You fight?”
Nic seemed embarrassed by the question. “Um, no. Not yet. But soon. Maybe. We all make our contribution.”
He turned and led Faraz up a few steps through the door to the buffet line. Nic took a plate, put a pita on it, and took a large dollop of hummus and two hard-boiled eggs. At the far end, he poured himself some tea and went out through a different door. Faraz followed suit and found himself in a small open area dotted with tables and chairs.
Nic introduced Faraz to several men and a few women—Jamal from Kenya, Ismail, a Moroccan from France, Latif, a quiet kid from Pakistan, and Tasha, a black former gang member who found Allah at the largest U.S. women’s jail, in Los Angeles. They all seemed to be in their late twenties or early thirties, aside from Latif, the only teenager in the group.
The men were in jeans or cotton pants. The women wore ankle-length skirts and hijabs. Everyone had long-sleeved shirts and fall or winter jackets.
Along the camp’s outer wall, Faraz and Nic came to a picnic table where two women were sitting.
“Ah,” Nic said. “These are Cindy and Amira, also fairly new arrivals. Ladies, this is Karim, fresh off the bus. May we join you?”
“Sure,” Cindy said.
Nic sat at the far end of the table from the women and indicated Faraz should do the same. He was figuring out the behavior protocols—it was more relaxed than at the safe house but still designed to avoid physical contact or excessive familiarity.
“Welcome,” Cindy continued. “Or should I say ahlan wa’saaaaaahlan.”
Faraz thought her accent was Australian, or maybe South African. She had olive skin, brown eyes, and bits of dark hair dangling from her hijab. She was thin and head-and-shoulders taller than her colleague.
“Amira and I arrived the same day. What was that, six weeks ago? Yeah. A bit of a shock at first, but wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Where you from, Karim?”
“Detroit,” Faraz said. The lie came naturally now. “And you?” he asked.
“Joburg. My grandparents thought it’d be good to get out of Iran before the Shah had them thrown into prison. So they snuck out to seek their fortune elsewhere. That turned out to be a convenience store off a highway in the bad, bad African suburbs. Dead end at the dead end of the world. My dad took it over, but I was not sticking around for my turn.”
“What about you?” Faraz asked, looking at Amira.
“London,” she said. Her accent was down-market. Her skin was darker than Cindy’s, and her eyes were black.
“Hard to get more than two words out of her,” Cindy said. “But she’s all right.” Cindy smiled at Amira, who returned a smile that, to Faraz, showed more sadness than anything else.
“Time for us to get to work,” Cindy continued, sliding off the bench seat. “Got to check the schedule. What’ll it be today? Folding bandages, painting walls, preparing lunch. Hmm. Let’s go, Amira, and leave these guys to eat in peace.”
“Nice meeting you,” Faraz said, raising his tea in salute.
“You, too,” Cindy said.
Amira just gave him that smile. She took her tray and followed Cindy toward the kitchen.
The warm teacup felt good in Faraz’s hand in the chilly morning air. The smell of the tea reminded him of home. Another memory to suppress.
Chapter Twenty-three
After breakfast, Faraz and Nic walked into the central part of the camp just as someone in a guard tower shouted, “Open it up! Open it up!”
The gate slid to the side, and four SUVs sped in, spattered with dirt from the road. Three men ran out of the main house. One opened the driver’s door of the lead vehicle and said, “What happened? You’re late.”
A large man emerged, dark haired and bearded, and spattered with blood. “Get the doctor,” he said. He sounded angry and was clearly exhausted. He leaned on the car door.
Faraz saw a man and a woman were already sprinting from the clinic, both carrying satchels of supplies. They went up to the large man, but he shooed them away. “It is Matthieu. Third vehicle.”
Several men removed Matthieu from the cargo area and laid him on the ground so the medical team could work on him.
Faraz, Nic, and the others approached but kept a respectful distance. “Who is that?” Faraz asked, pointing at the man still holding onto the door of the SUV.
“That’s the commander, al-Jazar. They were out on a mission, expected back before daybreak.”
Faraz looked at his new boss, trying to read the lines on his face, his body language. Al-Jazar looked like a hard man who had had a rough morning. He was tall, maybe six feet, in shape with sunbaked skin and a full but trimmed black beard. He wore a plain shirt and khaki pants, and a camouflage-pattern baseball hat. He had no equipment belt or bulletproof vest. His AK was on the vehicle’s seat.
Al-Jazar walked to the third vehicle, stopping to check on other wounded fighters along the way.
The people from the clinic cut off Matthieu’s shirt. Faraz could see that he had a bad chest wound, probably unrecoverable even under the best of circumstances. He also saw Matthieu’s face. Faraz hoped he was older than he looked, because he looked like he was about sixteen.
The doctor and his assistant worked on Matthieu for several minutes as the growing crowd of perhaps three dozen stood in silence. It wasn’t long before the woman put her right hand over Matthieu’s face and closed his eyes. The man stood, his hands and shirt bloody. “Matthieu is a martyr of the jihad,” he said. “Allahu akbar.”
Al-Jazar and everyone else mumbled the same in response, and there was an impromptu moment of silence. Faraz heard some of the women crying behind him.
The commander recovered quickly. “Prepare him,” was all he said before turning and mounting the steps to the main building.
Faraz lingered as the crowd dispersed. Several men picked Matthieu’s body up and carried it toward the clinic.
Nic took Faraz’s arm and led him toward the midd
le of the camp. “It’s not always like this. But honestly, I can’t say it’s the first time, either.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Faraz lied, trying to affect shock and sadness.
“At least you didn’t know him. I did. Nice guy, very dedicated to the jihad. It’s sad, but . . . I don’t know. He wanted to be a fighter. And I think that’s the way he wanted to go. As a shahid.” A martyr.
Faraz sighed. “And you? You want to go that way?”
Nic turned to face him, irritated. “Look, man. If you’re not prepared to be martyred, maybe you shouldn’t be here. Hopefully, we won’t all die out there, but it’s part of the package.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Sorry.”
“Okay. I know it’s your first day. Let’s see what my work assignment is, and you can tag along. Not a good time to meet the commander.”
* * *
Faraz spent the day with Nic hammering together panels that would become the camp’s next building. Nic introduced several other foreign Muslims who had joined the jihad, plus a few of the Syrian fighters.
“I had no idea there were so many of us,” Faraz said.
“Sand cats? Yeah, this is a pretty big group, but we’re spread out across the region.”
“The Syrians look like a tough bunch.”
“The commander attracts that type. Some of them are okay, but a lot of them resent having to train us. They think we’re wimps, frankly.”
“But you said Matthieu wasn’t the first martyr. You’d think that would convince them.”
Nic shrugged. “Time to wash up. The funeral’s in half an hour.”
There was no time for showers, so they joined the queue on the men’s side of the building waiting for a few minutes at one of the sinks.
A Syrian fighter approached them, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder. “Karim Niazi?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s me.”