A Pure Heart

by Rajia Hassib

  “I love how quiet it is here at night.”

  “It’s isolated, yes.”

  “It’s peaceful.”

  He nodded, saying nothing. She turned to her side and reached over, holding his hand. Closing her eyes, she imagined him thirty-five years ago, out of prison, too young to have his life so ruthlessly upended because of a simple decision to participate in a protest, such a large price to pay for wanting to set things right.

  On the nightstand behind him, the phone buzzed again. Fouad turned around and grabbed it.

  “Enough is enough. I’m blocking him.”

  Gameela watched the screen go black. Saaber was just about the same age Fouad had been when he got out of prison, and he was obviously reaching out for help. Gameela eyed Fouad’s phone, connected to its charger on the nightstand. Pity no one was helping the poor boy.

  ◆ 20 ◆

  The pigeon house was deserted. Saaber stood in the center of the abandoned structure, examining the empty cages. He wondered how long it had taken the pigeons to realize no one would bring them food and water anymore, whether they had taken off all together in a mass exodus, or whether they had left one by one.

  A minor pang gripped his chest as he thought of the birds waiting in vain for someone to feed them. He hoped they had all found new homes, immigrated to other, established pigeon houses, but feared that some may have stayed behind and died of hunger and thirst. Opening the cage doors, he found no traces of dead birds, no heaps of bones and feathers. That, at least, was a relief.

  If he were to replenish the supply of food and water, some of the pigeons might come back, but he no longer desired that. In the midday sun, in Cairo’s suffocating heat, he could clearly see how wrong it had been for him to be so attached to material things, to brute animals, to the possibility of becoming rich. Badr had been right when he insisted that the real life was the eternal afterlife, not this fleeting mess where all suffer. No one dies in heaven, unlike here, where every human being will die, sooner or later. So what if some die a few years sooner than the rest?

  Mahadesh beymout nakes omr. No one dies before his time. One of the sayings his mother often repeated. Surprisingly true.

  When his mother had cried that the jail had not provided his father with proper treatment for his diabetes, the officer had assured her that no one died before his time.

  When, years later, she had fallen to her knees and wailed in front of her dwelling’s door, lamenting Houda’s death, the neighbors had gathered around her, reminding her to accept God’s will, assuring her that no one died before his time.

  Dying is simply stepping into the eternal life. It’s not the end; it’s the beginning, Badr had told him.

  Everything Badr said made sense.

  A flutter of wings announced the arrival of a bird, a single pigeon that landed on the corner of the cages over his left shoulder. Saaber looked at it, examining the blue, green, and silver sheen of the feathers protecting its long neck and puffed-up chest. Then he shushed it away, watched it fly off in a surprised flurry.

  * * *

  —

  THOUGH HE MISSED Badr’s guidance, Saaber did not need him anymore. Not as long as he had the internet, that mine of information begging to be explored.

  After his release, Saaber spent months visiting multiple internet cafés, educating himself on the injustices facing Muslims everywhere and on various ways to fight those wrongs, to be God’s soldier on earth, as Badr had repeatedly described him.

  He liked the image of himself as an avenging warrior, an instrument of God’s wrath.

  He imagined himself standing in front of God in the afterlife, basking in His praise for his selflessness, his willingness to fight for what God deemed right.

  The more he read, the clearer everything seemed. Simpler. Now he could easily recognize that people fell into two categories: good and evil.

  The evil ones needed to be punished.

  The good ones, if they suffered, got rewarded for their suffering in the afterlife.

  Everything made sense.

  * * *

  —

  YEARS BEFORE, a man had posed a question to the sheikh at the mosque where Houda used to go for his weekly lessons, dragging Saaber along with him.

  “But how about all those people? The innocent ones? The ones he killed?”

  They were discussing Osama bin Laden. The sheikh had paused, nodded. “Martyrs, of course. All of them. No excuse for taking any life. Ever.” And the sheikh had recited the verse from the Qur’an about how if one killed one soul it was as if one had killed the entirety of humanity, and how if one saved one soul it was as if one had saved the entirety of humanity.

  “A soul is sacred,” the sheikh had said. “Note that Allah did not specify the soul’s race, religion, or devotion. The soul of an atheist is just as sacred as the soul of the most ardent believer in Allah.”

  Later, the man who had posed the question had stayed behind after the sheikh was done with the lesson. Saaber had pretended to read from the Qur’an as the man talked to Houda.

  “But if those killed as collateral damage are martyrs and go straight to heaven, then what’s the harm in killing them?”

  Both men had chuckled. Saaber gazed intently at the verses in front of him, but he saw nothing.

  * * *

  —

  ONLINE, Saaber learned that Muslims were being persecuted everywhere: in Israel, in Burma, even in Islamic countries like Syria and Iraq, where sects of Muslims were killing other sects, apparently backed up by foreign financing, all part of the big conspiracy targeting Muslims everywhere. With increasing horror, he flipped through photos of mangled bodies, of rows of dead children wrapped up in white burial shrouds.

  He remembered Houda and his heart swelled with anger.

  Badr had explained this to him, underscoring how true believers were oppressed everywhere, but Saaber had not imagined the magnitude of what his mentor described. The websites opened his eyes. They also taught him ways to fight. To right what is wrong.

  * * *

  —

  THE INSTRUCTIONS WERE EASY. Again and again, he went back to the internet café and used a notepad to copy them down step by step so that he would not have to print them and risk having someone see the images as they rolled out of the printer. When he saw that he would need only pieces of pipe and nails and some basic wiring skills he almost fell to the ground right there to thank God, because wasn’t that a sign, too? The years he spent jumping from one apprenticeship to the other were not in vain. Badr was right: his entire life so far was leading him to this, preparing him for his moment of glory. He could almost weep with joy.

  He sat in a booth by the corner. Someone pointed at him and made a crude joke about him being on porn, but he pretended he had not heard that.

  * * *

  —

  THE MORE HE THOUGHT about life, the clearer everything became to him. Walking down the dirt alley leading to his mother’s dwelling, his notepad clutched tightly under his arm, Saaber looked at those around him and marveled at their inability to see what he now so clearly saw: that life was going off-kilter, that injustice was rampant, and that, contrary to what they had been told their entire lives, there were effective, legitimate ways to fight this injustice, to sew together the scattered pieces of existence until everything aligned perfectly again.

  Violence can be fought only with violence.

  Pity filled his heart. If only people could see what he saw.

  Badr had seen it, of course. Badr had also noted how Saaber had the unique ability to make himself heard.

  Close to home, Saaber remembered the day the American had interviewed him. He was still proud of how determined his face had looked in the photo, but he regretted having wasted this opportunity talking about pigeons. If only he had known then what he knew now—he could have reve
aled so much to the world. If only he had had Badr’s guidance earlier, he would have recognized how remarkable it was that Fouad, one of dozens of rich men in whose apartments he had worked, would remember him and bring an American journalist right to his doorstep. That had doubtless been another sign, another way God had singled him out for greatness.

  At the door, his mother blocked his way.

  “When are you going to go back to work?”

  He squeezed past her. “I’m already working.”

  “Where is the money you’ve earned, then?”

  He looked up at her, almost pitying her, too. “There are rewards greater than money, Mother.”

  She stared at him, her hands on her hips, then she turned her head and spat to the side, her spit hitting the dirt floor, marking it with a circular bull’s-eye.

  * * *

  —

  IN THE PIGEON HOUSE, sitting in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the empty cages, Saaber started writing down his vision, documenting all he had learned, explaining how perfectly all the pieces of his life now fit together: the deaths of both his father and brother; his imprisonment; even the wrong step the orderly had taken before he plunged down and landed on the roof of the neighboring building.

  Everything happened according to God’s plan so that he, Saaber, could fulfill his destiny.

  The words flowed out of him, lines slithering one after the other on the paper, covering sheet after sheet.

  * * *

  —

  FOUAD STOPPED responding to his texts, which angered Saaber until he remembered Badr’s words: Everything happens in God’s good time.

  If Fouad didn’t respond now, it meant only that the time had not yet come.

  Saaber kept texting him.

  * * *

  —

  THE MORE HE READ ONLINE, the more things made sense. The more he wrote about his thoughts, the clearer they became.

  God knows what’s in everyone’s heart. Alaamalu belneyyat. Works are judged based on the intentions behind them, on the purity of one’s heart.

  His intention was clear: he was to avenge his father, his brother, and all those killed by the police, directly or indirectly. In prison, Badr had told him story after story of mujahideen dying by the hands of the police, of freedom fighters imprisoned under terrorism charges when all they wanted to do was fight for God’s cause, as he did. Badr had explained that the riot police had killed Houda, which meant that the police were murderers.

  The Qur’an legitimized punishing murderers. Clearly, the riot police had killed his brother. Therefore, punishing the police was the right thing to do. Technically, the only ones allowed to inflict such punishment were those in authority, but the judge who had overseen Houda’s case had let his killer roam free, citing lack of evidence. The authorities were not upholding justice. Therefore, it logically followed that Saaber should be allowed to take things into his own hands. Badr was certain God would agree with this logic, and Saaber concurred.

  His actions would bring police atrocities to the world’s attention. Perhaps if the American journalist had not interviewed him, his actions could easily have been dismissed. But that interview had made him famous. People would have to take note.

  That, too, was a sign from God. Fouad had brought the journalist to him because God had guided his hand.

  All things led to this.

  He needed to make the loudest statement possible. The noise he made would speak more clearly than any words, but putting his wisdom into words certainly would not hurt, just in case people failed to understand his actions.

  He texted Fouad again.

  I need to see you. When will you be back in Cairo?

  He got no answer.

  He contemplated traveling to Rasheed to meet with Fouad, but he was afraid the police may be following him. Every day he saw people looking at him as he walked down the street, felt certain he was being watched, remembered Badr’s words about the devil sending his followers to stop him. If the police saw him leave the city, they would probably harass him, search him. He couldn’t risk getting arrested again.

  Everything happened in due time, he reminded himself.

  He kept texting Fouad.

  * * *

  —

  AND IF ANY innocent lives were taken?

  Well, since no one died before his time, their deaths would have been predetermined anyway. He was merely the instrument implementing their fates. Besides, those souls would become martyrs and go straight to heaven, be spared this world’s pain and sorrow.

  Everyone gains. And he would be known for having fought to restore justice, to avenge those mistreated. His face would again grace the front pages of newspapers worldwide.

  He, too, would be a martyr. Because God deals in intentions and God would know that his intentions were to restore justice on earth.

  The verse in the Qur’an about killing innocent souls would not apply to him. The verse about the rewards of martyrs would.

  And all the martyrs live on forever. Any innocent bystanders will live forever. He, too, will live forever.

  It all made sense.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN HE FINALLY got a text from Fouad, he saw that as the sign he had been waiting for. From a nook under his bed, he pulled out the money he had wrapped in a sheet of butcher paper, a gift Badr had arranged for him to receive on his release and that Saaber had kept hidden since then, reaching for it only when he absolutely needed to. Most of the thick stack of bills was still untouched. Consulting his notebook, he wrote down a list of supplies. Then he went shopping.

  * * *

  —

  IN THE SHADE of the abandoned wooden structures of the pigeon house, Saaber worked patiently, consulting the instructions, until he created a perfect prototype. He sat in place, gazing at the piece of pipe in front of him, marveling at his ability to create such a thing in mere hours.

  He wrapped it in multiple pieces of cloth, carefully placed it in a backpack, and took the bus out of Cairo and toward the 6th of October City, one of the suburbs built on the edge of the desert. Once there, he got out, but instead of entering the community of apartment buildings and villas, he continued walking on the edge of the road until he passed the entire suburb, and then he turned into the desert and walked for close to an hour, making sure he was out of sight.

  Carefully, he took his creation out of the backpack he had been hugging close to his chest, set it up, extended the wire to what he thought was a safe distance, and, hiding behind a sand dune, pushed the trigger.

  The boom was so loud that the sand dune shook under its waves, sand flying up and then raining down on Saaber, who crouched with his head between his elbows, a high-pitched tone ringing in his ears. After the sand settled, Saaber could still hear his heart pounding, its beat jovial, proud.

  Badr was certainly right. Why wallow in hopelessness when he could become an instrument of justice, a beacon of hope for all those who suffered as he did?

  Saaber knew, right then, that he was destined for glory.

  ◆ 21 ◆

  Of all the sleuthing she had ever done, this last endeavor was among her most brilliant, a feat so intricately planned that it furthered her conviction that she had earned the Irene Adler nickname.

  Gameela, getting dressed after breakfast at the farmhouse, examined her reflection in the mirror and could not help but smile.

  “You seem cheerful,” Fouad said. Sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, his left leg violently shaking in a nervous habit she had gotten used to, he had watched her change and pack her things, the morose expression that haunted his face whenever she got ready to leave tinged with an undertone of anger. “So excited to go back home?” he asked with obvious sarcasm.

  She turned to face him. “I am home. Here more than anywhere else. You know that.
”

  “This is useless.”

  He got up and walked out of the room. From the window, she watched him climb down the front steps and walk away, heading toward the farm’s deeper acres. Biting her lip, she contemplated chasing after him and getting him to turn around, look at her, and tell her he was not upset, that he was willing to be patient for just a few more days, a few more weeks, at the most, until she figured out how to break the news to her parents without breaking their hearts. Without making them think ill of her. She opened the window, leaned out, and called after him.

  He did not turn around.

  * * *

  —

  IN THE CAR, Gameela tried to not let Fouad’s petulant behavior ruin her mood and to focus, instead, on her plan for the day. It was barely ten in the morning, the sun already high up but the day still not too hot. She rolled her window down, letting the fresh air lap against her face as she turned out of the farm’s gates and onto the main avenue. She drove alongside the farm for a few minutes, its sprawling acres bordering the road. Glancing sideways, she looked between the trees to see if Fouad had made his way there, if, perhaps, he was standing in the shade of the mango trees, watching her pass by, but she could not see him.

  On the highway, she rolled her window back up and pressed the pedal, zooming in her cool, air-conditioned Kia past trucks overflowing with hay and minibuses loaded with passengers. She had a good five hours before she was supposed to meet with Saaber, but she had hoped she would have time to stop at home first. She scolded herself for not leaving earlier, for being late to everything. But she was not going to be late to this appointment.

  She pressed the pedal harder, zoomed past lazy drivers clogging the road. A decrepit maroon sedan, its backseat crammed with kids, rattled next to her as she passed, and glancing at it, Gameela saw a young girl watching her, one hand holding on to the ledge of the opened window, her eyes wide with curiosity, not blinking despite the wind that swept her hair.