A Good Country

by Laleh Khadivi

  You have bags?

  Just these.

  Good. Wait here for an hour. I will come and pick you up. Don’t talk to anyone.

  The roads that led out of the city were congested and Rez and Fatima sat in the back of the Nissan sedan and sweated and looked out the window at the pulsing city. They said nothing, and when they were finally out and away from the traffic, driving past wheat fields and industrial parks, they fell asleep and woke up in much of the same at a different time of day. The driver did not speak. He drove with one hand and texted with the other and smoked as much as he could. They stopped at a gas station with a restaurant attached and Rez and Fatima went in and stared at a fountain of bubbly milk until the server came by and handed them both cups and poured a ladleful of salty, carbonated yogurt in each. The taste was phenomenal and disgusting at the same time and they drank it and laughed and looked for snacks and the bathroom and Rez felt himself on a road trip like any other he had ever loved being on.

  They drove into the evening and at dusk the land around them changed. What was yellow and green turned into the orange of the desert and emptied of plant life. Rocks were everywhere and in the distance jagged dark mountain ranges spread beneath the sky and Rez remembered the pictures of Raqqah, the dusty town center, the one beautiful river, and all the parks alongside. Neither of them asked any questions and the sky turned dark, shade by shade, one degree at a time, as they drove east and Rez thought of them heading into night, into the purple dusk and the navy beyond.

  The safe house was empty and the driver walked through turning on lights, opening windows, and checking the fridge. There was no furniture but there were rugs and cushions and some flat bread and blocks of feta in the fridge. Each room had a few rugs on the floor and near the electrical outlets tangles of chargers left behind. Rez could not tell how long it had been since someone was here. Two days? Two weeks?

  The toilets work. Ok?

  Rez didn’t know what to say. It was ok. They were four miles from the border and all they had to do was wait.

  Yes. Thank you.

  The driver took a long inhale from his just-lit cigarette.

  For the Islam, yes?

  What?

  Islam? In Raqqah, yes?

  Yes, yes. We are going to Raqqah. For the new country.

  The driver looked at Rez and then looked at Fatima.

  Ok.

  He looked at them again and nodded and let himself out the thick wooden door that he didn’t shut behind him and they watched him drive away. Fatima closed the door and took her bag upstairs, and when she came down, her hair was covered and her eyes and cheeks puffy from crying.

  Again the night grew dark around them and they could not sleep. They sat up and read the books Fatima had brought and Rez wished he hadn’t thrown out his books on Islam at the train station in L.A. Fatima prayed and they pulled out the cards and played and waited for sleep but nothing came. Not too long after midnight the door opened and two men walked in and said, As-salaam alaikum, and Rez and Fatima stood up and greeted them in return.

  The two men insisted that they make tea, and they all sat on the floor in the empty living room and drank. One of them wore a long beard and the other looked like a young guy from Istanbul. They were both good-looking, clean, with bright eyes.

  We are glad Daoud and our sisters led you here. It is our honor to help you along on your journey.

  Their faces stayed jovial and calm and they spoke with precise words. The English was accented, but not terribly so, and they had many compliments for Rez and Fatima about their decision, about their devotion, about their coming marriage.

  No one checked his or her phone and no one left the conversation for anything more than another cup of tea or the bathroom. They asked if Rez or Fatima had any questions and then answered them patiently, saying all the things Rez and Fatima wanted to hear—a nice house, probably in a lab if chemistry is still your expertise, there will be other young families nearby, no, no one from California, and, yes, it is marvelous to be in a place where Islam is prized, you will be among the first families to establish a haven for our beliefs, our type of living, it is a brave thing you do, one that will not be forgotten by the generations after you.

  Fatima smiled at Rez and he could tell the fear and sadness had left her. She moved her hand closer to his so that their fingers barely touched and the smugglers talked on and on. By dawn Rez himself relaxed enough that all he wanted was sleep and stood to excuse himself and Fatima stood with him and the men, cross-legged on the ground, told Fatima to sit and she looked at them and Rez. He kept her stare, wondered if she would do it.

  Fatima, please. There are a few details we need to discuss with you. Moving a woman across the border is much more difficult than moving a man. There are details, please, we will keep you only a half hour, no more …

  Fatima sat back down and Rez sat down beside her.

  The bearded man smiled broadly.

  We are brothers here, please do not worry about her, she is in company as secure as yours.

  The man from Istanbul nodded.

  Yes, my friend, tomorrow your day will be long, it will be hot and there are difficult portions. It is better you rest. But it is your choice.

  Rez looked at them through a head thick with sleep. He took in one face and then the other. The two of them appeared without malice. Strangers in this strange life. He had no energy left for nerves, for suspicion or fear, and wanted more than anything else to erase this world for a time, to draw down into darkness and forget his commitments, his pledges, and his changes and changes of heart. Want of sleep was all of him.

  Fatima gave him a gentle nod. I’m good.

  Rez looked at her face, its beautiful round moon glow tired and dim. The exhaustion made her soft and willing and the man next to her tilted his head at Rez to gesture up toward the bedrooms.

  You sure?

  Yes.

  Go, my brother. Get your strength. Take a stretch. We will wake you when it is time to go.

  The room had a few mattresses strewn across a dusty tile floor. Rez found the one closest to the door so he could hear the talk downstairs. At first he sat up to listen but then he quickly felt himself slump over and then fall onto the bed and into a sleep, heavy and syrupy, over which he had no control.

  When he woke, his body was in the same position and covered entirely in sweat. The house made no noises and his limbs did not lift as he ordered them and his thoughts stayed irretrievable somewhere at the bottom of his head. He closed his eyes and fell asleep again. The second time he woke, the sun had moved across the walls and he was alert and afraid. Next to him the bearded man sat and read.

  Ok, brother. It is time. Time to go.

  Fatima. His first thoughts panicked. Where was she? In all this strangeness he needed to see her, to lock eyes on something familiar. He jolted up and walked out of the room and down to the living room where the tea glasses sat washed and set aside and he knew the house was otherwise empty.

  Where did they go?

  They left a few hours ago. Hamid took her across first. We never cross with more than one at a time. Especially a woman.

  Daoud said we would go together, the whole way. Together.

  He is not a smuggler. He is not on the ground in Syria. This is our way.

  Daoud told me specifically—

  Please. Remember your faith in Allah.

  Rez stared at the man with the scraggly beard. He saw now how short he was, how there was a weapon, a small pistol, tucked into the back of his pants. Rez edged into anger. Daoud had mentioned nothing about a separation; assured him they would cross the border together; that she would be beside him the whole way. As it is with husbands and wives, it will be with you.

  Where is she?

  I don’t know.

  Where will we meet her?

  I don’t know. That is not up to us. My job is to take you to Raqqah, to deliver you to my commander.

  But I am going to Raqqah t
o get married … to become a Muslim and get married … and my friend Arash … This is what I have arranged.

  The man smiled with half his mouth.

  Yes, my brother! Well done. And now let us go!

  Rez carried his bag and walked alongside the man on small streets and then on the side of a big street and then through the dry land with no streets at all. The man walked ahead a few steps and every now and again sang something in Arabic or whistled. Rez left heavy prints with each step and asked about Fatima again and again. Can you explain, please, why did she have to go ahead? How can I be in touch with her? Who is she with right now?

  The man with the beard sometimes answered and sometimes shook his head no. When he did respond it was with a surplus of good cheer that aggravated Rez. Have faith, my brother! Things are not as bad as they seem! You must trust that Allah will do what is right for you! This is the faith you want, isn’t it?

  Rez no longer wanted faith. He wanted Fatima beside him and another earth under his feet. They seemed to walk into nowhere, nothing visible ahead of them, and the small town with the safe house was a dot on the horizon behind. Soon exhaustion and thirst took the place of his anger and Rez thought about Allah, about the all-merciful, all-knowing, and with concentration he told himself to believe in it, to believe what he felt among the men in the mosque, among the faces in Bali; the great truth, the great rightness, the great faith. His steps grew lighter and Rez felt that each move forward was a move toward Fatima, toward a life of peace in his soul and body, and a move away from the harsh hatreds and sad empty lives of a world that lived on the surface of itself. He thought of her soft lips, of the soft skin of her hands, of her breasts when she was asleep, and he craved. Allah will provide for me. He remembered Daoud’s saying that to him again and again: Allah will provide.

  It was dark when they reached the fence and Rez, thirsty, his feet sore, looked around for lights of some sort but nothing shone. The man with the beard kicked the bottom of the metal fence with his foot, and when he came to a section that gave to his kick, he crawled down on his hands and knees and motioned for Rez to follow. There was no hurry, no rush, and the man seemed without agitation at all. Rez looked around at the land again, rocks, dry hard earth, this fence, and nothing else. The stars were abundant in the sky, maybe more than he’d ever before seen in his life, and he took this as a sign. He stopped and gazed, let his neck stretch back as far as he could to see the uninterrupted scape, the infinity of depth, and this unknown put Rez in mind of the sea, the great ocean that had breathed beside him his whole life that was now nowhere to be found.

  Now, brother. Now is the time. She waits for you on this side, not over there.

  Rez dropped to his hands and knees, threw his duffel bag in, and crawled through. When he stood, he looked up and saw this side was no different, the sky just as infinite, the land as dry. He looked back up to find a constellation, to center himself on something, anything, to remind him he was still on earth, and as he did, the want for the ocean swelled and he desired it now more than anything, more than Fatima, or belief or belonging, a night of surf, the feeling of his board under him, his body lifted and dropped, swaying and swayed, the great unfathomable beneath, rocking him to and fro.

  EPILOGUE

  Ras al-Ayn, Syria, March 2014

  Everything in the right way.

  In training they learned how a thing was done. How to stand, the proper way to sit with attention, the way to approach a target in clear daylight, and the best way to attack at night. They learned how to load and aim automatic rifles, took lessons on how to fire, what verses to recite as the bullets flew, and what verses for the moment after they hit their marks. Instructors told them which way to wear their backpacks, their face masks, how best to lace their boots. They studied the knife, how to cut across an earlobe, a thieving hand, a neck. They learned how to lie during an interrogation, deny any previous identity, and look directly at photos of their sisters and say That is not my sister and pictures of their fathers and claim I do not know that man. They were given cyanide capsules and, as backup, instructions on how to hang themselves with a sheet and what kind of knot to make around their necks when the opportunity presented itself. There were long afternoons of recitation, prayers for the night before the battle, leading up to battle, and just before the capture of women and children. Instructors regularly blindfolded them and then said calmly, Run, before firing live ammunition at their feet and legs while the recruits wet their pants and cried for the mothers they had forsaken. Then the blinders were taken off, and the instructors handed them guns and told them to shoot and run from each other, with points given for accuracy without kill, escape without injury. They ran and fought until their fear reached its zenith and crossed over into a numb courage and only then did the instructors shout, Stop! And take the guns from them with assurances: Don’t worry. It will be some time before you are trusted with the work of executioner. For now you are soldiers. Allah will test you first. Everything in the right way.

  Months of training and study and prayer and practice, and on this, the morning of his first battle, Reza forgets all he has dutifully learned. He closes his eyes and begins to put himself together, piece by piece.

  His name as it is now: Reza al-Alawah.

  His age as it is today, the day of his first battle, his first pledge: nineteen.

  His God as he believes him: all-powerful, all merciful.

  Whoever puts his trust in Allah, He will be enough for him.

  There it is. The faith.

  Allah does not burden a soul beyond what it can bear.

  He tries to do as he has trained, but cannot conjure the dozen faceless virgins in heaven or the lavish feasts of paradise, and thinks only of Fatima; of the skin of her cheeks and the curved dip of her back and her soft mouth. That is what waits for him after this trial. That is what the commanders have promised: first he must prove himself, then he can marry.

  The recruits repeat it and beat their chests with a closed fist.

  A line of open-bed trucks waits and as many men as can fit are packed in and then four or five more. The bodies touch and everything spreads—fear, smell, sweat—from man to man like electricity. They wait, nervous, in the dark of some hour closer to midnight than morning. Commanders appear, each with a flashlight and a map, and spread out to talk to two groups of trucks at a time.

  The city is K.

  They point to a dot on the map and then at the mountains around it, the streets into it, and the city center. The commanders identify the seven targets that begin the siege and Reza sees the logic in it, generators, hospitals, the television station, a government building, bridges across the river, and nods with the rest even though his Arabic is not good enough to understand and his thoughts wander and run and sprint to the memories of the graduation party at Matthews’s pool house and Fatima’s hips locked to his. The reminiscence is an agony, a kind of torture that makes Reza shift from foot to foot, changing his weight, trying to change the contents of his mind. The commander looks at them one by one and speaks slowly.

  Your trucks are the first line. You will enter the target destination. Fire to kill—all civilians, all police, and military—until the site is secure.

  Reza looks around the truck. There are no British guys, no Norwegians or French. Not even a German who can speak enough English to translate for him. There have never been any Americans in his camp and he has spent most of these last weeks with a fighter from Pakistan playing game after game of silent, difficult chess. Reza stands now beside a man who won’t look at him, a man he has seen in the showers, in the barracks, in the food tent, always quiet except to tell the same story over and over: that he is from Iraq, that his mother and brothers, aunts and two uncles, the dog, and all the pigeons in the coop were killed in a drone strike that missed its mark. Reza does not try to catch his eye. In the truck beside them he spots Fariq, the DJ from Morocco, and tries to get his attention and ask, What is he saying? But Fariq’s head is b
owed, his long beard touches his chest, so Reza pretends to listen to the commander and stares at his feet and tries to pray. The trucks start their engines and a few recruits lean over the edge to throw up and a few, like Reza, stare away from the faces of the other men and either look down to their boots or up at the purple sky and the million stars that slowly fade.

  Before the town is too close the trucks veer off onto a gravel grade that takes them down to a dusty low flatland with a thin creek. The drivers follow one another until the trucks form a large circle, and when the engines stop, they shout back to the recruits to stay where they are. An older man and a commander appear from a small mud-and-grass structure and walk to the center of the circle. The commander is familiar; his presence at the training camp, regular and still celebrated. A fighter of the best credentials—Afghanistan, Bosnia, Kosovo, Baghdad, Mosul—he has a megaphone and hands it to the cleric, who begins with a prayer that Reza knows, can recite by heart to readily pledge himself, his heart, body, life, to a God that is great.

  The cleric announces, Deal with them in a way that strikes fear in those behind them.

  The cleric opens his palms and asks that God find and honor their cause of a state, so a state may thrive, through time and the hearts of mortal men and women who can worship Him without persecution, in the proper way. The cleric is old, calm, and his voice is easy to listen to, sonorous with conviction and a kind of love. Reza’s head goes quiet and now he can focus, can commit himself, and brings to mind the image that will not fail him, that has served him every time. Fatima in her head scarf, reading the Koran; the look up, her lashes and black eyes and the golden sun of a California afternoon, the sound of kids playing on the playground in Laguna Niguel, the taste of grapes in his mouth, the dream of their children, one day, laughing nearby. Richness and love. A better family. That is all he wanted. A life made of family and God and love. A life of a joy his own life had never known.

  And now this. A mistake.

  The cleric sings his joyless song and the sky grows bright and the men around Reza sweat their fear and the order of the day is battle and possibly death and if he can only tie himself to the memory of her, at the other end of this, Reza can pull himself through. But his mind fails him and he can’t conjure her in a scarf or on that afternoon and instead has an odd, vivid memory, out of time, out of place: his mother making his bed. His room bright and clean, the familiar small woman straightens the sheets, rights the pillow, flattens down the comforter, and hums to herself, Good Morning America on the TV in the background, and the sound of the traffic of Highway 1 streams in the open kitchen windows. The cleric sings and Reza stares down at his black boots and knows that here, at the edge of battle, possibly at the edge of his life, belief has abandoned him and he is undone and, so, damned.