by Malu Halasa
He is pointing at the adjacent pens. “The little ones belong to her or her daughters. She has been, in effect, a one-pig population explosion, a fertility goddess.” He bends down and peers into the sow’s beady eyes. “Don’t be humble, missy, your reputation precedes you.”
As he reaches into the pen, the massive sow lunges at him without warning. Uthman plucks his hand out just in time and holds it warily against a broad chest strengthened by steroids. Disbelief mingles with alarm on his face.
Muna is unsympathetic. “If I was a factory birth-giving machine, I probably would have attacked and maimed humans long ago.”
The animal, bloated beyond belief, snorts in short, loud bursts. It kicks the ground with its front hoof, then throws itself headlong into the wooden planks of the pen, which shake under the strain of the impact but hold firm. Caught off guard, Uthman and Muna move off quickly, as the rest of the barn’s inhabitants, in a malign chorus, squeal loudly.
“Let’s get out of here!” She retraces her steps through the labyrinth of pens to the door and flees into the night.
Once Uthman shuts down the generator, her vision is filled with a bright afterglow before everything fades to near black. She is still adjusting to the darkness as the two of them make their way toward a rocky outcrop. Muna, in the wrong kind of shoes, snags a heel on uneven ground. She almost loses her step a second time, but Uthman catches her by the arm. She is going to thank him when she hears a sudden commotion and feels a rush of air; someone or something scuttled past her. It was close, whatever it was. The big man too is standing perfectly still, waiting, watching, and listening.
Muna breaks the tension by quietly asking, “What was that?” She can’t hide the fear in her voice.
Still scanning the murky shapes of rocks and scrub, the bodyguard doesn’t answer right away. When he does, he mumbles, “Maybe man, maybe pig, can’t tell.”
They start walking again—this time Muna treading more cautiously over the rutted earth and Uthman less attentive to the woman by his side. The both of them are attuned to the noises of the night. When nothing else happens they both think they must have been mistaken. Despite their political differences, the brush with the unknown has brought them closer and Muna finds herself not minding the bodyguard as much.
They stop near where the ground slopes downward and rolls off into the distance, with the lights of the town far below. The blazing neon sign advertising Abu Za’atar’s Marvellous Emporium blinks on, off, on, on, on, with menacing irregularity like search lamps. Even the outlines of the service square are still visible with the headlights of the taxis and the fires from the outdoor barbecues. Towering over the town are the two domes, one belonging to the mosque, the other to the Church of the Mosaic. At the very bottom, where the dimmest outline of the road runs like a ribbon through the hills, are the twinkling lights of the wedding party. Above, a waning moon hangs in a vault of stars.
“See that?” Uthman, his gaze turned upward, picks out the Pleiades. His tone is wistful. “Radiation that has been traveling since the world was nothing but a chunk of molten rock hurtling through space, and this second now it reaches us tonight. They should remind us of our insignificance.” He is interrupted by gunfire coming from the Matroub villa. “Hey, they’re celebrating the wedding.”
The firing, followed by shouting or singing—Muna can’t tell which—catches the wind and is carried up to the farm.
“Ever handle a gun?” Uthman asks her.
Her reply, a shake of her head, sends him in long strides toward the car. Muna hears the trunk opened and then slammed shut. When he returns, there is pride in his voice as he hands an automatic weapon to Muna.
“Kalashnikov!” he declares.
“No, that’s all right.” She wants to give it back to him, but he presses it into her hands until she has to take it.
“No worries,” he insists, “I will help you.”
The steel is cold and heavy. Before Muna can stop him, Uthman has reached in from behind her. In another time or place she would have been a young woman cradled in the arms of a capable man. Uncomfortable, Muna doesn’t want to give in but she does. “Okay.”
Resting the Kalashnikov’s butt in the crook of her shoulder, he guides her left hand beneath the barrel and pushes it upward so that she aims at the stars he says he loves. Undoing the safety catch, he steps back and orders, “Now!” As a volley of bullets explodes into the air, Muna isn’t prepared either for the force or the shock of the sound—loud, sharp, resentful—like an angry Old Testament God.
26
Abu Za’atar peers blurry-eyed at a night filled with clandestine pursuits. In the dark with his magnifying glass rendered useless, his other senses intensify. Around him the air is suffused with the sounds of laughter, crying, moaning—the pleasure and pain. Weddings are like carnivals. With the rustling in the bushes, someone somewhere is getting kissed, smacked, or kidnapped. Outside the Matroub villa, the men who were shooting into the air have lowered their guns and are returning to their whiskys. At one time he would have joined in the carousing. Looking toward the mountain, Abu Za’atar deeply inhales the aroma of grime and dirt laced with petrochemicals before he starts stretching. He feels remarkably limber after his physical exertions. Muscle strain doesn’t bother him as much as the inexplicable behavior of his nieces.
His pursuit of them was no mean feat. He maneuvered though the parked cars until he was forced to insinuate himself into all manner of tight spots. He tucked himself behind wheels, lay over trunks, and even surprised himself with a gravity-defying sideways stork pose in the cavity beneath a passenger-side door, secured by a deftly placed foot. This Wonder was worth it. Because of her garb, she could have been easily overlooked, except for her shoes, a knockoff pair of Converse, which gave her away. It was a red rag to a falcon. Of course he recognized them; he had even tried to sell them in the emporium, but the distributor ran out. More than them, he admired her spunk and initial approach to Samira. It was so discreet that even at his close range he was unable to pick out a word between them.
He didn’t need to hear them because the unpinning of the niqab plays over and over in his head like a scratched record on Sammy’s turntables. Abu Za’atar is pulled away from the image of this improbable scenario by his vibrating phone. His son, sounding disturbed and breathless, is on the line: “I don’t know—men—” His voice keeps cutting out due to bad reception. “—watch out!”
Abu Za’atar scratches his back against a side mirror of a transit van and goes to where he can see the town. He follows two sedan-loads of mukhabarat cutting a swathe through the streets. Corrosive suspicion is like that, it permeates every crack like flammable exploding grease.
Sammy is yelling, “Everybody in the shop was rounded up and taken outside—I escaped—but before I did I overheard one of the men saying they’re looking for a secret cache of weapons. Dad, do they mean yours?” The phone goes dead.
When it vibrates again Abu Za’atar assumes it is his son. This time the call sounds like it is coming from the center of viciousness: yelling, thumping, and cursing are all he hears in between seconds of deadly silence. A mental picture forms in Abu Za’atar’s mind of big men in ill-fitting leather jackets, a bulk buy from Irbil, not Istanbul.
“We’re in the alleyways and the arghileh bars of the Eastern Quarter,” a man shouts above the cacophony. “Haven’t found him yet. We need to dig deep. What about your store?”
Before Abu Za’atar can put him off, the man bellows, “We’re coming to get you!” then hangs up.
This is not Abu Za’atar’s idea of a fun night out, but he knows better than to argue. They have his GPS coordinates. More disturbing is his house of cards, the Marvellous Emporium, tottering before him. One gasp and it’s gone.
As he waits another pair of glowing headlamps loses itself in the angular shadows of Jebel Musa. A volley of bullets inexplicably exploding from on high gets the Featherer’s synapses firing. Only one place can offer the l
evel of intrigue, not to mention exotic animal husbandry, needed to distract and impress his new friends.
His cell phone vibrates and then is silent. Abu Za’atar touches his nose to his knees one last time. Mean, lean, and ready for action, he scurries through and around the dead metal of parked cars to a fate unknown on the other side.
27
Outside the barn, under a bare lightbulb, Zeinab and Mr. Ammar have been endeavoring to allay Samira’s fears, but she will not be persuaded. Frustrated, she raises her voice: “They’re against everything the women’s committee believes in—what you taught me to believe in.” She scowls at Zeinab. “Why change now?”
Samira gets up from the crate and walks away. Her friend, following, guides her back to where they stand glumly together, staring at the ground.
Mr. Ammar lowers his voice. “That’s why Zeinab and I need to talk to you.”
Samira peers at the both of them over her glasses and sits down. Mr. Ammar moves to the nearest crate beside her. Hunched over, he talks with his hands. “When I said the front is widening its scope, I wasn’t just referring to them.” He motions toward the town. “As you know, Zeinab leaves tonight. We take her as far as the Nasib/Jabir crossing in the west, or if she can’t leave from there, then to one of the unofficial places in the east of Jordan, where the smugglers bring people in. Those areas are heavily patrolled by the Jordanian army and there are rumors that the US will be giving Jordan the same heat-seeking surveillance equipment used on the Mexican border. The time is right now. She will be met and taken across the desert into Syria. It’s nearly impossible to enter Daesh-controlled As-Sweida, but it can be done.
“If that fails we take Zeinab to Iraq and she crosses the border there. Too many factions are fighting inside. However, rebels we know supervise a stretch. She has to avoid populated districts where the regime or the Russians are bombing.”
As the contours of Zeinab’s journey take shape, Samira’s anger about the youth in the garden subsides. She has heard stories about comrades disappearing in the middle of the night from members of the women’s committee, employed as secretaries in one of the front’s dummy offices. Normally it was the men who vanished across borders. This time Zeinab has made the decision herself. Samira feels a twinge of satisfaction.
“I wanted to ask you,” Zeinab begins quietly again.
Samira is listening carefully.
“If you’ll consider coming with me. We work well together. The toughest part will be the desert crossing. Once inside, our real work can begin.”
Samira is secretly thrilled. But before she can react, feelings of regret suffocate her. “M-my mother?” she stammers.
“We’re your family now,” says Zeinab soothingly. “You will visit them from time to time. Remember, you will be among those who believe enough in you to entrust you with their lives.”
Her words return Samira to the disagreeable encounter among the sickly-sweet honeysuckle and jasmine in the garden. “And the sheikh and his followers, are they trustworthy too?”
Zeinab becomes exasperated. “You’re not being realistic. Tell her, Ammar. We survive on the grace of others. The same forces that nurtured us in the past invest in others. It’s the old story—divide and rule. Everyone wants to drug the masses. Why not with religion? The loyalty of people can be bought, some believe, with little effort. Whoever organizes the militias, buys the guns, runs the hospitals and schools, cleans the streets, generates a thriving underground economy, has the power. Whoever digs the tunnels and runs the blockades are kings in the land of the brutalized. But it doesn’t have to be that way. If the Americans and the Peshmerga fight Daesh in Iraq and the only fighters left in Syria are Assad’s assassins, the Russians, al-Nusra Front, and Jaysh al-Islam, what’s to become of us? I have no choice but return.” She is silent after her outburst.
“Believe me,” Mr. Ammar stresses, “none of us wants anything to do with the Islamists, but they have unlimited resources and a formidable network through their charities and religious madrassas. Who else is strong enough to support us and give us arms?”
His argument gives way to anger. “If we are weak and do nothing, it means death. If we stop moving, even sleep, we die. We need them now, not forever.”
Samira feels dejected. Where they sit, against the barn, Hussein erected an old plaque of their father’s, a faded handprint in the blood of a sacrificed goat. It was a sign of Al Jid’s belief that God Himself protected the grain and animals. Samira prays that she too will share in its provision and that against the odds her life will not be wasted.
A burst of close gunfire rouses her from the crate and she abandons Zeinab and Mr. Ammar without a word, rushing toward the car. “What happened?” she asks Uthman, who is returning the Kalashnikov to the trunk. Zeinab, Mr. Ammar, and Muna join them.
Uthman brags, “Your cousin is a feedayeen—a freedom fighter. Mabrouk, congratulations!”
Samira is more excited than relieved. Smiling, she turns to Muna and announces, “I’m going to work for Syria whatever way I can.” A decision has been made in the short distance from the barn.
She continues speaking, even though she knows Mr. Ammar would prefer her to say nothing of their plans. “I leave tonight.”
Samira, hugging her cousin, feels her flinch. She would like to talk with her more so she won’t worry. Instead Samira stops and listens to a whining car engine straining on the hills. It’s not as faint as it should be, which means it’s closer than she thinks. Once the car is on the turnoff and the long reach of its lights reflects off the dirt track, Uthman takes charge. Quickly gathering the small group behind rocks, he signals for them to keep out of sight and remain absolutely still, as a battered station wagon pulls near them.
The elderly turbaned sheikh with a walking stick is the first out, followed by two younger men dressed in loose tunics and trousers. One of them brandishes a handgun. Samira can’t be sure in the dark, but she thinks she sees the youth from the garden. Two more men emerge, supporting a third incapable of walking by himself. Badly beaten up, his body hangs limply forward. Although his face is hidden, Samira immediately recognizes Hussein. Biting her knuckles, she clutches at Muna.
The men drag Hussein around to the front of the car and drop him. He moves fitfully in the headlights. His captors have apparently been having their own heated discussion on the drive up. A large man wearing a prayer cap speaks first: “This place is an abomination. Behead him now. Be done with it. Why care about an infidel? He will burn in hell anyway.”
Another man calls for calm: “Do we kill everyone in our path?”
The youth from the garden is impatient. “We’ve debated enough. Haven’t we warned him? Each day that goes by we are abused by his vile presence, and all of this”—he dismisses everything around them—“just by breathing in this stench we endanger our souls.” He grabs Hussein by the collar and lifts him off the ground. “Ya kalb—dog—we’ll show you what we do to people who disrespect our religion!”
Behind the rocks, Samira hisses at Mr. Ammar, pleading, “Do something!” Tears of mascara form in deep pools beneath her glasses. “I warned you not to trust them, but you wouldn’t listen—”
“Your brother will be all right,” Zeinab whispers. Her dark beautiful eyes are frightened but her demeanor cool. She looks to Mr. Ammar for confirmation.
“We’ll do everything for him, but not now,” he promises Samira. “One man can’t destroy something that has taken a year to build.”
Samira whimpers, “And when will you do it, after he’s dead? After I’m dead?” How many have been tricked by this political fraudster?
He attempts to calm her by taking her hands in his.
“Don’t touch me!” she screams, and stands up. Muna pulls her back, but it’s too late. Before Samira walks into the light, Mr. Ammar steps decisively in front of her, followed by Uthman and Zeinab. The sheikh and his men are so astonished, they let go of Hussein and he falls with a thud to the ground.
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nbsp; The political officer wastes no time. “I am Mr. Ammar.” He speaks as though there is nothing out of the ordinary about his appearance in the middle of the night on a disreputable farm. He nods respectfully to the sheikh. “The two of us have been in correspondence. Tonight I received your final terms and conditions.” He raises his voice to emphasize the seriousness of his commitment. “I never thought we would conclude our negotiations here.”
“There is no place my followers and I do not go—”
“What are you doing to my brother?” Samira goes to Hussein, but the youth from the garden blocks her way.
The sheikh addresses Mr. Ammar. “I know you have connections to this family. A courier is one thing,” he admits brusquely, “but I did not realize the extent of your relations. Political officer, it makes me think twice about our plans. The price of our cooperation is a willingness on both of our parts to fight a common enemy.” He dispassionately points his stick at Hussein on the ground. “Some actions demand a response. We tried reasoning. For this man, words were not enough.”
Samira interrupts him by screaming, “Leave my brother alone!”
The sheikh turns and regards her. His voice is colorless and flat. “Have you ever considered, little sister, that we both fight on the same side? Everywhere our people suffer. At this very moment some are bombed or tortured or live starving under siege. Life without fear is the preserve of the wealthy, never the poor. In this world, an individual is powerless. Only sharia will restore the balance. But how can we hope for His guidance with corruption and pollution all around us.”
“Yes, we must take our decision.” It is the youth from the garden again, contemptuous of Samira and her friends. “They are with or against us. There is no middle way.”
“Show them who we are!” another of the sheikh’s followers shouts out, and kicks Hussein, who covers his head with his hands.
As the others taunt, “Kill him!” the sheikh pronounces, “The Qur’an is clear. For His survival alone, enemies of the faith must fall. Our actions will breed terror in the hearts of the kaffirs.”