Season of Martyrdom

by Jamal Naji

  After Sari’s visit, I remembered Fawaz and that sinful trip to Paris with all its details.

  Why shouldn’t Fawaz pay for abusing me? Why should I leave that wound open if I had the opportunity to avenge myself?

  By sending Sari to see me and ask me all those direct and personal questions, Fawaz had awakened all that had been lodged inside me for such a long time, wiping the dust off of what all those years had buried.

  Abu Hudhayfah

  After Sharhabil recovered, thank God, and was able once again to hold the rocket launcher on his shoulder, there were new developments.

  The regime in Damascus grew bloodthirsty for Sunni Muslims, killing tens of thousands of them. By God, of all the violent plots and schemes concocted by the enemies of Islam, this was the most violent and posed the greatest danger to the Ummah of Muhammad. That was what our commander said when he sent Sharhabil, me, and five others on a secret mission to Syria to explore the situation there before opening the door to jihad in that afflicted Islamic country.

  Bits of news came to us one after another, causing the blood to boil in our veins, especially when we learned that legions of Nusairis and Rafidites had united with the lands of Persia, Iraq, Lebanon, and Yemen to fight against the Sunnis and Al-Gama’a.xi I swear that was one of the decisive wars dividing the camp of right from the camp of wrong.

  We went to Syria by way of Turkey, through a tunnel near the town of Jarabulus. There we were met by some Arab mujahideen who gave us heavy clothing to wear the moment we arrived and then sent us in a truck to a camp belonging to the Deir al-Zor region.

  The camp was vast and extended across two hills, each with a water cistern at the summit, and lowlands where the six jihadi groups trained. They trained whenever they had the opportunity. Each group had a commander who reported directly to the commander of the entire camp – Commander Al-Thuqafy with the hollow cheeks, bony face and mustache draping over the sides of his mouth. They put us together with the Suqoor al-Duru’ group, the Hawks of Armor, because of what they knew of Sharhabil, the “slayer of armor.”

  But the situation in Syria differed a great deal from the situation in Afghanistan. The houses were all demolished, the streets were all torn up, and the distance between warring fighters was short. The mujahideen would attack and withdraw, kill and be martyred in huge numbers, and the supplies and food were plentiful.

  Sari Abu Amineh

  I called Darrar, because he still hadn’t done anything, despite all the gifts I showered on him and his family – things they never dreamed of acquiring. The Basha continued to ask me what was happening with Walid and I kept telling him everything was going according to plan.

  “Good to know you’re still alive,” I said to Darrar. “You can thank me for that. But I can’t wait forever. I think you know what I mean.”

  Darrar said some things that shocked me. From what I understood, Walid had left Afghanistan, and Darrar wasn’t able to find out where he was headed to because of the covert nature of the mission he had been sent to carry out, but he was still trying to reach him.

  I asked him angrily what he had been doing when Sharhabil disappeared, and why he was so calm about having lost track of him. He kept repeating the same thing, “Mr Sari, I am still trying to reach him.”

  Here began the real danger; Walid had disappeared and might have come to Jordan to carry out some sort of mission.

  That terrifying notion rambled through my mind and heart. I remembered what Uroub said about the Basha’s demise coming at the hands of his son, and I started leaning in favor of believing that Walid had surely come to Jordan to carry out a mission that would result in the Basha’s death, despite the absurdity of it all and reliance on fortune-tellers’ prophesies.

  I thought it over and came to the conclusion that I must tell the Basha. Who knew? My guess might turn out to be true, and every precaution had to be taken.

  Then I remembered Mrs Muntaha’s warning and threats that day when I went to see her. I felt the circle had narrowed, leaving only one possibility – the time had come. And so I met privately with the Basha in his office and shared with him all the information I had, including the fact that Walid had left Afghanistan and all about Mrs Muntaha’s threats to me and to him.

  Then I suggested seeking help from the brilliant Grand Basha, Nayef Shahadeh. With eyes widened and eyebrows raised the Basha said to me, “Why are you scared?” And then he asked to be left alone in his office.

  But the threat was no longer limited to the Basha. Now I was being threatened along with him. I had gotten very close to the imminent danger facing him and had become, in a certain way, his accomplice.

  I grew fed up with what was happening.

  Even my relationship with my wife and my children wasn’t what it used to be. I’d become quick to anger, which was unlike me. And I no longer had time to devote to them. Rasha kept on asking me what was going on with me, and whether I’d had a disagreement with the Basha, and I would say no, it was just that the Basha’s business dealings had increased and the complications had increased along with them. And I’d explain to her what kinds of accounting tasks and business meetings were required of me, and whatever other lies I could come up with.

  But I had no reason to think she had been convinced by anything I said to her.

  I was not convincing, not in terms of the expressions I used, nor the tone of my voice, and certainly not in the way my eyes shifted all over the place. And I thought my facial expressions must have given me away, and led her to say, “A liar has to have a very good memory.”

  “What do you mean by that, Rasha?” I asked in anger.

  “Two days ago,” she answered, “you told me what was bothering you were demonstrations that were going to mess up the country, and the reason you were so busy was that you were making preparations to receive an important dignitary coming from Russia, and today . . .”

  “Rasha,” I said, interrupting her nervously, “can you please leave me alone and quit meddling in my business?”

  Samah Shahadeh

  I was surprised to discover there was new security in place at our house, though I had no idea why.

  It was no longer those clean-shaven men with the fine suits who used to come to our house. Fawaz had become even more inscrutable than before.

  They installed cement barriers several meters past the entrance gate and the fence, and the number of guards increased to six – two of them patrolled the roof, each with a weapon in hand, two of them stood at the gate, one stood guard in a position near the fence and the remaining one patrolled the garden with a rifle and a revolver dangling from his belt.

  Security measures meant the presence of imminent danger.

  But the greater danger was the fact that I was no longer capable of understanding what was going on.

  The situation could be more dangerous than I’d imagined, and Fawaz said nothing to me to ease my fears.

  I felt trapped. My movements about the house and the garden were no longer free like before. What my father had said to me was true; there was something depriving me of sleep even in my own home. I wasn’t even reading every morning like I used to, and no longer swam in the pool that was now in view of the two guards on the roof.

  I asked myself whether the Arab Spring had reached us. Had this caused Fawaz to take all these precautions?

  Although I rarely joined Fawaz in listening to all the clamor on satellite television in the living room, I decided that while I was waiting for the barbers to finish cutting his hair, giving him a shave, and clipping his fingernails and toenails down in the fitness room on the bottom floor of the house – activities that lasted a good two hours – I would immerse myself in watching all the international satellite stations he always followed: CNN, BBC, Al-Jazeera, French TV, Alhurra TV, Al Arabiya, Russia Today . . .

  I got a headache and nearly got lost. Each channel had
its own language, commentary, analysis, and news that it focused on, exclusively.

  I felt bored, but it was more a feeling of listless apprehension than true boredom. I put on some clothes and got into my car, trying to escape that feeling of apprehension and also wanting to go out into the streets and find out if other people were bolstering the security around their homes like us, or at least see if there was anything in the streets and the squares that warranted taking safety measures.

  I drove down the wide street leading to Al-Madina al-Tibbiya street, passed through the eight circles, arriving at First Circle near downtown.

  There was nothing at all worth noting.

  I decided to sit down at one of the First Circle cafés and have some ice cream, so I could watch what people were up to.

  Everything was normal.

  Young men and women were sitting around tables, talking and laughing. Others walked past each other without a care. There was no cause for alarm whatsoever.

  So then why all the security outside our house where there were no people?

  I went back home. Fawaz had a whole new appearance – a clean shave, short haircut, clipped and filed nails with the skin below all pink and healthy, and he was sporting a pair of eyeglasses his doctor prescribed for him after he complained he couldn’t see the TV screen clearly.

  I gave him a piece of my mind. He interrupted me, saying, “I haven’t wanted to tell you what was going on with me for some time, in order not to worry you. But if you insist on knowing everything, I’ve received information that I am being targeted by terrorists.”

  “So then some of what Uroub predicted has come true,” I said.

  “God knows,” he answered. “But I have to take precautions.”

  He didn’t tell me why they were targeting him of all people. Was it because of his financial dealings, or was he involved in things I didn’t know about?

  I asked Sari and he confirmed what Fawaz said. Despite my being struck with fear about what might happen, I felt somewhat relieved inside. If this was what he had been hiding from me these past weeks, then he did so for fear of worrying me, not because there was another woman.

  That relief I felt revealed the relative importance of things and events in my estimation – another woman in Fawaz’s life was a greater danger than his being targeted by terrorists.

  That was what I felt at the time.

  But something bothered me when I saw Fawaz with his short haircut – which was that his once ruddy face was now quite pale. I asked him why he looked so pale and he said, “Have you forgotten I’ve been a vegetarian ever since I got back from Mumbai?”

  “Do all vegetarians get like that?” I asked.

  “Most of them.”

  I was not very convinced by what he said.

  The next day I called Sari’s wife, since she was the nutrition expert I had hired to provide his dietary program ever since he became a vegetarian. She confirmed what he said and she also added, “For this to happen to the Basha is understandable, because he’s become a vegetarian, but what I don’t understand is Sari losing five kilos since coming back from Mumbai without having become a vegetarian like the Basha. Didn’t you notice that?”

  Sari Abu Amineh

  When I called Darrar he said, “Soon I will be with Sharhabil and everything will be as you wish, God permitting.”

  “I think you’ve told me that before,” I complained.

  He was quiet and then said, “Put your trust in God. Soon you will hear news of our great victory, God willing.”

  “Yes, by the grace of God. I will wait.”

  I got the feeling from his tone of voice that he had some new information about Walid.

  Darrar had a deep voice despite being so skinny, as if his throat were wider than other people’s.

  I didn’t disclose anything to the Basha, because I wasn’t certain of any of it, and besides, I didn’t want to remind him of what he was trying to forget, even if only temporarily.

  Mrs Samah was not doing well. Anxiety was all over her eyes and every feature of her face. She asked me who wanted to kill the Basha. That was the first time she asked me this kind of question.

  Her questions had always revealed her fear that something was being hidden from her. This time she asked me directly about the danger. And her tone was unfamiliar to me; it seemed to express a loss of patience.

  “Mrs Samah,” I said, “who would target the Basha other than the terrorists scattered all over Afghanistan and Libya and Syria and Iraq, who might be headed our way?”

  “Why him in particular?” she asked.

  “I’m like you,” I answered. “I ask myself the same question.”

  Before she could say anything further the maid came to inform me the Basha wanted to see me in his office. It was perfect timing. I let out a heavy sigh and excused myself.

  The Basha told me he was no longer comfortable with the whole situation and ordered me to go back to Umm al-Walid to get new information on her son.

  I thought he must have known that my going to see Umm al-Walid wasn’t going to get us anywhere, but he wanted to do something. He wanted me to do something, anything.

  This time I felt there was a look in his eyes that cried out for help.

  “Before I go back to her,” I said, “I’m going to check the airport logs and the border crossings. Maybe he entered legally.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “Chances are he got smuggled in somehow.”

  Darrar al-Ghoury

  I found out that the reason for Sharhabil’s disappearance was that he joined the mujahideen in Syria. That information shook my original deduction that the intelligence services were after him because of the danger he posed to the Americans, because the Americans hadn’t entered Syria. So then why did Sari want to get rid of him?

  I signed up on the list of fighters wanting to transfer to Syria after they announced opening the doors of jihad there. Maybe I would come across Sharhabil once again.

  I asked myself why would I want to follow him all the way to Syria, after having been given the chance to do the job I came to Afghanistan for but didn’t do anything about.

  Then it occurred to me that I wasn’t thinking about my family like I had been at first. I felt what was happening to me had created a kind of harshness that was strange to me, a harshness towards my family and my acquaintances, towards everything that connected me to my country.

  All that mattered to me now was getting to Syria and finding Sharhabil, not only so I could carry out my mission with him, but because having him within reach made me feel safe.

  Muntaha al-Rayyeh

  I said to myself: What if Fawaz al-Shardah or that Sari character sent some sort of information to al-Walid, telling him he was an illegitimate child?

  Al-Walid never contacted me except that one time, after Nael, Abu al-Walid died, and even then he was hesitant. Could he have received information about his origins and about his real father?

  That would have been a disaster.

  Sari gave me his phone number and told me to call him if necessary. But I would certainly not call.

  My concerns grew. It was as though I couldn’t escape my past.

  I went to see Sheikh Abu Muhsin, the imam of the mosque who knew al-Walid before he left and knew Nael before he died. I thought he might be close to the mujahideen.

  He was standing on the stairs at the entrance to the mosque wearing his lead-gray dishdasha robe that was the same color as his long, unkempt beard.

  He looked me in the face. His stare was not very friendly.

  He shook his head asking God for forgiveness and lowered his eyes.

  I asked him how I could get in touch with al-Walid and find out if he was OK.

  “Dear sister,” he said, fiddling with his beard, “Al-Walid has gone to do jihad for the sake of God, accordin
g to my knowledge. Take joy in this, and wish for him to attain martyrdom, with God’s permission.”

  “Wish for his death, sheikh?!” I said with disapproval.

  With disdain, he replied, “The pleasant life is in Eternal Paradise, with the prophets and the righteous and the martyrs. Or do you prefer this transitory life to the eternal hereafter?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Can’t you tell him through one of your sheikh acquaintances to contact me, even just for one minute, or give me his phone number if he has a phone? I am his mother who gave birth to him, after all. Don’t I have the right to hear his voice before something bad happens to him, God forbid?”

  “Something bad?” he screamed, angrily. “Are you calling martyrdom for the sake of God something bad? This is indeed the vilest sort of blasphemy, woman!”

  I was confused. I felt we were both having problems with our wording, and with the manner of the questions and the answers.

  “Forgive me, sheikh,” I said. “I am a mother, and it seems my longing to see my son has made me forget how to speak to you. Or maybe I . . .”

  And when my tongue got tied as I tried to finish my sentence, he decided to finish it his own way. “Or maybe you are like all women – lacking in brains and religion.”

  With much displeasure I said, “Couldn’t you find a better way than that to respond to the mother of one of your glorified mujahideen? Truly, the meaning of words is found in how they are expressed.”

  Then I turned angrily to go home and almost bumped into a bearded sheikh who was very small in stature and was coming up the stairs towards Sheikh Abu Muhsin. Our eyes met for a moment before we looked away.