Sarab

by Raja Alem

  But there was no trace of an enemy. The echoes of the firing led them to make out the skinny figure of Sarab, firing demonically at every target with astonishing accuracy.

  She seemed unaware of their approach.

  “God’s blessings on you,” Mujan said. “Allahu akbar!”

  But Mujan’s congratulations left her unmoved.

  “My brother is apparently shooting in his sleep. This is the courage of dreams; if he wakes up he’ll turn tail and flee.” A glare from Muhammad curbed Sayf’s supercilious comment. Meanwhile, Sarab continued to shoot in a trance, and the men were captivated by her silvery appearance under the moonlight.

  “All right, that’s enough. There’s no doubt you can shoot.”

  Muhammad took her by the shoulder and led her back to the camp. She walked beside him like she was hypnotized, confirming the suspicion raised by her brother that she was merely sleepwalking.

  In the following days, the trainees competed using the most sophisticated weaponry, and Sarab oscillated between her failure at target practice when awake and her success when asleep.

  “Awake or asleep, we need men like Sarab here; they have night vision that pierces the darkness and hits the target,” Mujan declared. This settled any doubts of Sarab’s value to the jamaa, but had no effect on their determination to view her as a source of amusement. A frivolous spirit sprang up in the group; the desert’s wide-open spaces and their preoccupation with violent training seemed to have exhausted their bodies and stopped Hell from pulsing through their minds and veins. It allowed their programmed minds to clear and their theories to stagnate, letting their souls reveal themselves. The hardness in their faces dispersed, and smiles began to creep over them. They surrendered to life, and Sarab was a font of entertainment. They began to take turns watching her at night, and concocted elaborate jokes about what she did when she was sleepwalking. There was a wager on whether she was asleep or dreaming when she fired clouds from her weapon that rivaled even their capabilities.

  Sarab wasn’t aware of their jokes or their bets, impervious in the state that seized her between waking and sleeping when her overpowering fear slackened its grip on her body and mind.

  During the day, despite her failure, she hovered in rapture. She bloomed, her vitality bursting free in the open spaces of the desert and its gentle breezes, which diminished her memories of her childhood and the father she had lost early on. He had passed away when she was two years old, and she no longer remembered him. She was dumbstruck that Muhammad had unconsciously begun to play the role of her lost father, filling the void he had left in and around her all these years. But Sarab’s response to Muhammad wasn’t that of a son or daughter; inevitably, she had become infatuated with him.

  While the hearts around them were hardening like stones through their growing intimacy with weapons, her heart was softening from this secret crush. She made sure to join his team for training but, dazzled by his proximity, didn’t wonder why they were using machine guns. Why had they been placed in the jamaa’s hands? What had they been recruited for? Where would their next steps take them? To her, this was merely another hunting trip.

  Her whole desire was to be shoulder to shoulder with Muhammad as he supported her delicate body when she fired. The twinkle in his eye whenever she hit the target and her hunger for that encouraging look drove Sarab to improve until the weapon was like a natural extension of her intoxicated body. Sayf was envious of her unexpected skills, and refused to acknowledge her proficiency. But Sarab’s aptitude couldn’t save her from being viewed merely as Sayf’s shadow. As if their male hormones had caught a whiff of her female hormones, they took aggressive aim at her. Not content with her given name—which meant mirage or delusion—they took pleasure in distorting it, and nicknamed her Khayyal, a shadow without substance, something that can’t be dispelled. They saw her as an appendage to Sayf, whom Mujan honored with the appellation Sayfullah—Sword of God.

  On their return to Medina, Sarab was bereft by the leaders’ renewed seclusion. Opportunities to meet them dwindled, reduced to the secret meetings that were heading toward a point of no return. Rumors abounded and the house was struck by a wave of suspicion about “the end,” whatever that might mean, although Sarab welcomed the prospect of it if it meant the end of her separation from Muhammad. In fact, for the first time she could remember, she gave her heart free rein to beat madly while she struggled with the indomitable desire to be near him. It was fruitless to declare to herself that her desire was foolish, to scold herself for not preferring to be near her brother. But Sayf’s blindness when it came to Mujan was no different than hers for Muhammad; she was ready to give her life in exchange for one moment near him, for a touch of his hand on her shoulder. She ignored the fact that Muhammad was the husband of Mujan’s sister, and they shared a room connected to the room of Mujan and his wife.

  Mystery cloaked these women, who almost never left their rooms. Sarab knew that there was a door that linked the leaders’ rooms and the wives moved through it, in their own private cocoon. As long as the women were merely ghosts who didn’t appear in daylight, Sarab could convince herself they were just in her head, giving her an excuse to sink deeper into her infatuation with Muhammad.

  1979: The Savior

  The jamaa’s secret activities came to a head in 1979. The group had swollen as it collected students from private universities, institutes of the ulema, and an institute of studies subordinate to the Grand Mosque. It had also gathered fanatical followers among houses founded by the Ikhwan in other cities.

  Sayf spent six months blindly devoting his heart and soul to Mujan’s aims and developing his combat skills before he was allowed to attend the council’s secret meetings. This mark of favor surprised the older followers. After a string of arrests among the jamaa that year, Sayf had been brought into the inner circle at a time when they needed to exercise more caution, not less, in who was allowed direct communication with the leader.

  Mujan’s confidence inspired optimism in men like Sayfullah; their readiness for martyrdom in pursuit of their goals was cemented as a result of one decisive meeting of the council. It had been convened in total secrecy during the winter, and the door remained locked on the council members for two days. The cold gouged their exposed ankles like razor blades, but they avoided lighting a fire even to heat a coffeepot. There was no alleviation of the cold intended both as a test of their toughness and as an introduction to the sufferings that awaited them if they abandoned these plans. Before the door shut on them, Sarab tried to catch a glimpse of Sayfullah whose back clung to the wall like a barricade, his eyes fixed on Mujan as he hung on his every word.

  The men were not permitted to sit. The metal chairs and primitive wooden table were left ice cold while the men stood, anticipation hovering over them. Mujan presided, shoulder to shoulder with Muhammad. He looked deeply into the eyes of each of them before disclosing the revelation he had received. It was the first spark, preparation for the step of resorting to an armed struggle in pursuit of their goal. Mujan’s features glowed in the dim light of the room as he presented a dramatic retelling of the vision that had appeared to him in his sleep.

  “This year, in 1399, I felt God speaking inside me. His great hands seized my heart, but not to burst it with His majesty.” His eyes pierced the breasts of the men around him, their hearts burning with immense yearning. “There was nothing but light, and in that light He revealed to me His might. He raised the face of my brother Muhammad, and said, ‘You have received your Mahdi.’”

  Encircling Muhammad’s shoulder with his right arm, Mujan pushed him forward to establish his rule over the hearts and eyes in the room. With a faith that struck an answering fire in the hearts of his audience, he went on: “Muhammad bin Abdullah, you are the Mahdi, our savior, the redeemer of humankind.” The flame of his words blew through the frozen air and flowed over the men’s exposed ankles. The atmosphere suddenly ignited, and on that cold January morning, Mujan appointed his br
other-in-law Muhammad bin Abdullah the long-awaited Mahdi.

  Wrapped in Muhammad’s halo, their hearts thumped in awe of Mujan’s iron will. In him, they saw the true search for martyrdom, which didn’t run after power but scorned itself, wishing only to serve the Mahdi, God’s emissary. Nasir al-Kharaymi, known for his oppositional stance within the council, remained solitary in the corner of the room, watching. He was divided from the glow cast over the rest of the gathering; while Mujan’s words set their faces alight, his was shadowed with doubt as the gravity of the situation escalated. He scrutinized Sayfullah, who throughout had stood to attention like a physical manifestation of Mujan’s will. He was the first to make his way through the transfixed audience and bend over to kiss Muhammad’s hand, paying homage to him as the anticipated Mahdi. This drove the rest of the company to do the same, and they lined up to follow his example.

  “Why him?” The words cracked like a whip, splitting the silence moistened by the sound of lips kissing skin, and all eyes turned terrified to Nasir al-Kharaymi.

  Mujan froze for a moment but, pushed by this opposition to his announcement that the Mahdi had taken bodily form in this very room, he invoked the description of the Mahdi that appeared in the apocalyptic books of judgment and signs of doomsday. In a trembling voice he recited a hadith:

  The Mahdi will appear between Rukn and Maqam, and three hundred and thirteen men will be his companions and pledge their allegiance. They will be like lions emerging from the forest, their hearts like iron. If they cared to erase a mountain, they would erase it from where it stood. In appearance and attire they will be as one. Gabriel beside him will call on the people to pay homage to him, and his followers will come from all the corners of the earth to bow before him in secret and pay homage, among them the Abdal from the Levant, the Nujaba from Egypt, the groups from Iraq, the groups from the east, and the defender of the people of Yemen. Then an army will come from Tabouk to wage war on him and it will be destroyed.

  The threat in Mujan’s tone didn’t succeed in quelling al-Kharaymi’s opposition. His raised voice took on a steely gloss.

  “I’m not convinced. I don’t see any signs of the Mahdi in Muhammad al-Qahtani, and we cannot determine his legitimacy merely because he shares a name with Muhammad bin Abdullah. Most important, this Muhammad is not descended from the Prophet’s line (peace be upon him), and that is the primary condition of the Mahdi.”

  “We, the people of true faith, have been chosen to receive the Mahdi,” Mujan said. “He has emerged from desperation and despondency. Blessings be showered on those who recognize him and support him, and woe to those who oppose him and his orders. May God fill the earth with justice, as it is now filled with oppression and tyranny.” Though Mujan magnified his threats, al-Kharaymi didn’t show a tremor.

  “What is all this talk about destroying the army from Tabouk?” al-Kharaymi asked. “It is forbidden to carry weapons into the house of God, if that is what you are intending us to do. God knows we have followed you to fight Dajjal, Mujan, not to set our most sacred site on fire.”

  Outside, the eyes of the followers were fixed on the door. It was guarded by comrades notable for their size. There were whispers of a disagreement between the two groups in the room, and the followers had split into factions according to their predictions. The atmosphere in the courtyard weighed heavily while they avoided clashes and kept watch in solemn silence. They knew that Mujan was leading a fateful meeting in that room. They waited for hours, none daring to leave. No one wanted to risk missing the rise of the legendary leader and his announcement of the council meeting’s result.

  At last the door opened, and Nasir al-Kharaymi was the first to appear, anger shadowing his face. He had confirmed his position as the leader of the opposition. He was quickly followed by three other opponents of Mujan, who hurriedly left the house. Although Sarab retreated a few steps from him and his supporters, he looked so dreadful that she felt sorry for him when he turned to her as she stood by the door. In a voice laden with grief, he told her, “The innocent should save their skins now and leave. One goal is no longer to be found here: the pursuit of truth.”

  Before he left, he turned back once more to send a vehement warning to the others. “God leaves us to ourselves when we surrender to personal ambition.”

  His words sent a ripple of aversion through Mujan’s loyal followers. The air of the courtyard clouded over. Suddenly the dispute between the two factions broke out into uproar, and it wasn’t long before some of Nasir’s own followers broke away from him. His stormy departure was blocked by the prizefighter build of his most loyal guard, Masrour.

  “My master, how can we leave like this?” Masrour was pale with shock. Explosions were rocking the goal in whose service he had sacrificed his life, had even dragged his only son to serve. Kasir had hurried behind them, his face ashen.

  “What if he really is the Mahdi?” Kasir asked.

  “He’s not the Mahdi. God as my witness, we don’t believe in his legitimacy, or in the legitimacy of carrying weapons into mosques.”

  “Forgive me, master, but I am afraid of facing my Lord on Judgment Day and explaining that I missed the call of His envoy, the Mahdi.” The savage gleam on Kasir’s face made it plain he agreed with his father.

  “You are wrong, but you are a free man. I pray God will guide you to the truth.”

  Nasir al-Kharaymi patted Masrour’s shoulder affectionately, and embraced Kasir.

  “But you will be asked about Kasir; remember he is a minor.”

  He left them and walked out, never to appear again in that house. Sarab suffered sleepless nights over the rift in the jamaa created by Nasir al-Kharaymi.

  War: June 1979

  Six months after this rupture, Mujan announced the next stage of his plan. He convened a meeting calling together the influential heads of each branch of the jamaa which had been established in other cities, and when they gathered in the courtyard of the house in Medina, they saw for themselves the rapture that stirred Mujan’s followers every time he appeared. Most of them had never seen their leader in person before; he had gone into hiding after his name appeared on a list of people wanted by the authorities, and the arrests of his rank-and-file followers had escalated.

  “Allahu akbar!” Ecstatic cries rose when Mujan revealed his plan to occupy the Grand Mosque, aligning his plan with the description of the Mahdi found in the books of Hadith on the end of the world.

  With a grave and pious face, Mujan repeated the hadith.

  Sarab’s heart began to throb; she could hear hearts fluttering all around her, but theirs were pounding from rapture.

  Mujan went on:

  Then the chosen one will depart from Mecca, taking the road to Medina, where he will wage war on the enemies of Isa bin Maryam . . . he will journey to Palestine and defeat the Jews and sunder them, and he will continue to Syria and pray in the Umayyad Mosque to proclaim Judgment Day.

  A wave of tension swept the courtyard and Sarab sensed the bodies around her swaying and bending in the air.

  The Mahdi will only appear amid a great terror. Earthquakes will afflict the people, and the plague and the sword will divide the Arabs. Great conflict will take place between the people, and corruption in their religion, and a great change in their state, and they will wish for death morning and evening . . . When the Mahdi appears, righteousness and justice will reign over the earth after it was filled with injustice and terrible oppression, and he will spread blessings and charity and knowledge, and the earth will bring out its treasures, and the sky will rain down its blessings.

  The watching faces rose in fear.

  “And so, we have been chosen to attend the appearance of he who will purify the earth of its afflictions, and to gift humanity with the blessings of earth and sky.”

  With these words, Mujan announced war on the world. His words ran through the brainwashed crowd like fire through dry straw. They were ready to explode, programmed to do so, and emboldened from being c
hosen as the first to receive the Mahdi, the Redeemer, unaware of the twist their fate had taken.

  Fever coursed through the council over the following months. The number of secret meetings increased, and new followers scrambled to join the group. Weapons were distributed and several trips were organized to the desert camps so the new adherents could be trained in their use.

  Sarab was responsible for serving the leaders; from up close, she could observe the transformation that came over their features, mirrored in the transformation of her brother’s. They were placing metal armor over their faces and hearts, preparing for the ultimate sacrifice.

  Muhammad had forgotten her existence. Now he was the pivot on which everyone turned. His followers found the vengeful, piercing light in his eyes utterly bewitching. He was the generator Mujan used to kindle the fire of zealotry and the desire to seek martyrdom, attracting more and more to the jamaa.

  Sarab was entrusted with the maps they were studying; it was like a bone to a hungry dog. Sarab found it challenging to shut herself away to study these maps; for six months they had had no occupation other than weapons training. These secret documents mapped out the engineering of the Grand Mosque; the exits and entrances, the branching cellars like a maze of subterranean vaults, the hundreds of cells for prayer and retreat—it all set her head spinning.

  “We thank God that our brothers in that company are proving useful.” Mujan was referring proudly to the architecture firm and its offshoots, which were responsible for expanding, developing, and renovating the Grand Mosque. Adherents of his who worked in the company had equipped him with these secret maps of the mosque.

  “Not even the authorities themselves have access to these maps, but the will of God has placed them in our hands.”