Spoiler
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Where does paradise lie?
In the shadow of the swords.
The remote is light, cheap plastic and wires, but it feels heavy in my hands.
All around the sounds of a thousand voices vibrate through the still air, tongues of men and women and child alike, languages young and old. Songs of prayer, whispers of secrecy, shrieks of anger and jealousy, pity and contempt, sorrow and remorse. So many voices. So many tongues. And yet, despite the rush of so many people, so many humans hurrying through their lives, none take notice of me. None offer me more than a parting glance.
I'm just an Arab at an airport. I'm all alone. No one notices.
Sometimes the world must be reminded of what they so cherish. What they value most. Sometimes the world must be reminded of the blessing that is life and why we cling to it so fervently. Sometimes that means a simple act of kindness, of destruction even.
Sometimes it's something much, much worse.
***
"Jamil, pay attention."
"Sorry, Father. What did you say?
My father was a great man. A strong and simple man. A philosopher.
"I asked you, why do you think it is that the extremists hate the rest of the world? Why do you think we hate the Americans so? The Jews and the Christians and the Hindus?"
But where we lived, there was no place for philosophers.
"They're evil."
He slapped me. "Who told you this?"
"Uncle Falid."
"Your Uncle Falid? The jihadist?”
"He's a smart man—"
He struck me again. "No. He's a vain man; a slave to his own blind interpretation of the world. He misinterprets the one book he believes in, the holy Koran. He seeks fire and bloodshed. He views other religions, other people, as evil. Allah did not create our world only so we would destroy one another. He created us to obey and love and serve him. He may be a vengeful God, but He loves us all the same. He is our Father. He is our King. He weeps at the state of our world. He weeps for what we have become, killing and maiming and slaughtering our own kind. Not just for us, but for others all the same. Allah created us to embrace our brothers. We may strive to change the way others think, but violence is no answer."
"But Father, the Jews and the Christians—" I began.
He waved my argument aside. "We are one and the same. We may not believe in the same things. They may be judged more harshly in the end but we have no right to judge them. You see, we do not believe in the concept of Original Sin."
"Original Sin?"
"Yes, the Christian belief that man is born tainted. They believe in the idea of Heaven and Hell. Surely you learned of this in your studies?"
"We learned of Hell."
"And what do you imagine when I speak of Hell?"
"Fire and brimstone."
My father shook his head and let out a chuckle. "Fire and brimstone," he repeated, "when the Christian God cast Lucifer from his paradise, where do you think he fell?"
"I don't know."
"He fell to Earth, my dear Jamil. He fell to Earth. This is why mankind feels so inclined to hate one another. Our capacity to hate, this was our punishment. Do you understand?"
"No."
My father sighed and set his Koran aside. "I didn't think you would."
I was naive. I did not know.
"But Father, you're speaking of another faith, how does this apply to our own?"
"In the end, is it really any different?" he muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing. Kneel now, it's time to pray."
***
A female voice rings out through speakers and down the terminal. "Attention all passengers, flight's 368 to Hawaii, 374 to New York, and 391 to Washington have all been postponed until further notice. We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused. Thank you."
The voice is disgustingly fake. Overly emotional and optimistic. It cannot disguise to absolute disgust the announcer feels for her job, the animatronic boredom. The announcement is followed shortly by sighs, moans, and grunts of dissatisfaction by three separate sets of passengers, each feeling that their destinations are growing further and further away from them.
My hand is hidden beneath the folds of my suit, the detonator and explosive carefully concealed, tucked away from prying eyes. They've done a good job on the device. Small and durable. Incredibly lightweight.
So why does it feel so heavy?
***
I stood staring at the sun set over the ocean. The world around me had vanished. All that remained were the rays of light upon the waves, the rocking boats with heavy nets and groaning machinery. Every day I left home to watch the movement of the ocean and the color of the sky as the sun drifted beyond the edge of the earth and left my world to stumble blindly in the dark.
A man was watching me. I could feel his eyes upon my back. A dark pair of sunglasses hid his eyes. He arched his back and yawned, the tracksuit he wore giving off an audible crunch of cheap plastic. He’d been there as long as I had. I decided to leave. The man followed. He caught up and walked by my side.
“You like the ocean?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Me too."
I was still several blocks away from our home.
"You like the sunset?" he asked, inching closer.
"I do."
"Me too."
I decided to humor him. That's all it was, just a joke, but it didn't stop me from moving faster.
"I have a boat, you know," he said, picking up pace as he moved behind me. His head rocked from side to side as though he was worried someone was watching
"Really?"
"Yes."
My hands were numb. My body was shaking. I could smell the man. Beer and sweat.
"You could go on it, if your parents say it's okay."
"Okay."
"I think they'd be okay with it."
I turned the corner and began to run. I could hear the pound of leather against gravel growing close. Up ahead a white van pulled to a stop, rocking on shaky suspension and leaving a thick line of tire marks across the asphalt. The door swung open and my uncle Falid stepped out. I stopped dead in my tracks.
I thought he was watching me, but he wasn't. He was watching the man.
"Jamil, get in the van."
I didn't hesitate.
Falid stared at the man. His hands shook. A vein tightened along his wrist as he curled his fingers into a fist at his side. "I don't want to see you near my nephew again. You hear me?"
The man heard.
Falid entered the van and shut the door. I sat on the cold metal floor, breathing harshly, my arms crossed and my head down, trying not to cry. Falid hushed me softly but he did not comfort me. The van continued on down the road towards the neighborhood where I lived but it didn't stop there.
"Uncle?"
He hushed me again. A muffled grunt came from the back of the van.
Across from me sat two men. Each held a rusted Kalashnikov propped against their shoulders like sentries. The noise had risen from a man sitting between the two. His hands were bound, face covered by a black sack. He rocked violently, screaming beneath a gag, head turned in my direction. We were heading into the desert.
***
The watch around my wrist continues to tick. The alarm hasn't sounded. I must wait. Allah watch over me, I must wait.
Around me many tourists and natives gather, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic seats. A fat man fans his face with a white cap, struggling to breathe. A black man with cornrows stares at the obese man, inching slowly away. A teenager sits next to his girlfriend. Their heads rest against one another's, either fast asleep or deep in thought. A young woman sits beside her husband, chiding their two children, a young boy and girl, each with bright blonde hair like their mother's. The two take off at a run, speeding around the seats, each shouting their own imitation of what an airplane sounds like.
The boy speeds on, bumping my shoulder and shouting an apology as he goes. The girl stops. She turns to face me with a shy smile splashed across her face.
***
We came to a halt about twenty miles outside of Damman. Falid took me by the shoulder and guided me out of the vehicle. My heart began to pick up speed. Why was I here?
The two men with the rifles arose, shoving the hooded man forward and into the dirt. He grunted in pain. I stood watching. The driver of the truck shut off the engine and exited the cab. A silence spread across the land.
The driver returned to the group with three shovels. Metal glittered in the moonlight. Falid took one for himself and pressed the second into my hands.
“Dig.”
Several hours passed. Soon the hole was deep enough. The hooded man was thrown inside and the dirt began to shift back into the hole. I already knew what was to come. Before long the man was completely buried, save for his head, which arose like a single, fat stalk from the earth, the only plant left in a dead land.
The rocks were already laid at our feet.
"Shafi, remove the sack."
The driver leaned forward and pulled the cloth away. The scream I held rose in my throat. My father lay buried in the sand, mouth bound with a rag held in by razor wire. The driver removed the gag.
My father screamed in fury. Red splotches rose against his cheeks. Spittle flew from shredded lips. "Falid! You bastard. Curse you! Curse you! How dare you take Jamil here? How dare you!"
Falid ignored his words. "Brother, you have spoken out against our cause. You have taught your son of the infidel's worlds. You have tried to reason with these men, these heathens. You have lead them into our mist with your words. You are a threat to all of Muslim life."
My father's head shook in the sand."What sort of life? What sort? Where you murder innocent men and women and children? You are a fool, Falid. You know what I think? I think you are slaves! You care not for what the Koran teaches, you care only for your own selfish ideals!"
"Enough," Falid spat. He signaled for his men to grab their rocks.
"Do you think the world will remember you for what you've done? No! You will be lost to the ashes of history, like so many martyrs before you. You are no better than the evil, propagandic infidels you so despise. You are slaves."
The first rock struck my father's face. Blood jutted up from his twisted nose, dribbling down his mouth. He spit teeth. A pool of blood gathered at his neck.
The driver threw next, catching my father across the eye. Blue bruises began to swell. A deep gash opened down his forehead upon the third. His screams echoed.
Falid placed the rock in my hand. "It's the only way you'll learn, Jamil," he said, rubbing his hand across my back.
I stared into my father's broken face, drenched with fresh blood, purple and raw. I turned to face Falid. His wild eyes danced with madness. I let the rock drop to the desert sand below.
"No."
The men behind me cocked the guards of their rifles.
"You don't understand, Jamil, you have no choice."
I watched my father stare up at me. The grimace of pain left his face. Calm serenity returned. "It's okay. It's okay, son."
"No, Father—"
"It's okay," he whispered.
Falid retrieved the rock from the earth and cupped my fingers together around the stone. "You may think me evil now, but you will see. There can be no peace in this world. There can be no rest. The servants of God are always needed."
The fourth rock was thrown.
***
The little girl stands across from me, smiling still. She's dressed in a pink skirt and top like a ballerina's outfit. Her brother shouts for her to follow, dismayed by her sudden lack of interest in the game.
The little girl just stares, no longer content to make airplane noises. I raise my hand and give it a little wave. She waves back. My heart skips a beat. The skin upon her left hand is charred and burnt, rumpled from fires long past, a single mark upon her beauty.
"Hi," the girl whispers and takes off running, laughing as she continues her airplane hums.
Soon the end will come. When all is gone I will be sent to paradise where my family lies, where all is good and right, where no more evil exists to burn the land. There will be paradise. There will be love. My father will not have be left to die, cold and alone in a desert. My mother will still have her son. All will be well.
But what if we are wrong?
The alarm on my watch begins to beep.
***
My father was dead. Falid was my mentor now. He would lead me, teach me, care for me. He would train me to become a martyr. In the end he would send me to my death.
The doors to the van slid open. I considered running but there was nowhere to go. We were in the heart of it all; the origin of madness. I stood and glanced around the camp. Iron gates and chains blocked all sides. We were among a training cell. This was my home now.
All around me men and young boys rushed to and fro carrying weapons, wires, sheet metal. As I passed the firing range several boys held rifles and fired carelessly into wooden targets. A toddler sat alone in the sand holding a box of matches. A G.I. Joe browned and burned under the flames. The child laughed and clapped his hands together. Men in black masks marched side by side through makeshift obstacle courses, climbing ladders and bustling through live fire.
As we neared the end of the tour a harsh smell hit my nostrils. I tried to cover my nose but Falid slapped my hands away. "There is something you must see.”
He placed his hand upon my shoulder and guided me beyond the camp to where a ridge rose up, ending in a peak that shadowed the valley below. Falid led me to the top and together we gazed down upon the land.
Broken, burnt, ruined. The land lay scarred and gone, each tree blackened beneath fire. Ash floated in the air with each swirl of wind. Worst was the smell, that of rotten flesh. I tried to turn away but Falid held me in my place, his hand locked upon my chin.
"Look.”
Below stood the remains of a mosque, its once shining white marble now stained gray, turned to rubble and ruin. The bodies of hundreds lay dead at its gates. Women clasped children to their breasts, twisted and deformed. Arms stretched to the heavens, pleading with Allah to save them from the fires that struck his house of worship.
But Allah never came. No one came. They were left to burn as they always were, as they always would be. Nothing moved below. All was black, save for a single blot of color that stood out against the dark. Arising from the ashes, buried in the glassed sand, stood the American flag, waving proud and free.
***
I stop the beeping watch. I unzip my bag and lay the cloth before me, spreading it out and facing towards the terminal glass. Rays of light spill over the land. The sun is setting. Beautiful showers of gold spiral down in multitudes of color as they pass through the windows. I sink to my knees and bow my head, whispering aloud Salatu-l-Maghrib, the sunset prayer.
"Bismillah hir rahman nir raheem," I begin, but there is no time. I speak quickly, hastily, proclaiming my love.
The remote feels heavy in my hand. My face is slick with sweat. Tears stream from my eyes. My body begins to shake. I realize there are people watching me. I must hurry. The bomb against my chest has sprung to life. The wires and clay of the explosives sting my skin.
My father lies dead in the sand. My mother weeps. Falid waits, watching the airport for the holy fire that will rise.
There will be paradise. There will be love within the world, a world where my people are truly free from tyranny and hate where great men do not die as martyrs, do not suffer an unjust death before their children's eyes.
But what if I'm wrong?
There is no time to waste. I've trained. Eight long years have I trained. I will follow into the footsteps of history or vanish into its sands. I raise my head, tearing open my shirt, revealing to the people around their fate. The screams have begun. Women and children grasp one another, husbands comfort wives. The teenager pulls his girlfriend close, smoothing her hair, her face buried in his chest. The fat man holds the crying black man, his eyes wide and haunting. The little girl and her brother hold hands, confused, watching me as I shout.
I raise my hands high, the remote clenched tight in my fist, the copper wire dangling as it connects from the explosive to the detonator. Security arrives, their guns drawn. They're screaming for me to drop my weapon. The last of my prayers ring through the chaos.
"Ameen.”
