Uprising.

[I wrote this during the protests against the government in Bahrain. It came to me in my head as I began to realize how the entire Arab world had suddenly become susceptible to change. I hope you enjoy.]

“An uprising.”

“Uprising?”

“Uprising.”

Ali stared up at his superior with doubtful eyes. The room was dark and the air stiff so he was having a difficult time making out his friend’s softer and rounded features. He fumbled with the metallic locket that glistened upon his chest and sighed before replying to the previous ridiculous statement.

“We can’t do it.”

“And why the hell not?” Khama’s emerald eyes sparked with instant disappointment.

Ali frowned, “We don’t have the manpower. Or a motive.”

“This isn’t motive enough for you? All this shit lying on the streets, the people starving to death; that isn’t motive enough for you?”

“Calm down,” Ali leaned back on his chair casually, his worn boots landing on the table as he stretched, “You need to think this through.” The chair almost toppled as his lean body curved over the edge – Khama laughed at him struggling to stay balanced.

Trying desperately to quench his mad desire to run from the room, Ali stood up and pointed to the map on the wall as he spoke, “Do you see how many people are following us? We have less than a tenth of the country on our side and you want-“

“-to give the people exactly what it is they want. This is the way to do it; they want change and they want it for the better. We can do that, Ali, why do you doubt so much?”

“Why do you ask so many damn questions?”

Khama ran a hand through his long blonde hair. The golden mess was characteristic of his native country of Germany – although he had been born and raised in the same country as Ali, Khama’s hair, eyes and skin would forever remind them that they could never be the same.

There was a pause.

Khama broke it, “I value your input.”

“But you’re not going to listen to me.” Ali finished his thought for him and buried his head in his weathered hands. This situation was going to get out of hand quickly if he wasn’t careful. The people were not ready for this fight and neither was Khama – he just didn’t realize it.

“The government is corrupt, the banks are bankrupt, the businesses are all failing and the people are sick and tired of this treatment, Ali can’t you see it? This is not the world we were born into; this is not the Pakistan we knew as children. When we played in the streets, we knew they would not explode beneath our feet – when we went to talk to the neighbours we did not take guns on suspicion that they would try to kill us. This is not the country I live for and if I cannot live for my country then I should not live at all.” Slightly breathless after pounding out his speech, Khama slapped a hand on his rounded stomach and fell to the chair next to him.

Ali looked at him closely, studying his undefined features and reckless aura. There was a ghost in his eyes – a daemon that had always tipped the scales in the favour of the unimaginable and unachievable in his life. Not strangely, Ali saw the daemon dancing in his friend’s iris.

He inhaled sharply and shook his head, “This will not work.”

Khama’s impatience barked through, “You keep saying the same thing and yet you can give no justification or reason for your disbelief. You were born a man of faith Ali, how can you not believe in what is right and good?”

“Because none of this is right, Khama.”

“Exactly! None of this is right – this is why I fight.”

Ali was off his chair now, “You speak of revolution and change but how can you expect to win a fight where the odds of your victory are smaller than the force you possess?”

“The people-“

“-the people are not as strong as you say them to be, Khama.”

“We have suppliers. Several of our strongest followers are powerful individuals in the government and in the business of finance and weaponry. Once we begin what is good for the people, others will come. We are not without friends.”

Before Ali could release the string of curses and counterarguments he had boiling up in his mind, a young boy burst through the back door. Without stopping to speak or explain, he flung a yellowed envelope to the table and staggered to the bathroom – his bloody footprints decorated the floor he walked on.

Khama snatched up the envelope and, ignoring Ali’s confused expression, began to open it. It was a short missive, the kind that you only get when things are not going well and you need to be able to read without having to think too much.

“Well?” Ali asked.

For a moment, Ali swore he saw the daemon pause.

Khama’s frantic eyes flashed across the room and he spoke, panting, “We have to get out of here.”

“What?”

Khama did not reply, yet hurried around the room, gathering his maps and paraphernalia onto the big table at which Ali sat, confused and bewildered.

“What did the message say, Khama?”

“Get your things, quick, we have to leave immediately.”

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on-“

“-Then you’re going to end up like that convoy near the Khyber Pass last week!”

Ali stared. His blank expression merely enrage Khama further – but his friend was already on his feet and collecting his possessions. After a while, all their things were piled up on the table; maps, books, compasses, a lighter, a medical kit, several medallions and various other items which they probably did not realize they would need until now.

Khama pushed all of these into a worn suitcase by the end of the table – but he did not see the silver barrel of the gun pointing towards his neck as he stood up.

The beads of sweat glistened on Ali’s neck as his deep eyes burrowed into Khama’s.

“You’re the mole.”

“Well done, Khama. A+.”

Khama swallowed, “You’ll pay for this, you bastard.”

Laughing, Ali replied, “Without you, the resistance will cripple. After all, you were the only one who believed in all those stupid ideologies of yours. A better country? What could be better than this?” He cocked the pistol with a lopsided smile plastered on his face. Khama trembled but said nothing. Ali shook his head.

He pulled the triggered.

A while later, a tall, weathered man walked out of an abandoned hotel in the province of Punjab. He had an easy, lopsided smile but his eyes danced with daemons.

The gunshot still echoed through the night.