With tears in her eyes Raashid's mother raced to him, cupping her hands over his cheeks and fussing over him. It seemed only yesterday that he was a baby, kicking and screaming for her attention, or that he was but a boy running and playing in the dirt. Now he was a man, just like his father, and just as such had a place to keep.
His gaze never left his father to whom he nodded and gave his silent consent. Though it pained him he knew that he had little choice in the matter. After all, his father knew better, and Raashid was wise enough to not dare tarnish him in an act of youthful petulance. He was the man who brought him into the world, upon whose back he was supported: he and his entire family owed him their lives.
“I would die for Allah sooner than they would die for their blood money,” Raashid assured his mother, knowing that what he was about to do would surely cost her a son. Though his will for survival was strong and for her he wanted there to be a small flame of hope. It was not a thought merely for her benefit, for he too was afraid. Even in a land torn by war he had come to love his life with a passion and was sorrowful in the knowledge it would end.
“I would not have you die at all.” She reached up, studying her son's shape with her hands. He was bold and strong, but still so young and proud. Even still he had not grown a full beard. There was so much promise for greatness in him, but perhaps that greatness would be better proved in a noble act.
“He will do no less than serve a divine purpose, Jemina,” the father warned. He looked away, shameful that he did not have the strength to break his wife's heart easily, even for something so holy. Were he to admit it to himself he might even say that he too would miss his son.
“Yes,” she admitted painfully. “Yes, servitude can be it's own reward, my son. And for you, eternal paradise.” She beamed to him and stepped away, genuinely believing that better things awaited him. After all, he was carrying out Allah's will. He was chosen.
His father smiled as his doting wife stood to his side. “Go, my son. Rest now.”
That night Raashid could hardly sleep. The very next day he would leave for the desert and to the training camps. When he returned he would fight as a solider in the holy war. Like most boys he had handled a gun and learned how to shoot, but never had he dreamed that it would become his profession. It was not that he didn't see this day coming, rather it was that he was afraid. Loathed as he was to admit it, he did not feel the warmth and guiding light of Allah in his heart as strongly as he felt he should.
* * * *
On his hands and knees he spoke humbly in ritual daily prayer. As was custom he did his best to face towards the holy Mecca, though in a tight enclosed cell where there was no light it was hard to tell just which way that was. Despite the pain, hunger, cuts and bruises Raashid gave praise to Allah, his will prompting his heart to believe his words more forcefully. Even before his capture he'd had his doubts, but he refused to let them play on him. Though alone in the confines of his cell it was difficult not to ponder even the most obscure thoughts drifting through his mind.
He was angry, and it was not an anger that was uncommon. His home, Baghdad, the city he so loved had been invaded and brought to ruin. Soldiers unfamiliar with thick accents and strange words flooded the streets, flaunting their strength and proclaiming themselves heroes. Their leaders spoke of a better way, of building a better Iraq. They considered themselves leaders, but nobody had asked for them to lead. Their words were empty, as was their promise of hope. All they had proved was the weakness of Baghdad and it's people.
To be so humiliated truly pained him. It pained others and a great deal of his homeland, excepting the weak that did not believe, mostly Shi'a, who would turn to anyone to end their plight. That pain gave way to fury: a fury that would drive a will to put things right. In many numbers they would form an army that was driven by Allah's will. They would be unstoppable, because they had faith, and therein lied Raashid's dilemma: did he have enough faith? Was he truly prepared to die for what he was told was right?
With the heavy creak of the steel door he knew to shield his eyes. The bright light sered his vision, making it hard to see. Two soldiers dressed in their fatigues reached in together and each took one of his arms. With next to no effort at all they dragged him out into the hall and propped him to his feet as a third jabbed the tip of his rifle into the small of his back. He followed the white line running along the concrete floor. At the end lay the interrogation room.
Raashid was tired and it had been long since he'd rested. The noises the soldiers would make, the little food they would give him, the way he was pushed around and the lack of comfort left him little time for sleep. At most all he could do was shiver. Weakened, there was no chance of escape. The best he could do was pray that he not break. The knowledge of what would happen if he talked for now sustained him: it was, in many ways, a fate worse than death.
Finally he found himself on a chair in the middle of a room. The walls were caked with dirt, filth and dried blood, though it could hardly be seen in the dim light. At least it was easy on his eyes. It was pleasant to see anything at all, even if it was only two guards standing by the door armed with assault rifles. Against them a beaten, feebled young man such as himself didn't really stand a chance.
“This is going to be like the American movies, yes? A good policeman and a bad policeman.” Though they did not understand a word he said they still responded as though his ill-mannered quip were a threat, cocking their rifles menacingly. He did not need to be told twice: speak when spoken to. It was a rule he was all too familiar with, but neither of them were his father.
“What is your name?” Raashid looked forward to see a third soldier standing over him. His features were obscured in shadow, his brow masking his eyes from the light above. Where had he come from? He spoke the native language, but it still kept it's Yankee drawl. From his tone Raashid could tell he was not a patient man.
“No,” he moaned. It was the only English word he knew and he wanted to make it perfectly clear that he had nothing to say. Of course the interrogator was less than enthused with his response.
“Under Iraqi law the punishment for insurgency is death,” he was then told. “If you talk now you just might be able to avoid the stocks for another year or two.”
Of course it was a lie. Nobody escaped death for very long in an Iraqi prison, nobody that Raashid had ever heard of, anyway. Even if you lived you would not want to. It was a foul place for men to go and rot: a place of suffering, Hell on Earth. Raashid spat. Prison was a place for the real criminals and not for freedom fighters such as himself.
A sharp hand flew across his cheek: a savage backhand intolerant of his crudeness. The pig's face contorted, furious in the face of his enemy. It was almost sweet to watch through the pain. “I'm going to ask you one last time. What is your name?”
The reluctant young soldier began to laugh, though it was probably just hysteria. For him the next several hours were going to be painful. Though he admitted one secret: “Raashid. My name is Raashid Suhrab Nirumand... and I fight for Baghdad.” His name they were allowed. They could mark it on his grave so all the world could know the place and reason he died.
“Where are your allies?” the interrogator pressed, though no answer came. It did not matter how many times he repeated himself, Raashid refused to speak. Fearful of him and what knowledge they might lose the soldier's decided to use more 'elaborate' means of questioning against him.
He did not remember exactly what had happened except that there were many strong hands forcing him through test after painful test, running him through a gauntlet of agony, each more brutal and intense than the last. For every time he would risk blacking out there came a cold bucket of water over his naked body, shocking him back to life. It must have been a great many hours as by the end he was exhausted enough to rest, even through the noise the guards would make to keep them awake.
The picked him up to drag him away, but not before the interrogator gave his final word. “Tomorrow you will be executed,” was all he said.
Raashid coughed, hardly able to breathe. He did not want to die, but it was something he had to do. He would die for Allah, he would die for Baghdad and he would die for the Sunni. Their secrets he would take to the grave and there was nothing they could do about it, but Raashid was so afraid. What would his father think of him if he could see him at that moment?
“Wait,” he called weakly. The soldiers paused, taking their cues from the interrogator, who seemed keen to hear what he had to say. It would be the first words he'd spoken since telling them his name. Raashid looked into his eyes pleadingly. “Their camp... I can tell you where they hide their weapons...”
“Where?”
“West.”
“West of what?” the interrogator prodded. The moment's silence only provoked a sharp slap from him. “West of what?”
Though Raashid did not even have the energy to carry his head. His entire focus was on his breathing in the very real event it should suddenly stop. He had to stay awake to stay alive. The world around was beginning to become little more than a haze. In the back of his mind words had no meaning and thus would not come from his lips, at least that night.
Knowing that they'd tapped what little information they could for the moment the soldiers dragged him back to his cell, but not before receiving a new order. Raashid couldn't hear it. Even if it were in his own language he doubted that he was capable of understanding it.
The next thing he knew it was dark again as he lay on the cool cement floor. Pools of colour passed over his vision as his eyes searched around for a single beam of light. Once more he was alone with his thoughts.
He had talked, but only a few words, perhaps enough to buy him an extra day of life. Though how long he could play this game he did not know. Even worse he feared what should happen if his comrades had heard what he'd done. They were the enemy: the deserved nothing, but despite all of that, despite the dishonour and the loathing, Raashid did not want to die.
* * * *
It was a day that Raashid would never forget. After all of the secret meetings, the communications and whispers it was at last the time upon which he was being called on to fight. From that day forward he would leave his family behind and fight for a cause greater than any other. He would disappear from Baghdad a man and return as a soldier. It was Allah's will.
He piled into the back of the truck with at least twenty other young men, many of them poorer than himself and stinking with sweat. Though they were all around his age: old enough to be considered men of age but young enough to be considered adequately strong and fast. These were the men beside whom he would be fighting, but none of them dared speak a word to one another.
Through the tarp on the truck's side he could see the streets of Baghdad as they made their way out of the city. Avenues were littered with American soldiers, some of them women who remained uncovered. They passed through some of the more violent areas, looking over the remains of homes that had been destroyed due to the conflict. Destruction was such an everyday occurrence for most, and instead of crying about not having shelter the people were back to work putting their houses together again with sticks and clay.
Inside the heat was stifling. There was hardly any water to share between them before they arrived at their destination. Perhaps it was a part of their endurance tests or some such, Raashid couldn't really imagine what. All that was known is that their journey would last for several hours as they passed along the sands to regions unknown.
A small wave of fear ran over them as they held their collective breathes. American soldiers ran checks on the city borders, watching all of them as if the were squabbling children who needed to be told what to do. It was that sort of thinking, that hubris, that wounded them so deeply: that the American way, the world's way, should be so much better than the ways of Islam. Who had made them deciders?
Raashid was so tired of the war, but even more did he hate the invaders. That was the only reason he was compelled to take arms in what seemed to be a never ending battle. Despite the death and injustice Baghdad had for a time found stability, even if under the rule of a tyrant. Now he had fallen and the nations of Iraq was under threat of being crushed. Saddam had taken a foothold of power and the world would not allow it. It seemed they would not allow it to anyone.
As the truck slowed there were sounds: a brief exchange with the driver. Name, destination, cargo, the usual line of questioning. The story seemed to hold. The driver, a man of a more charismatic character, even managed to share a laugh with the soldier, putting him at ease. It may have only been a ruse but Raashid could not understand the mindset of someone who would greet foreign soldiers as liberators.
With a chuckle and a wave the truck continued, soon bumping over more treacherous roads. It was safe to speak but still nobody dared. They were all like blocks of clay, yet to be formed. Things would be so much different when they returned. The blood of invaders would flow in rivers while the streets themselves were cleansed in fire.
Already Raashid was beginning to miss Baghdad and the sense of self he was leaving behind. As torn as it was he loved the city, and something ever more precious that lay within it...
* * * *
It was hard for a mind to remain idle when there was so little for the body to react to. Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling only the sweltering warmth and then the chilling cool. It was the only way that Raashid could tell day and night inside that confined little cell. Because of that he could count the days that passed and with each passing he would struggle to convince himself to hold on for one more.
“Just one more day,” he'd gasp to himself in the darkness. “One more day and they will come for me...” It would provoke a tap on the door from a nearby guard, threatening to torture him if he dared to speak again. Though he did not fear it: suffering was inevitable in a place such as that, though it hadn't escaped his notice that the wise choice would be to delay it for as long as possible.
Where was he? Strangely his mind was cast back to the training camp where they were taken. Was that where he was? Each soldier in training had themselves subjected to the exact same torture, a means of building their endurance. It also served as an incentive: for those who would speak they could only expect more of the same, then an unholy death. Whatever the invading forces held against them, nothing was so severe as that.
It was hard for a mind to remain idle. Raashid had not eaten in days and thus his belly called to him to be filled. Having no means he tried to ignore it, but having nothing else that proved nigh impossible. For a moment his thoughts wandered: oh, what he would not give for the smallest of morsels.
Again the steel door swung open. Where they finally going to let him free? No, it was American soldier. Had they uncovered their camp? Raashid struggled to think. No, this was not their camp. There was a gun battle in the street. He and his comrades at arms had been taken in against their will. Now left in a pit to die they were rotting away, proving their devotion to Allah through whatever torment they might have to face.
The light burned his eyes so harshly that he didn't even notice being dragged down the hallway. His arms, so dreary and weak, couldn't even cover his eyes. How had he come to be so pathetic? Though still Raashid held on. He was still alive, and so long as he had that there was hope. For now he'd served Allah's will and all he needed do now was endure.
“I'm going to ask you again, Raashid,” said the interrogator. Where had he suddenly appeared from? As his eyes adjusted he realised that he was back in the same large room as before for questioning. Could he have been too exhausted to notice?
The interrogator continued. “You know where they hide their weapons. Where are they?”
“I told you,” he said breathlessly, partially with spite and partially out of sheer exhaustion. “They are west...”
“West of what?” An impatient backhand flew across his face, knocking him to the ground. With blood trickling from his cracked lips he looked up and smiled with red-stained teeth. If they wanted his knowledge then they would have to pry it from him. The interrogator did not at all appear impressed. Those were not the answers he was hoping to hear.
Then the process began all over again. Their questions were muffled through his ringing ears, no matter how many times they cared to repeat them. He could stop the pain at any time but would not, could not, for this was what he was trained to do. It would take them hours more before another sliver of knowledge rolled from his tongue.
How many hours had it been? For the moment Raashid could not tell between the warmth or the cold through the sting of his wounds. His body was covered in bruises and burns and he wore each of them as a badge of honour. If his father could see him now would he be proud?
Infidels. Did they feed off of his agony? Surely the must. They never seemed to stop: they were monsters. Though Raashid would still not concede. He would go on until they had been sated, until their bellies were full, then he would give them another tiny morsel: otherwise they would not permit him to live.
Their patience had run thin and they were tired of this slow, taxing process. Finally came the time where they threatened him with execution. It was only then as they dragged him back to his cell that once more he spoke up.
“Fifty two miles,” he gasped. “Fifty two miles west...”
They questioned him further and again said nothing. Raashid, with only a handful of whispers, had bought himself another day of life.
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