All across the world there were those determined not to say that what ensued in the city of Baghdad was not a civil war. Though if that were the case then it's people would not be fighting against each other, killing in the streets as a means of deciding whose nation it was. If that were the case the invaders would not have erected massive concrete walls isolating the Sunni from the Shi'a, making each easier to contain. It was truly a city divided.
The walls were laid down by soldiers: pre-made and slotted together slab by slab. At the corners were narrow openings where someone small, say a boy or a lithe man, would be able to squeeze through. It was on the corner of one of these walls running adjacent to a quiet street that Raashid stood and waited all that time ago.
He watched the shadows and the doors, hoping that nobody would see him. It was not only the invaders he feared, but anyone who would spread word of his activity back to his father. He'd prided himself on being a good son, but like all young men he was prone to rebel from time to time. It was simply the way of things, especially when there was the love of a young woman involved.
“Are you there, Raashid?” came a harsh whisper from around the concrete wall. Anxiously Raashid searched the area once more to make certain that he was alone.
“I am here, Fareed,” he said softly. “And what of your cousin?”
His reply was cautious. “She is with me, yes. Though I fear our time is short. Though the soldiers have managed to keep this area quiet there have been a number of smaller attacks on homes and people.”
“I have heard.”
“There is talk on all sides of imposing a curfew. It is dangerous to be out alone at night, even for a man.” Fareed was left to stew in Raashid's silence. He'd already known the reasons his friend dared to be out on the streets and knew it was a risk he considered worth taking. With a sigh he continued, “We will miss you when you are gone, Raashid. You are a true friend.”
“Thank you,” he said in earnest. Ever since they were children Fareed was someone he could trust, with whom he shared a hidden part of himself. It was comforting to know that there was someone who he could confide in so absolutely.
Fareed's footsteps crunched away in the sand while another, softer pair approached the narrow opening. From it came a lady's voice. “Raashid...”
“Basimah.” He was surprised. One of his worst fears was that he might never hear her voice again, especially after what had happened. Though it was a decision of their fathers and had little to do with them. He steeled himself to say the words he longed to say which he feared he soon would not be able to say again. “I've missed you.”
“And I you,” she replied shyly. “I only wish that I were able to see your face again...”
“That is what I wish too, but... we cannot,” he reasoned sadly. “Soon I will leave for the desert. What I do will be noble and just. I will leave a man and return a brave warrior for Allah. Should I die, I die with glory.”
“I would not have you die at all,” she sighed, holding back a flood of emotion. The words gave Raashid pause as they were like those of his mother's. It had always been like Basimah to speak boldly out of place. Often it landed her in trouble, but it was something in her that Raashid admired. Having learned her lesson countless times before she recanted, “I am sorry. It is not my place.”
It may not have been her place to say but Raashid was glad that she did. She was his joy and his pain, his reason for doubting the cause. Time and again he'd say he would sacrifice her for Allah, though he would do so with an empty heart. Once they were promised to each other, but another calling beckoned. It almost seemed a shame: he would have loved the life they shared.
He whispered to her humbly, “paradise would be a lonely place with you.”
“Lonely?” She laughed bitterly, choking back a tear. “You would have seventy-two virgins at your side. There would not be the chance for you to be lonely.”
“That may be so,” he lamented, “but not one of them are you, Basimah. None could ever hope to compare.”
They were halted, neither sure what to say. Finally Basimah pleaded, “please don't go. It is your father's wish for you to fight, not Allah's. Allah would not have you taken from me.”
“I must.” His reasoning was that of his father's and would not relent. One way or another he would travel to the desert and be changed by it.
Basimah conceded, knowing that he could not be convinced. Instead she thought that perhaps she would leave him with a thought. “When I was a little girl my mother would tell me the stories of a storyteller from many years ago, back when our lands were a peaceful place and the cities shone like jewels.”
“Which stories were these?” Raashid's curiosity had piqued.
“It was known as the One Thousand and One Nights,” she said. “It told the tale of Shahryar, king to all of Persia, who declared all women unfaithful upon discovering his queen's infidelity. Every day he would seek out a new virgin and they would wed, only for her to be executed in the morning.”
Raashid sighed. She would tell him stories on their last night together? He was confused. “Basimah...”
Though she forced through his protest regardless. Raashid held his tongue as Fareed would later remind her of her place. “Finally the king came upon Scheherazade, who on their wedding night did tell him a story. Though to the king's dismay she would not finish and he would spare her for another day so that she might. As the nights passed she would finish her tale only to start another, one by one buying the days of her life.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Raashid, my love, do you not like my story?” His exasperated sigh expressed frustration. Perhaps he was too weak to make a good husband, but he would not dare in his heart to silence her. With a gentle smile on her voice she continued. “There are many tales that Scheherazade told the king. They are tales I would like to tell to you as well. Would you like to hear them?”
“Yes,” he relented.
“Then come back to me alive, Raashid. Please.”
Before he could protest he heard her hurried footsteps in the dirt as she fluttered away. Why did she have to make this so much more difficult? Of course he did not want to die, but it was a fact he had to confront. The knowledge that Basimah would weep for him while taking no solace in his sacrifice only proved bitter.
* * * *
“Basimah...”
As a boy he too had heard the stories of the One Thousand and One Nights. Laying in the prison cell, sweating in the heat, not knowing whether it was dark or he was blind there wasn't much else to do than trudge through old memories. It was like wading through mud, his thoughts were so thick and murky. Somehow, somewhere he needed to find something to hold onto.
The invaders had labeled him a 'zealot', a crude word for a holy warrior with righteous devotion, but it was not for Allah that he remained silent: it was his faith in Allah that inspired the love of his home. Nor was it the hope of a peaceful Baghdad that bound his lips, for that had only inspired him to take arms. It was not any of those things, rather it was his love for Basimah that had him grip to life so tightly.
During those long, lonely moments he counted each of the stories he remembered being told when a boy. Sinbad, Ali Baba, Aladdin and so many more came rushing back in a rich tapestry of myth and magic. These were the tales that he loved, that he knew would sound so much sweeter coming from the lips of his darling Basimah.
Through the pain he smiled. He was still alive, thus his plan was working. Like Scheherazade he would give his captors a tiny sliver and make them hunger for more, then they would have no choice but to spare him. For the past week it had served him well, though how he would escape was another challenge unto itself.
“I will come back to you, Basimah,” he vowed, though his breathing was so shallow that the words barely escaped his mouth.
Suddenly a violent force shook the ground beneath him, making the earth tremble as there came the bellow of explosions from outside the compound. The war had reached them, the war had come in search of them. Was this it? Was this the chance for freedom that they had been waiting for? Outside of his door the soldiers scurried back and forth, taking their positions, ready to defend the ground they'd taken. Though Raashid knew that they would not stand in the end: not with the power of faith working against them.
“Allah be praised,” he called weakly with a joyful heart. “Basimah... I will come back for you!”
END
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