Page 180 of Whisper

No one came to rescue him, or his family. No one cared about his father’s murder. Ten years old, and he’d known a truth then, something he refused to face as a boy.

But as a man, the truth was inescapable. The twisted, horrible path of his life, revealing the same truth to him, a dozen different mirrored ways. Reflections of agony, reflections of evil.

Where did it all end? How? Had the paths of history become so hopelessly entangled that there was no end? Just a ceaseless cycle of violence and death, killer and murdered always trading places? Where was reason? Where was justice?

What was his role in this life?

“Subhanallah,” Dawood muttered. What would his baba say? ’Bu Adnan, and his father before him? What would either man have said of Dawood sitting side by side with Ihsan?

“In shaa Allah, brother, we must restore the Caliphate. Every battle we fight, we’re trying to push the invaders away. Little by little, we must reclaim what was once ours.”

“The world is too big now. The Caliphate, a land of our own, is now just a dream. We can never go back to the past, to the Caliphates of old.”

“Don’t you want a home of our own?Muslimlands? Where we can be free? You know, the children of Saqqaf are trying. In theSham. They’ve taken half of Iraq, half of Syria.”

“Saqqaf?” Dawood snorted. “Saqqaf was a thug. He wasnoMuslim. His followers were not Muslims. Nothing built in his name is any glory to Allah. He, and everything he brought into the world, go against Allah.”

Ihsan sighed. “The children of Saqqaf call themselves the Islamic State. They have declared that they are the Caliphate renewed.” His eyes were dark, burning with something that looked like wariness as he judged Dawood. “Al-Qaeda broke with them recently. For being un-Islamic.” Ihsan sighed. “I lose fighters to the Islamic State every month. They yearn for that Caliphate. They want to be part of a world where we are not subjugated any more. Where Islam lives and breathes, and our lives are one with Allah.”

“They willnotfind that with Saqqaf’s children. That is not Islam. That is a death cult. They have turned Muslim against Muslim, slaughtering anyone they wish. Nothing they do reflects the Prophet’s teachings,salla Allahu alayhi wa sallam. Allah’s wrath will fall upon them, swiftly.”

“Thenwhere, brother? The Arab Spring was supposed to liberate our people.” Ihsan shook his head. “Democracy was supposed to be the salvation.Finally, dictators would fall. The people would speak! Islam would rise! But, after the people spoke, the military took control, seized the government in a coup after elections brought our brothers to power. Eight hundred brothers and sisters were massacred in Egypt. The Syrians are trying to rise up, seize their freedom from the brutal hands of their leader, but the world ignores their cries for help. For justice. The world just looks the other way when it’s Arabs and Muslims who are dying. What must wedo, in this world, for our freedom? For our Muslim lives to mean something, tomatter, to this world?”

“A Muslim is a Muslim no matter where he is or what the world does. As long as he is close to Allah. The more difficult the world, the more a person’s closeness to Allah is tested.” Dawood swallowed. If he could boil his life down to one statement, that would be it. His words tasted empty, though. There was a war being waged for the soul of Islam, battles that tried to shape their existential reality. Where did he fall on those battle lines?

Ihsan’s eyes pinched as he stared at the fire. “Whoareyou, Dawood? You do not speak like an Afghan, or like a Pakistani. Or like a man who has lived his entire life on top of a mountain. You are your people’s imam. But how? What brought you there?”

“You do not speak like an Afghan or a Pakistani, either.”

Ihsan laughed. “I’m Saudi. I came to join the mujahedeen after the coup in Egypt. Wemustdefeat these dictators. And clear our lands of the infidels. Until we have something of our own again.”

Dawood took his time answering. “I was born in Libya. I have traveled the world, to all the corners. My being has been shaped by the West. But I was born Arab and Muslim. And I have been pulled back to who I am by Allah for a reason.” He met Ihsan’s gaze. “I’m still figuring out that reason.”

Ihsan smiled. “In shaa Allah, perhaps we are meant to meet. Have this conversation. Become friends.” He clapped Dawood on the back, laughing.

Overhead, the moon rose from behind the shattered mountains, bloodied and haze-red from the fires, the smoke, the blood in the air and the ground. Dawood’s eyes lifted.

Kris. My bones are exhausted. My soul. I can’t understand this anymore. This life. This path. Not a moment passes where I do not wish to hear your voice again. The answers I need are in your soul. But you’re gone. What do I do?

He prayed to Allah, asking for blessings for Kris, for Kris’s soul to be at peace. Ihsan caught his whispereddua, watched his moving lips.

“Brother, you are not alone.” Ihsan wrapped one arm around him. “Come. Join us.”

“I’m not a fighter. Not anymore.”

“There are many ways to perform jihad, brother. Jihad of the mind. Of the tongue. Of the heart. I don’t need to tell you this. You are the imam of the mountain. Come, we need an imam. Ours was killed in the bombing. Is this meeting not meant to be?”

“Joining you would be a jihad unto itself for me,” Dawood snorted.

“All Muslims must fight to right injustice,” Ihsan said, finger wagging like he was teaching a lesson. “You know this. It’s in the Quran. It’s required by God.”

“Where will my people go?”

“Wherever they wish. We have a camp for some of the families hidden in the hills. It has never been bombed. We stay far, far from it. We can have a guide transport your people there. They will be safe and will be given new lives.”

“My people must be safe. They must be cared for.”

“Say no more, brother. They will be.In shaa Allah.”