One night, people I didnât know came to the garage to talk with the master. Abu Zoubeir, who normally dismissed us when he had important visitors, asked us to stay. Nabil, Hamid, and I felt flattered; we took it as a promotion in our secret struggle to be closer to the master. Now we were part of the inner circle. Abu Zoubeir consulted us on all kinds of subjects and seemed to take notice of our opinions. Iâd keep my mouth shut, for fear of coming out with something stupid, but Nabil didnât hold back, launching into damning condemnations of American or Israeli attacks. Abu Zoubeir agreed with him, and I admit I was a bit jealous. Luckily, my brother Hamid was there to fly the flag for our family and went one better, blasting the crusaders and the Jews. Better yet, he attacked Arab regimes that had no dignity, prostrate as they were before their Western overlords, their sole aim to perpetuate their dictatorships. I nodded my agreement; Hamid was completely right.
The television was turned to a channel that showed massacres of Muslims on a loop. And that made our blood boil, I can tell you. The little Palestinian boy in his fatherâs arms had died a hundred times. Every time he died, we had tears in our eyes. And rage sweated from all the pores of our rigid bodies as the loop showed the slaughter again and again. We saw soldiers, bristling with weapons, shooting blindly at peoplethrowing stones, and we wanted to strangle them. The child was dead all right, but his father didnât relax his grip, as if he were still alive. As if the piercing screams heâd uttered a few minutes before were still ripping through the uproar of shooting and people in panic. Abu Zoubeir said we had to react. The Prophet would never have tolerated such humiliation. Sitting cross-legged before the master, I felt fire flare in my belly, setting my eyes ablaze. A thirst for vengeance twisted my guts. We were ready to redeem our lost honor in blood. We werenât losers or cowards. Still less doormats, on which repulsive heathens and our countryâs corrupt wiped their feet.
Abu Zoubeirâs friends observed us with an air of satisfaction. One of them, probably their leader, was an elderly man, impressively tall in his turban and a white djellaba. He smelled of sandalwood, like the perfume Hamid used to bring back for Yemma. He closed his eyes and made a speech. It was about hope, about Jihad, about light. While there were still men like us, young, brave, with conviction, all was not lost. Satanâs henchmen had it coming. They would pay a hundred times over for what they were making us suffer. We would make their lives hell. Their sophisticated arsenals would be obsolete and ridiculous. God was with us and victory was within our grasp. We had weapons the unbelievers did not: our flesh and our blood. Wewould return them to God; He demanded them of us. Our sacrifices would be rewarded. The gates to heaven were wide open and beckoning. Those blasphemers could only tremble in their foul pigsties, in their debauched, abject lives, determined as they were to infect our children with their impurity . . . Then he stopped talking. Stroking his beard, the sheikh cast his eyes over our faces, which were all lit up, and said: âYou cannot defeat a man who wants to die!â
After a communal prayer, he stretched out his hand, which we all kissed in turn. And we never saw him at the garage again.
The sheikhâs face would haunt us for a long time. I remember the strange scene on the doorstep before he left. Abu Zoubeir knelt down and kissed his slippers as if paradise lay beneath them. The sheikh helped him to his feet and embraced him. He whispered in his ear something we couldnât hear. But as he came back in, Abu Zoubeirâs eyes were red, as if heâd been crying.
14
ONE EVENING, HAMID arrived at the shack to tell us the good news: Abu Zoubeir was treating us to a holiday. Now that was a word that
The television was turned to a channel that showed massacres of Muslims on a loop. And that made our blood boil, I can tell you. The little Palestinian boy in his fatherâs arms had died a hundred times. Every time he died, we had tears in our eyes. And rage sweated from all the pores of our rigid bodies as the loop showed the slaughter again and again. We saw soldiers, bristling with weapons, shooting blindly at peoplethrowing stones, and we wanted to strangle them. The child was dead all right, but his father didnât relax his grip, as if he were still alive. As if the piercing screams heâd uttered a few minutes before were still ripping through the uproar of shooting and people in panic. Abu Zoubeir said we had to react. The Prophet would never have tolerated such humiliation. Sitting cross-legged before the master, I felt fire flare in my belly, setting my eyes ablaze. A thirst for vengeance twisted my guts. We were ready to redeem our lost honor in blood. We werenât losers or cowards. Still less doormats, on which repulsive heathens and our countryâs corrupt wiped their feet.
Abu Zoubeirâs friends observed us with an air of satisfaction. One of them, probably their leader, was an elderly man, impressively tall in his turban and a white djellaba. He smelled of sandalwood, like the perfume Hamid used to bring back for Yemma. He closed his eyes and made a speech. It was about hope, about Jihad, about light. While there were still men like us, young, brave, with conviction, all was not lost. Satanâs henchmen had it coming. They would pay a hundred times over for what they were making us suffer. We would make their lives hell. Their sophisticated arsenals would be obsolete and ridiculous. God was with us and victory was within our grasp. We had weapons the unbelievers did not: our flesh and our blood. Wewould return them to God; He demanded them of us. Our sacrifices would be rewarded. The gates to heaven were wide open and beckoning. Those blasphemers could only tremble in their foul pigsties, in their debauched, abject lives, determined as they were to infect our children with their impurity . . . Then he stopped talking. Stroking his beard, the sheikh cast his eyes over our faces, which were all lit up, and said: âYou cannot defeat a man who wants to die!â
After a communal prayer, he stretched out his hand, which we all kissed in turn. And we never saw him at the garage again.
The sheikhâs face would haunt us for a long time. I remember the strange scene on the doorstep before he left. Abu Zoubeir knelt down and kissed his slippers as if paradise lay beneath them. The sheikh helped him to his feet and embraced him. He whispered in his ear something we couldnât hear. But as he came back in, Abu Zoubeirâs eyes were red, as if heâd been crying.
14
ONE EVENING, HAMID arrived at the shack to tell us the good news: Abu Zoubeir was treating us to a holiday. Now that was a word that
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