Khalid and Kalil - 1. Khalid and Kalil

Khalid and Kalil

 

Day One

 

Kalil and his cousin are alone in the bomb-making lab. The room has windows open to the compound, a long workbench – where his cousin sits on a high stool, working – and storage shelves from which hang suicide vests in various stages of assemblage.

Kalil slips one on, goes to a full-length mirror. He draws up the trigger cord and briefly looks at the red button.

He horses around like any teenager.

"So, this is where the explosives go?" he asks his cousin, his free hand slipping into one of the many pockets in front.

The bomb-maker says, "Yeah, cousin. Load the C-4, then attach the detonation wire, with the safety on, and suit up."

Kalil lifts the trigger, flips the clear plastic cover, and depresses the button.

Click!

He makes an explosive sound with his lips.

His cousin scoffs. "You're such a kid. Take it off now. Don’t let your father see you playing around like that."

As Kalil disrobes and hangs it up with the others, he hears the hurried crunch of vehicles on gravel and then his brothers' deep voices shouting instructions to one another. He goes to the window.

"What's going on…?"

His cousin plays dumb.

Kalil's father arrives. He's a brusque man who only glares at Kalil from the doorway. "Follow me."

        

˚˚˚˚˚

 

Father and son move across the family compound; flashes of dust and searing sun sting the young man's eyes. Shadows leaning sharply to the east tell him well enough it's grown to be mid-afternoon. They have just left the Men's Building. The Women's House is on the far side of the several hectare-sized property, well away from them.

His father walks fast, and Kalil can barely keep up.

"What is it, Father? What's going on?"

"You're sixteen now, it's time you had more responsibility in the Cell."

Kalil thinks to himself, 'Cell makes it seem so remote.' Truth is, the Cell is all he's ever known. Peopled by his male relatives – his uncles, cousins, and their associates – Kalil's father leads them in their holy missions to eradicate evil.

His father slows so they can stride side by side. "God has a mission for you, my son. He has delivered unto us a new captive. He is a young man like you, so sit with him, calm him down. He is angry now."

"Why have we kidnapped him?"

His father's temper flares. "When I tell you is the time you'll need to know. For now, do as you are told." He points to the steel door of a cinderblock outbuilding. "Time to put your training to use."

The older man slaps his shoulder hard and then leaves.

Kalil heads towards the only door in or out of the five-metre-square structure. As one of his brothers, dressed in full battle fatigues and a facemask, paces on guard duty with a Kalashnikov locked in his arms, Kalil's heart sinks. He wonders if he's really ready for God's work. He shakes off the doubt as silly.

"Peace, brother," he hails the man in black.

"Peace be with you." The guard unlocks the door, saying, "The prisoner is called Khalid."

Kalil steps into the darkened interior.

It's a one-room building where everything is open. Exposed wooden rafters go up to a hipped ceiling, which is high to trap the heat, and from which dangles a single bare bulb. There are no windows, only a few metal louvers at the top of the wall, right below where the ceiling starts. The corner to Kalil's right has a steel bed, toilet, sink and shower.

In the center of the room, a steel seat is bolted to the floor so it can't tip over. A young man sits in the chair, bound hand and foot to it. He's blindfolded, and a gag is tied behind his head to put him into a perpetual grimace; he's thrashing about, his head jerking from side to side as if chasing phantom sounds; he's hyperventilating.

Kalil gets a second seat and sits in front of the guy, about two metres away.

The captive senses someone is in the room with him. He slowly focuses, and oddly for Kalil, turns to face him. Khalid's motions settle.

Kalil speaks. "Stay calm. You're among friends. We'll feed you, let you sleep and shower. You'll be fine."

After a few minutes of listening to Khalid breathe heavy, and sensing the other young man's glare sear him through the cloth of the blindfold, he speaks again. "I'll take out the gag now. Do you promise to stay quiet?"

Khalid nods.

Kalil removes it, steps back.

Khalid starts wailing and screaming for help.

Kalil balls the gag and shoves it into Khalid's mouth. The prisoner pants. Kalil removes the blindfold and gets right up close to Khalid's eyes, threatening: "Do that again and I'll slit your throat."

An enraged glare is the older boy's only reply.

Kalil goes and sits with legs outstretched and arms folded.

"I know you are angry, but it will do you no good."

As Kalil calms his own anxiety and regains his composure, he inspects the detainee. The young man before him is a college-age guy, nice haircut, no beard, expensive white sneakers and Western clothes, good athletic body – the body of a runner. Kalil fights the nagging feeling that he knows him from someplace.

Kalil slowly tunes into the magnitude of what's transpiring. Khalid's distress is palpable; it becomes a scent on the roof of the boy's mouth, a jagged rasp on his eardrums from Khalid's breathing, and the thready beat of the captive's pulse in Kalil's temples.

He repeats in reassuring tones: "You're among friends. We'll feed you, let you sleep and shower. You'll be fine." However, he concludes with a pointed warning. "If you try to take one step from this room, you'll be shot. Guards are stationed all around. No one can hear you screaming like a woman, so I suggest you stop it. This compound is out of the way. We have no neighbors. You understand?"

There's no sign of a reply, just glaring, angry eyes.

Quiet minutes go by. "Can we take the gag out now? Will you behave?"

Khalid gives a terse nod.

Kalil slowly rises and takes it out. He sits again while Khalid pants.

The first thing the captive says is: "I know you, Kalil Hajjar."

Kalil's heart lurches. "How?"

"We went to high school together."

Now Kalil knows him too. This guy was a soccer jock, two classes ahead of him. Khalid was popular, everybody's friend. Remembers him walking down the hall with books in his hand and a smile for all. He seems so different in this detention chamber. Not in appearance, but apprehension has replaced all the easygoing friendlessness locked in Kalil's memory of the guy. He tries to place his surname: Khalid Bera, Khalid Majeed, Khalid Samaha, something like that. He can't seem to come up with it.

"I'm surprised you remember me. When you graduated, I was still a second-year student."

"I remember you all right – " He spits angrily on the floor. "Your brothers were all assholes. Is that what this is about?!"

With powerful calm, Kalil reminds him, "I said no shouting."

Khalid huffs but stays still. Suddenly, he violently pulls and rocks on the chair trying to uproot it. "Is this about money?! My father will pay you." He pauses and waits for an answer.

Kalil blinks. Perhaps it's good his father did not say what this guy was doing here. If it is a ransom plot, Khalid will be able to read confirmation on Kalil's face; he honestly does not know.

All of Khalid's muscles tense. He again tries to jolt the firmly rooted chair in rage.

"Stop it," warns Kalil. "You're only making it worse."

Khalid lets his head fall back and starts a long-winded shout to the rafters.

Kalil stands as the volume increases. "I said stop it!"

The other inhales and continues to wail.

The boy picks up the gag from the floor and shoves it in Khalid's mouth.

The other's head pops up, eyes maddened with fury, locked on Kalil's.

"I told you to be quiet. No one can hear you."

He goes back to his seat, pulls out his phone before sitting, and can feel Khalid's searing glare without having to look. While he pretends to browse, those sensations return: a bitterness in his mouth; a clamor in his ears; a throbbing in his head. What has his father gotten him into? At this rate, it's going to be a very long, miserable day.

 

 

Day Two

 

Kalil watched Khalid for hours, until one of his brothers in black and wearing a facemask came in with a Kalashnikov to relieve him. It was then Khalid was allowed to bathe and be subsequently tied to his bed for the night.

Kalil's night was a sleepless one, filled with odd visions of Khalid's angry eyes, competing against memories of the friendly jock walking the corridors of high school, or the adoring cheers that greeted him as he took a victory jog on the football pitch.

Now, Khalid is back in his chair, feet and hands tied like yesterday; the blindfold and gag are absent.

The guy seems a little different than the day before. Kalil glances at the untouched tray of food on the prisoner's bed.

"You didn't eat?"

Silence.

"You need to keep up your – "

"Why?"

Silence.

Khalid starts to moan: "This can't be happening; this can't be happening; this can't be happening."

"Calm down."

"Why?"

"Because getting upset and not eating will do you no good, that's why."

The old Khalid reappears for a split second. Through his smirk, he asks, "And how old are you, exactly, Kalil Hajjar, to be giving me such fatherly advice?"

He considers lying, but doesn't. "I'm sixteen, you should know that."

"And you should know how old I am. Do you?"

"Nineteen or twenty."

"I'm nineteen, until – " He stops cold.

Kalil can read the other's face. The impact that he may never see another birthday is all too clear on Khalid's expression.

"What we do, we do for God."

Khalid stares at him. "Yesterday was Friday. Do you know what I was doing?"

The boy only knows it's a rhetorical question.

"Well then, I'll tell you. I went to Afternoon Prayers, as I always do, and then as I was filled with the peace of the Word from the week's sermon, and walking home through the park, a hood was placed over my head from behind. I was thrown into a van and beaten in the dark. Does that sound like God's plan to you?"

Kalil folds his arms, and remains silent.

"It's sacrilege, that's what it is."

Kalil becomes angry. "I suggest you keep quiet."

"Why? Are you uncomfortable with the truth? That whatever this is, it has everything to do with your family and nothing to do with – "

Kalil shouts: "I said, shut up! Fighters for God are the Blessed Ones, the few who will carry forth His message of submission to the home of the infidels."

"Oh, no…" Khalid murmurs.

"What."

"You're radicals."

Silence.

"Is this a 'Cell' of some kind? Your family…is – "

"What we do, we do for God."

Panic fills the air.

"Oh, my God; oh, my God; this can't be happening. Why me?! For God's sake, why me?!"

The young man has no answers, however the helpless tone in the older teen's plea drains all animosity from him.

"And you, Kalil, you believe it?"

"Of course I do."

"But do you even know who my father is?"

Kalil does not.

"He'll roll up in here faster than you can say 'I surrender,' and then he'll make all of you beg for mercy."

The boy folds his arms, kicks his feet out in front of him. He may not know 'who' this guy's father is, but he's sure no one will be rolling in here. "We'll see."

Khalid lets his head fall back like yesterday. To the ceiling rafters, he keeps moaning: "This can't be happening."

            

˚˚˚˚˚

 

It's late at night. The stars are out as Kalil climbs the steel ladder to the roof of the Men's Building. There is nothing but countryside around them, peppered with a few lights leading to the city glowing on the horizon. All are asleep, but he suspects he'll find the one he's looking for.

He steps across the gravel of the flat roof. "Father?"

The older man turns, glares at him, his hand instinctively going for his pistol. "Kalil?" he asks surprised. "What are you – "

"I couldn't sleep. May I join you?"

"Sit."

After a few minutes of settled admiring of the view, a fatherly tone appears. "You should be in bed, son."

"I'm sorry. I know."

"You must be strong in the face of our enemies. Before the face of God."

"And is Khalid our enemy, Dad?"

The older man is angered. "You dare to question – "

"No, I do not. I know you have a plan to do His work, but – "

"But you need more?!"

"Do not be upset, please. Khalid asked today 'why him,' and I want to know why too, that's all."

"So, you are not questioning my authority?"

"No, sir."

His father's temper abates. The elder Hajjar grips the boy by the back of the head, affectionately forcing the boy to hold his gaze. "The Blessed Book says: The rightful due of a misdeed is an equivalent one to put it right. For if anyone absolves and restores things to proper order, his reward will be with God."

He lets go of his son's head. "You want to know why? I will tell you. Eight years ago you were a little boy – my brave little soldier – just moved from the Women's House to live with us men."

"I remember."

"Do you also remember Yusef? He was a young man living with us here, a special young man to me."

Kalil seems to vaguely remember him; a guy in his early twenties who would sit up with the eight-year-old boy and comfort him as his mother had after a bad dream.

"Well, Yusef and I were close. Your brothers will tell you. Seven years ago he simply vanished one evening when he went to town to get mint for our tea.

"Later I learned the police had kidnapped him and took him to the Ministry of Security's Headquarters. There they tortured him, Kalil, for a month. But God was merciful with him. Even though he finally died from pain and exhaustion, he never gave up the name of his habibi – me. He kept all of us safe.

"This action is to put right a wrong. Khalid is the favorite son of the man who killed him. The head of Security, boy." His voice grows shimmering as he gazes to the stars and finishes the Quran quotation: "For surely the Lord has no love for evildoers."

 

 

Day Three

 

As he walks to the prisoner's shack, Kalil's stomach is in knots. After his father's revelation, they sat on the roof for another hour until his dad dismissed him with orders to "Get some sleep."

That did not happen.

His father's words of encouragement this morning at breakfast had been: "You see, this is God's will, not my own. It's His vendetta, we are just the instruments of justice."

Kalil was never one to rock the boat. He trusted what he was told is correct, and although sheltered, life outside the compound walls had only reinforced an unquestioning belief that family matters most of all. Wickedness from the Western cancer of progressives and liberality was on display at school, and perhaps ironically enough, Khalid and his brothers showed that most fearlessly of all.

Now, after last night's conversation, he finds himself questioning things for the first time in his life. Maybe it was the magnitude of doubt itself which pried open the boy's heart, but how could committing a second wrong absolve the sin of the first? Is that what the quote from the Holy Book actually means…? He questions, and in that act, suddenly feels his equilibrium grow queasy.

            

˚˚˚˚˚

 

In the dimly lit room with Khalid, sitting in chairs facing one another, one free, one bound hand and foot, the afternoon heat greets them as it had the two previous days.

"What happened to your shoes?" Kalil asks; the other young man sits barefoot before him.

"They took 'em." He scoffs. "Your brothers don’t tell you anything, do they?"

Kalil's temperature rises.

"Yeah, they took 'em," Khalid continues. "Probably jealous. They're the latest style from the U.S."

"My brothers didn't take your shoes."

"Oh yeah, where are they then?"

"I don’t know, but I will find out and get them back."

The older teen's expression shows his doubts.

Kalil gestures to the tray of food with his head. "You have to eat."

"Not hungry."

"It was not a question I asked you."

A new shine appears in Khalid's eyes. "I'm a bit hungry. How about you let me out of this chair, and I'll eat. Deal?"

"There are no deals."

"What then?"

"You want to eat, I will leave. My brother with the Kalashnikov will come in and 'assist' you."

"Don’t leave, Kalil."

There's no mistaking the plight in his tone.

"You'll eat?"

"Not now. I can't. I'd…only throw it up."

"Oh."

"But don’t go. Talk to me. Keep me thinking about other things."

Kalil is wary to start a topic.

Sensing it, Khalid sighs. "All right. I get it; me first. Did you know I have three brothers and one sister?"

"No."

"Yes. Our father is good to us. He's the one who encouraged me to get serious about soccer, and now I'm glad I listened."

"You are?"

"Yes, because I've found something I excel at, and I enjoy it a lot."

Kalil is silent. He's not sure what he's good at, per se.

"My mom and dad, they've traveled the world."

That new part seems to break the ice. Kalil asks tentatively, "Have you traveled, to other places?"

"Well, not yet, but I hope to."

Kalil nods his head. "My life is limited to the compound, school and home again. That's it. The men and women of my family live segregated. I live with my uncles, brothers and cousins – plus their partners. Women only come to collect and deliver laundry and food."

"Oh. I…. I don't know how I could live without seeing my mother. She means a lot to me, and every night we sit and talk. She encourages me, tells me I matter."

Kalil grows sad, confessing, "I haven't spoken five words to my mother in eight years."

"Oh. That's a pity. I think you've been kept too sheltered."

That word upsets the sixteen-year-old, although he does not say it out loud.

Khalid continues in a conversational tone, "Do you have any younger brothers, Kalil?"

He shakes his head. When the captive chuckles, the young man glares at him.

The older teen explains: "We're both the youngest sons. You see, at least we have that in common."

Kalil relaxes a bit.

Khalid says wistfully, "I was treated like a little prince growing up, doted on by everyone as the shining baby of the clan."

This revelation makes Kalil 'get it.' He gets the guy's cocky and amiable attitude in high school, but this stays a private thought. The notion suddenly makes him wonder how the world sees Kalil. He's never been doted on.

Affably, Khalid continues, "I had freedom and a lack of responsibility, the kind which fell on my older brothers' shoulders." He pauses. "They must be worried sick about me."

Khalid's expression changes; it returns to pleading.

"Look, let me out of here. I know you're a good guy, Kalil. I can read people, and you're not one of them, not really. Come back late at night, sit with me like this and tell your brothers to go to bed."

"Why?"

"Why?! So you can undo me and we can escape into the night. Do this, Kalil, and I can personally guarantee no harm comes to you. Your brothers and father on the other hand – "

Kalil's chair crashes violently to the floor; a rage had coursed through him, bringing him to his feet instantly.

"How dare you threaten my family! Who do you think – "

"Kalil! I'm sorry."

"Enough of your lies. You all lie – all of you affecting Western evilness – you lie! You cheat good Muslims like me, and my family."

"Kalil!"

"NO!"

He storms to the door and pounds on it. Just as it opens, the teen boy spits towards the captive, "God help your soul."

 

 

Day Four

 

It's afternoon in the lab as Kalil sits with his cousin. The windows are open, and the bomb-maker is propped on his stool, hunched over and doing something Kalil cannot see.

His cousin asks, "Why are you not in with the captive?"

"It's not an easy assignment." He is still annoyed and incensed about yesterday, but he's been careful not to relay to anyone how the captive plotted to escape. "Cousin, that Khalid is manipulative. He tried to get on my good side."

His cousin barely looks up; he's using a gouging tool on something nestled between his legs in his lap. "Well, be careful of those corrupted ones. They are evil. They will stop at nothing to spread 'reason' and other anti-Islam propaganda. We know the truth. We know it's God who will decide the good from wicked. God who chooses whom to bless, those who have done His work here on Earth, and punishes those who have not. He'll figure them out."

Kalil is not really paying attention to what his cousin is saying; he's distracted. Suddenly he realizes there's an athletic shoe sitting on the workbench – Khalid's brand new white sneaker. With trepidation, he asks, "What are you doing, anyway?"

The working young man glances up. He lifts Khalid's second shoe from between his legs. "I'm hollowing out the soles."

"Yes, but why?"

His cousin smiles with pride. "It's a new system, one for non-voluntary suicide bombings." He holds the sneaker so Kalil can peer within. A neat cavity has been dug from the inside, hidden beneath the liner so none can see. "We pack them with explosives twenty-times more powerful than Richard Reed's shoe bombs. Now it's the same strength as one of our vests, and you've seen firsthand how much damage one of those can do." The bomb-maker goes back to work, cheerily gouging away and speaking with conversational ease. "The beauty of the new system is this – it's wireless. We plant the detonator, dial it with a cell phone number, and Boom! That's what your father wants. Khalid gets released to his family, they go down to Security Headquarters for a debriefing, brothers, father and all of 'em, and then Boom! Blast strong enough to take down half the building." His cousin sounds vindictive as he concludes, "Your dad wants the head of Security and all his sons killed at that same time. For him, it's personal. As I said: Kill 'em all, and let God sort the pure from the wicked."

 

 

Day Five

 

"Don’t leave me again, Kalil." Khalid glances up.

They sit as always mid-afternoon, the captive bathed, bound hand and foot in his chair, an uneaten tray of food resting on his bed, but there is something changed about the young man's demeanor today to Kalil's eyes.

"You behaved badly."

"So badly you left me alone for a day?" There is no ire in his voice.

"Yes. I had to stay away, and think. My brothers were here." Kalil realizes the captive is still barefoot.

"Just, please stay with me. I like you, but I'm afraid of the guns."

Kalil can tell a sadness has set in; he feels sad himself. Gone is the bravado from the first couple of days, gone is the self-assurance, maybe gone too is much of the young man's hope.

"Behave and I won't have to leave you."

Khalid nods slightly.

"Don’t talk about my family. You'll only anger me – "

"Yes, I get it, Kalil. Please accept my apology."

"I do." He dare not say he's beginning to like Khalid too. "How many brothers do you have again?"

"Three."

"You have three brothers, so I'm sure you will stand up for their honor if anyone – "

"Yes, I will, Kalil. I understand, and I'm sorry."

All heat leaves the boy. His body posture relaxes a bit, and so does the tone of the conversation. As they talk, Kalil notices Khalid relays info in a flat way, rarely sparking back to his 'old' self.

"So, what are you studying at university?"

"Economics."

"Do you like it?"

The older boy shrugs. "I like the social aspect of school. You go to your classes, sure, and there you meet students and professors who share a common interest, but I like the other part too."

"Other part?"

"Meeting people I do not have a common interest in. People studying art, or medicine – anything, really. On campus, you are exposed to all types of people, both young and old, who have differing views and yet we come together for a common purpose; to exchange ideas and grow in knowledge."

Kalil takes a minute to digest the words. He never conceived of school as anything but a place to go because you must, and a place to endure because of the threat of too-wide an exposure to ideas. And now this smart, and handsome, and winning young man before him is saying university is good because people choose to go there, good because different types of people can exchange information and concepts. He had never considered it would be like that.

Khalid asks softly, "And you? Have you decided to go to university?"

"I've never thought about it. I have no idea what I'd study."

"Well, what do you like? What subject in school do you enjoy, if there is one."

"I like history."

"That's a good subject. It's a good field to study too. Many fine history professors are needed here and there. It's a smart career."

'Career…?' Kalil thought. It was another brave and totally new concept for the sixteen-year-old.

It made him think of the alternative, and ask, "You're old enough, so has your family picked out someone for you to marry?"

Khalid describes her without emotion. "Yes. A girl your age, with long dark hair, a shy smile; she's the daughter of a banker."

"Do you like her?"

"I won't pretend I know her very well. We have been in the same room a few times, mainly during family dinners. We came together to make the arrangements, and negotiate the dowry, and other such things. It's a marriage of political expedience for our two families. But, she's nice and pretty, so I cannot complain about the choice."

Kalil fell silent.

In a return of the tentative and tender tone of earlier, the older teens asks, "And you, Kalil? Are you…engaged?"

The boy shakes his head. He asks earnestly, "Do you love her?"

Now Khalid slowly moves his head side to side.

"But, you've been in love, haven't you?"

"I have, it's true."

"What does it feel like?"

"Love? It feels good and it feels bad. It makes you want to run and soar, and it can leave you worried and wondering if the other truly loves you to the same degree. I don’t know if this makes sense – "

"Sort of, but go on."

"Go on with…?"

"With how…. How did you know what you felt was real?"

Khalid swallows audibly. "You just sense yourself falling. Your emotions become overtaken, and when you think of them, you are happy. You think about fairness, and you never want them to suffer, you are ready to fight for them; that's love. So, you feel happy, but sometimes it hurts to be that way. I don’t think I can say it any better than that."

While lost in the reflection of the moment – trying to absorb and feel for himself the emotions Khalid has just relayed – Kalil glances down the length of the older boy's body. He suddenly remembers something.

He gets up and goes to his bag near the door. Kalil brings back a pair of flip-flops.

He kneels in front of Khalid. "These are mine." He slips them on, watching Khalid's toes wriggle into a comfortable position. "Wear them, okay?" Finished with his task, he strokes the top of the boy's feet briefly and fights the urge to kiss them. The notion both startles and comforts Kalil at the same time.

He rises and sits as before. When he dares to look, there is a tear in the older teen's eyes.

Kalil is uncomfortable and pulls out his phone.

After a moment or two, Khalid says, "You know, I've never been away from my phone for a week before." He says, almost smiling, "I miss my games, the Internet, status updates from my friends. Hell, I'm even starting to miss my class assignments. It all gives me something to think about, other than – "

Khalid inhales deeply and asks without rancor, "Do you think God is displeased with me? I've always believed, always been moved by the Holy Quran, and I've felt God's presence in my life. Do you think He favors the more vocal? Those who pray the loudest?"

Kalil scoffs.

"No, I'm serious, Kalil. Do you believe in your heart – not what you've been told – but in your soul that God blesses some, while seeking out others to hurt here on Earth?"

Kalil can tell there's no antagonism in Khalid's question. No goading, no judgment, just a plain desire to know the young man's opinion.

"I've never thought about it," he lies, immediately swallowing his cousin's cruel words of 'Kill 'em all, and let God sort them out.'

Khalid sighs. "I can't believe a week ago, no, just a few days ago, the most pressing thing on my mind was when the new version of my favorite game comes out, when the next action film would be in the cinema." He stares the sixteen-year-old straight in the eyes. "These things have fallen away one by one; I don’t think about them anymore as the days go by. Now I only think about survival."

Kalil bites his lip. He puts his phone away and sees the food. "Well, you won't survive without eating. If I ask you now, will you do it? Will you do it for me?"

Khalid nods.

Kalil rises; returns with a plate and spoon; feeds him; feels uncomfortably close to him – as if Khalid is real and nothing else in life is. He realizes the older teen's bluster has been ground away, now there are just two desperate boys in this room together.

Loud voices sound outside the door.

Kalil uses the bottom of his tee-shirt to wipe Khalid's chin and mouth; he tries to avoid glancing at the panic in the young man's eyes. He steps aside.

The door unlocks. Three men, all in black and with facemasks, enter. Two have automatic riffles and stand on either side of their leader; all form a line in front of Khalid.

Kalil's father speaks, roughly telling Khalid, "Your ransom demand has been made, and if God is on your side, you'll be home in a day or two."

A panicked and placating Khalid lets slip, "Bless you, Mr. Hajjar."

His father turns glaring eyes on Kalil, and even from beneath the cover of the mask, the boy can tell the man is furious.

"No, Mr. Hajjar, don’t blame Kalil. I recognized your son from high school. He didn't tell me a thing, I swear."

Kalil watches his father un-holster his pistol. The man walks to the captive; Khalid begins to hyperventilate. The man stares him down, rubs the barrel all across Khalid's cheek as the prisoner tries to look away.

The leader speaks slowly, moving the barrel to the inside of the boy's mouth. "You. Are. Mistaken. Do you understand? Look at me!"

Khalid does, teeth chattering, red from trying to breathe through his nose. He nods.

"Good." Their father turns, exits and Kalil's brothers follow.

Relative quiet returns, leaving only the reverberating sound of the door lock to envelop the boys.

"Kalil – I'm going to be – "

Khalid vomits, half choking on it.

As the other young captive regains his breath, Kalil calmly goes to the sink. He grabs a cloth and wets it, knowing tears are streaming down the sixteen-year-old's face.

 

 

Day Six

 

It's breakfast. The assembly room in the Men's Building is packed with his relatives and their dear ones. The smell of food is all around where he sits on the floor next to his bomb-making cousin.

The rest eat and chat like this is just another ordinary day. Kalil cannot stomach the thought of food, so he's been nursing a lassi with mint.

His father arrives – sits at the low table across from the boy. An odd look is on the patriarch's face, one impossible for the young man to read. There is also something cradled in the group leader's lap. A nagging thought eats away at Kalil, although he can't define it; all he sees is a flashback of yesterday, his masked father and brothers in the prison room, and Khalid's immense fear.

"Kalil, my son, you do not eat this morning?" The loudness of the man's tone hushes other conversations.

"No, Father. I have my yogurt."

"I'm disappointed, Kalil."

"In me?!" It was clear the older man meant more than just irritation at skipping the first meal of the day.

The man sighs. "At circumstances. God had one set of plans for that young man with his Western infections, but now He reveals a different one. His will be done."

Kalil's heart sinks. "Which plan, Father?"

The man pulls up and sets a holstered gun on the table; the dishes rattle with his force. All eyes are on them now. Several of the group rise and gather around.

"Have you seen this gun before, my faithful son?"

"I – it belonged to your father."

Pride shines on his face. "Yes. My father's gun, from his time fighting for God's Cause. Today I want you to have it. It is time." He takes the weapon out and inspects it carefully.

"Why…. Why today, Father?"

"Give me your hand." After Kalil does, the older man settles the grip against his son's palm and wraps his boy's fingers around it. "Because you become a man today. The prisoner knows you, son. God has shown me another purpose, and although I swallow down my disappointment in not using that wicked boy to destroy his family, I delight that today you can serve Him. Do this, my son, His bidding, and you will be a man and prove your loyalty to the family, to the Cause, and to your Lord."

            

˚˚˚˚˚

 

The single bare bulb in the prisoner's cell burns cruelly. Kalil stares into it, then slowly glances down. This is no dream – the sensations on his body tell him it's all too real.

Before him sits Khalid, bound to his chair, a black hood covering his head. In the gloom around them stand his uncles, cousins, brothers and his father. They line the perimeter of the space with their own guns, black clothes and skin-tight facemasks. They seem like part of the shadows themselves; their silence is deafening. He lifts the pistol in his hand.

The boy watches Khalid squirm, the captive's head slowly scanning the room left to right trying to pick up sound; he knows someone is in the chamber with him but he dare not utter the question of 'who.' The bindings on his wrist and ankles are making his skin angry with red. Kalil feels sorry for his pain. Kalil's flip-flops are still on the older teen's feet, the feet he had so wanted to kiss. He begins to wonder about Khalid's simple and heartfelt question – why him? Of all the people Kalil knows, surely God's blessing is easiest to read on this young man.

He starts to question what he and his relatives are doing in the first place. This captive is not an enemy – not to his family, not to God.

A snippet of verse from the Holy Book comes to his head. Not the one about righting a wrong and evildoers, but another one about mercy. He prays sincerely to God for guidance.

Kalil swallows loudly, and Khalid's head pivots and settles straight on him. It reminds him of their very first meeting.

Kalil's father steps up behind Khalid and removes the hood. After the older teen blinks a few times, a hint of relief comes to one corner of his mouth seeing Kalil. He relaxes, but then realizes Kalil holds a gun in his hand; his smile evaporates.

"Khalid Majeed!" Kalil's father shouts. "You have been tried and found guilty of evilness. What we do, we do for the glory of God." He retreats into the shadows by Kalil's left and says in a softer tone, "Do it, son."

As in an unscripted nightmare beyond his control, Kalil lifts the pistol. He points it at Khalid, who does not flinch.

In shocking calm, the older boy tells him, "I understand, and I forgive you, Kalil." Then he prays softly, repeating the first verse of the Quran just for himself to hear. "There is no god but God, and the Lord God is his name. There is no god but God…."

The sixteen-year-old's hand begins to tremble. It gets bad; his vision grows cloudy from the pounding within his chest; his second hand needs to come up and steady the gun.

The men start to make a low guttural noise in unison. God is great; God is great; God is great. It ends with chants of "Kill him!"

Kalil pauses. He doesn’t think he can do it; he has no reason to hurt this boy.

In a flash, his father is there. The drone of deep male voices reverberating off the walls, timber roof and pinging filament is maddening, and yet Khalid eyes are placid – already beholding Paradise. The sixteen-year-old envies him.

Kalil's father yells in his ear: "Do it!" He lurches for the gun, and it goes off.

Silence.

Well, silence except for the pain-racked gurgling coming from the hole in Khalid's chest.

The captive dies while the boy watches. He finally gets the answer to his prayer – clarity from God – the moment the other young man stops breathing.

 

   

Day Seven

 

Kalil is alone in the bomb-making lab. As he loads up explosives into a vest, and arms the trigger, he thinks how his group members are at Friday prayers, as if nothing special had happened yesterday.

He clicks the safety over the red button of the detonation device, and carefully threads it through the sleeve of his best, black dress shirt.

He watches himself button up in the mirror, hearing the compound gates open and the family vehicles roll in.

            

˚˚˚˚˚

 

An hour later, after having prayed alone on the roof, Kalil walks into the Commons Room. The men sit at the tables, casually chatting, smoking and having tea with their sweets.

He fingers the safety latch of the trigger in his trouser pocket.

His father strides up to him with a proud and beaming smile. "You did well, my son. You did good for the glory of God."

Kalil eyes him coldly. For once in his young life he is unafraid. In a still voice, he tells him, "Not 'good,' Father, not yet, but soon."

The older man scowls briefly, but lets it pass. "Will you eat?"

"In a moment, but first I have a question for you." His finger sweats; in his mind's eyes he can see the redness of the button. "Why, Father, did you send me into that room with Khalid without a facemask in the first place? You expected he would recognize me, didn't you?"

His father tries to laugh it off. The boy ducks out of his hand attempting to embrace the young man's shoulder.

"Well, Father?"

"Yes, Kalil. Yes, my son. That dog had to be put down anyway – we'll kill all of that man's children one by one, so why not start with the most precious to him? I can see his father in tears now, kneeling in the ditch where we dumped his boy's body. And yes, I did it because you, you needed to grow up and learn the power of loyalty."

"So, it was just a test. A plot for me to kill my friend?"

"Your friend?"

"Yes, Dad. My habibi." His thumb flips off the safety.

"Boy – "

"Do you know…." Kalil is upset, tears come. "Do you know – I do not want to die with God is great on my lips."

His father begins to look fearful. Kalil can see his eyes scanning the bulkiness of his boy's shirt.

"No, Father. I want to die uttering another verse of the Holy Book, the one saying there is hope for a bad man like me. The one of truth: For those of mankind who have sinned against your own soul, despair not of My mercy: for I will forgive you; your Lord is all-merciful."

Click.

 

~