He watches the baker’s son.
Stupid boy.
A stray puppy who thinks he’s a hunting hound.
He read somewhere dogs can’t tell their own size. That’s why small dogs bark at larger dogs, large dogs cower before smaller dogs. The little dog thinks it can kill the big dog, and the big dog thinks so too.
But the master knows different.
Watch the puppy snarl at the bigger dogs. Watch him smell their fear. Watch him swagger.
He watches his puppy come and go, just as far as his rosary leash will let him.
Use the cane to remind the puppy who’s master.
Use the whip to bend his will.
Faith, such a useful whip. It leaves no visible mark. It lives inside the dog’s heart and is as strong as the dog is weak.
His faith died long ago. It died in the refugee camp. It went down the drain, along with the putrid water and the constant shit of dysentery.
No faith in Allah, less faith in the Cause. Not even in the green-paper god loved by all, cherished by all, the true problem-solver.
He believes in Ismail, his one true name. The baker’s son calls him Mahmud, as Abdo his father did long ago. Mahmud is one of his famous names, but not his true name. To know a man’s true name is to own the man, as he owns Fuad. The last person who knew his true name has been dead for more than half a century.
In the refugee camp, he studied the Prophet’s deeds and words. He must’ve been doing it wrong, he thought.
Allah was righteous. Allah was merciful. Allah wouldn’t want him to suffer. Allah would bring him prosperity and relief. Allah would take away this foul, rotting-fish smell, the grimaces, the other children’s disgust, their taunts.
Allah didn’t.
Ismail did.
He preached to his neighbors, and his neighbors’ friends and families. Ismail could see inside a man’s heart. His black tinted-glass eyes missed little. He had a knack for spotting weakness, desire, fear, resentment, disappointment.
He would think so-and-so needs guidance, and he’d guide him to his own brand of militant faith.
His words fed the fire of anger, then provided a balm of hatred to ease the burn. His own hatred compounded.
One night his followers blew away six Israeli soldiers at a checkpoint with some homemade explosives.
Ismail was fourteen.
Yes, faith was a powerful whip. It was also a profitable one.
He’s been selling contract terror since the war of ’67. Ismail’s been through many names, many faces, one step ahead of the Israelis, ever since.
So long as the faithful think they are fighting for Allah’s jihad or the Palestinian Cause against the Zionist Oppressor and its lackeys, they’ll be willing to kill for Ismail. They’ll be willing to die for him, thinking they do it for Him.
Like this puppy.