— 6 —
A kasbah is a combination of castle, palace, and living quarters. It is a kind of city in the desert, completely self-contained and self-sufficient. Like castles in Europe, most kasbahs were strategically placed on high ground or built adjacent to a mountainside to prevent enemy attack.
The Kasbah of Caid Ali Tamzali was more impressive than most. The buildings and walls were made of red clay, which allowed them to blend seamlessly into the desert. Regal flags flew from almost every rooftop, providing an element of whimsy not experienced at most other kasbahs. It sat in a tiny oasis, complete with a well and several palm trees. Just three miles to the west was the entrance to some smaller hills and a valley that stretched for many miles. Ride northeast for three or four hours and the Rif Mountains presented their majestic beauty.
The location of this kasbah was no accident. Invaders from the adjacent mountain range would need to cross open desert to reach it, making a surprise attack nearly impossible. The gully from the oasis provided protection from the desert winds, as did the kasbah walls. It did, however, have one weakness: a solitary, lonely hillside riddled with prickly pear cactus. That weakness could provide cover for a sneak attack—not from a large army, but from a small band of fifty or so soldiers.
The caravan moved, as slowly as a slug, across the desert and finally arrived at the kasbah gates. Two guards came out from behind the gate, greeted Zahir, and did a cursory check of the wagons. Satisfied, they allowed the caravan to enter the kasbah grounds.
Inside, the kasbah was transformed—the red clay exterior giving way to a magnificent display of colors, gardens, architecture, statues, fountains, artwork, and beautiful Moroccan mosaics that adorned nearly every wall, and even the floor. Smells of jasmine and palm oil wafted through the air. Giraffes, monkeys, hyenas, lions, zebras, and other beasts circled in cages or roamed freely. Kasbah patrons in the traditional Arabic attire of dishdasha, fancy Saudi agals, and informal shawls walked and chatted throughout the grounds. Parrots and toucans squeaked from branches. Kasbah performers juggled and swallowed fire. Arabic women, dressed in niqabs and burqas, walked together in sets of three or four. Their faces and bodies completely covered from head to toe, it was their eyes outlined with black kohl that scanned their surroundings like a panther stalking its prey.
The caravan dispersed and the captives’ wagon was taken to the furthest building from the gate. A guard appeared at the back of the wagon and grunted for them to follow him. They obediently climbed out and followed the guard to a set of two doors.
“You three will follow me,” he said, pointing to the boys as he walked through the door on the left.
An old woman appeared in rags and grabbed Margaret by her wrist hard, forcing her to walk through the door on the right. Margaret looked back at her friends and felt very alone. Tariq caught her glance, gave her a little smile, and nodded his head before disappearing into the doorway. That small gesture gave Margaret a measure of hope.
The guard took the three boys down a long hallway to an area where another guard was seated at a desk. He took down their names, ages, height, and weight. Then, he unshackled their leg irons and proceeded to open a door behind him.
The boys followed the guard through the door into a large room. Cell bars lined both sides of the room. All along the bars, the boys saw dozens of small hands and legs, and pairs of tiny eyes—the faces of young boys, dirty and squalid.
At the far end of the room the boys saw a door with a huge lock. To get to the door, the three newcomers had to walk through the room, flanked by all the jailed orphans yelling at them.
“Look at the new boys. So skinny and weak!”
“You better not come in here. We’ll get you if you come in here.”
“Do not sleep tonight. We’ll get you once you fall asleep.”
At once the chamber grew loud with shrill and shrieking voices. Boys laughed and hollered at the new slaves.
“Enough!” the guard yelled and the room fell quiet.
He unlocked the door and threw the boys in with the rest before locking the door behind him and walking out. At once, Tariq, Aseem, and Fez were surrounded.
“You better not win anything or you’re through!” one yelled.
Another boy pushed Aseem, who pushed him back. A couple of others tried to tackle Tariq, but he hit one of them in the mouth, knocking him away. Fez was pushed to the ground, but he quickly got up. In a few seconds, all three of their backs were pressed against a stone wall. Over twenty boys had them surrounded, yelling and pushing at them. Finally, the boys stopped and one stepped forward.
“My name is Jawad. I am the leader in this place. You do as I say and you will get along,” he instructed them.
Jawad was about as tall as Tariq, but with dirty hair and mere rags for clothes.
“What is that medallion around your neck?” Jawad asked Tariq.
Tariq said nothing.
“I asked you a question. You want trouble? What is that?” Jawad asked.
Again, Tariq said nothing. He held onto the medallion owned by Aji and stared back at the boy.
“When I ask you a question, you answer me!” Jawad yelled and shoved Tariq. Tariq shoved him back, but soon eight other boys had joined in and Tariq was pushed to the ground. They began kicking him and hitting at his head. Tariq balled himself up in a fetal position but was still kicked and punched badly.
Aseem and Fez joined in, but they were outnumbered. It was a scrum. The hard, wet dungeon floor scraped and battered their knees. When it looked hopeless, as if these other boys might beat them to death, a loud “screeechhh” sucked all the energy from the room. At once all the boys stopped and looked up.
The three boys had not noticed it when they arrived, but a monkey sat on a perch above the door—a small monkey with brown fur and white whiskers.
He screeched again and the boys cleared away.
Aseem, Fez, and Tariq stood up as well. They made their way to the corner of the cell, and soon Jawad came up to them.
“That is a little game we play with the new boys to see who is tough. If you don’t fight back, you’ll never make it. Welcome to your new home,” he said and shook each of their hands.
The boys looked at each other in amazement, still smarting from their wounds and scrapes.
“That is nothing. Wait until you race. If one accident doesn’t kill you, you’ll wish it had. And there is no mercy. I once had to race three races in a day with a broken wrist. They do not care.”
“Camel races?” Tariq asked.
“Of course. I am the finest camel racer in all of Morocco. The Caid himself asked to see me after one of my races.”
“How long have you been racing?”
“Over two years, longer than any racer in history, I am told. I have been in over 300 races.”
“That is impressive,” Aseem exclaimed.
“Thank you,” said Jawad.
“What about the monkey?” Fez asked.
“That is Ocho. He is, well, kind of like a guard. He picks out who will race, who will eat, who will get time outdoors.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, he is a very smart monkey. What are your names?” Jawad asked.
“I am Aseem.”
“I am Tariq.”
“I am Fez.”
“Fez, like the city?”
“Yes. My father always wanted to visit Fez but never had the opportunity, so he named me Fez.”
“Ha, that’s funny. Okay, let me tell you the rules,” Jawad started.
“First, I am sure you met Zahir. He is the most evil guard in the kasbah. He will kill you for no reason at all. So steer clear of him.
“Second, you will receive no training, so you must listen to someone in the group for your first few races. It is all part of the wagering, racing the new boys who have no training. But if you don’t do well you will get whipped. If you continually don’t do well…”
“What?” Tariq interrupted.
“A boy once came in last for three straight races, and we never saw him again.
“Third. Do not steal. If you have a quarrel with someone, talk to me. We are slaves, but we are not animals.
“And the last rule is,” Jawad continued, “don’t upset the monkey. If he points you out, the guards will beat you and put you in solitary. It is a horrible place. A box barely big enough to squat in with a hole in the ground. By midafternoon, it is so hot you could pass out.”
A guard came in with a large plate of food and set it next to Ocho. The plate was filled with mounds of beef, bananas, and even a few pieces of baklava. All the boys gathered around him with their hands raised, waving and jumping for his attention. Ocho nonchalantly played with the food and then pointed at a boy.
Everyone stopped and stared at the boy. On cue, he started pantomiming a monkey, walking on all fours, making monkey noises, and jumping up and down.
Not completely satisfied with the performance, Ocho tossed him a banana. The boy took it and greedily started eating it.
Ocho pointed to another boy. This boy, however, gave a much more spirited performance, vigorously jumping up and down.
Excited, Ocho jumped up and down and then threw the boy a huge piece of meat.
“Ahhh,” said the other boys, in appreciation.
Ocho then pointed at Aseem.
All the boys stopped at looked at Aseem. He did nothing.
“Act like a monkey—that’s the only way you’ll get food,” one whispered to Aseem.
“I’m not acting like a monkey.”
Ocho screamed at Aseem, but Aseem refused. Ocho screamed louder but still Aseem did not move. The monkey began pacing back and forth and screaming.
“If you don’t do it, soon the guards will come in and you’ll get beaten,” another whispered.
“Just do it, Aseem. It’s just a stupid monkey,” Tariq instructed him.
Slowly, Aseem began to simulate a monkey in a very lazy attempt. Ocho still shrieked at him. Aseem became more and more animated; he hooted like a monkey and even banged against the cages. Soon, it was a very comical performance. At one point Aseem lifted his arm, smelled his armpit, and fell over backwards in mock disbelief.
Ocho loved that, and threw Aseem a piece of baklava.
“I would have preferred a piece of meat,” Aseem said and walked away.
After ten minutes, all the boys had given their performance. Aseem was joined by Tariq and Fez. Fez had garnered a nice piece of lamb while Tariq managed a banana. Together, they shared their meal.
Soon, all the boys were asleep. The dungeon was extremely dark with only two small windows for light to creep in. Aseem, Fez, and Tariq used one another as pillows and managed a restful sleep. Without sandstorms or chains or bandits to worry about, their tiny bodies collapsed from exhaustion.
“Squaawwkkkkk!” screamed Ocho.
Slowly, the orphans woke up and moved about. Tariq was extremely sore. The ground was hard and had stiffened his back and neck, but it was the whippings he had endured at the hands of Zahir that caused his entire body to feel like one massive welt. Blood had soaked through his clothes, and purple bruises formed where the leather had met his bare skin. He walked gingerly, and pain shot through his thighs with every step.
“Squaawwkkkkk!”
With that, a guard came down and unlocked the door.
“Okay you slaves. Get up and out there!” he yelled.
The boys exited the cells and ascended the stairs to the dungeon doors. The shock of the bright sunlight forced them to shade their eyes. Tariq, Aseem, and Fez followed the other boys outside. Fez took care to place his glasses in a safe place. He would be racing blind, but he’d rather take that chance than risk breaking his precious glasses.
“What is happening?” Aseem asked.
“We’re practicing today,” one answered.
The boys were quickly shuffled to a food line. An old servant, with a rice concoction of fig, raisin, and goat, loaded two ladlesful into the outstretched hands of each orphan. No plate or silverware allowed. The boys gobbled the mixture, and most of them didn’t spill a single grain of rice.
The operation was swift and orderly, and in five minutes all had eaten and were being shuffled to a different area that included the stable. Most of the boys went directly to a camel and began preparing it for a ride. Jawad took the three new boys, had each grab a bridle and saddle, and told them to follow him.
“You will need to place these bits in their noses. I will help you,” Jawad said. He showed them how to clamp the bit to the interior of each camel’s nostrils and then place the reins around its neck. He slowly exhibited the proper technique, then made each boy do it themselves to show they understood.
He spoke to each camel with a quiet, soothing voice and then placed a blanket on its back and tied it down underneath its belly. He performed this task four times and again ordered each boy to do it without instruction.
When the camel was prepared to ride, Jawad had it sit down and await the rider. He used the Arabic word for sit—“iijilis.” Slowly, each camel sat on its knees in turn. Then, Jawad showed each rider how to mount the camel, grip the reins, and how to give a variety of commands for stopping, trotting, and galloping to full speed.
“The reins are everything, as is your confidence. If the camel feels you are afraid, he will not listen to you. Be strong and confident in the saddle. Grip the reins firmly, but gently, it doesn’t require much movement from you to get the camel to obey your command. Never hit a camel or treat it poorly. Their lives are more prized than one hundred of ours. Always treat it with respect.”
Each boy mounted his camel and waited for Jawad.
“Okay, follow me. Loosen up the reins and use the word ‘kef’ to make it stand,” he ordered.
Each boy did as he was told. Slowly, each camel rose except for Fez’s. His stubbornly sat.
“Oh, you’re on Old Kasseef. He’s stubborn. Pull on his reins a little harder and use your knees a bit.”
Fez did as he was told and suddenly the camel rose to his feet.
“Now, say the word ‘macha,’ loosen your grip on the reins, and kick in your heels a bit.”
“Macha, macha!” each boy yelled.
“Not so loud. Camels are quite smart and inquisitive, just say it normally,” Jawad instructed.
The camels began to walk, following one another out the gate.
“Camels are pack animals, so they will always want to stick together. The best way to punish a camel is by separating it from its pack.”
For twenty minutes, Jawad walked with them, barked out instructions, and improved their form. Satisfied, he prepared them for the next step.
“Good, good, now we’re going to get them to run. Loosen up on the reins even more, stand up, and yell ‘jara’ in a more excited voice.”
Each boy did as he was told; it was quite scary being on such a tall animal and telling it to run. But none of their camels ran.
“No, you’re all too afraid. Say it quickly, and gently kick your heels. Not too strong. You must let him know you want to run,” he yelled, and had his own camel running in a matter of seconds.
“This is madness. If I fall I’m going to die!” Aseem yelled.
“I guess we have to learn sometime,” Fez countered.
Fez dug his heels in a little more, stood up, and yelled “jara.” His camel began to trot and then, at more urging, fell into a quick pace with little Fez bouncing on top.
“I’m going to die!!” Fez screamed as he galloped past Tariq and Aseem.
Tariq and Aseem looked at one another, shrugged their shoulders, dug their heels in, and yelled to their camels. It didn’t take long before they were also at a full gallop, racing after Fez.
Camels can run at a speed of up to forty miles an hour. Because the rider sits six feet or so off the ground, it takes time to adjust to the camel’s movement. Each one is different—some camels are jittery, while others offer quite a smooth ride. The boys continued to practice for the entire day, learning how to control a frightened camel, allow it to eat, stand up in the saddle to race, and take off its saddle and bridle.
Tariq was having the most trouble. His wounds were aching and his entire body was sore. The pain made focusing and concentrating very difficult. At one point, he thought he would pass out. He simply kept trying to hang on and to push the animal to run faster. He found himself going in fits and starts. The camel would run, but only for a few feet, and then it would jog or stop entirely.
Each boy had fallen two times but never seriously. They hadn’t ridden their camels very fast or hard, still scared by the prospect of going so fast on such a tall animal. The other boys were much faster and able to control their camels with greater efficiency and dexterity than the three beginners. By the end of the day, the boys were dirty and sweaty and tired from racing under the hot desert sun.
“You only have three days to prepare for the next race. You must get faster. If you’re that slow in a race, you will each get whipped for sure,” Jawad scolded them.
“We’re trying,” Tariq replied, annoyed.
“No, you cannot try, you must do. These camel races are very serious to the Caid and to the sheiks. It is a matter of their honor. If you are racing their colors and you do not do well, some of them may just kill you to show their ferocity to the others. You must learn to go fast.”
Aseem just nodded and said nothing. It was hard enough learning how to ride a camel for the first time; how were they expected to race and compete against boys so much more experienced?
For the next three days it was the same routine: rise early, prepare the camels, and then ride them all day. As the days passed, the boys slowly grew more and more comfortable with galloping at full speed and could even saddle and unsaddle their camels by themselves. They were still not as fast as the other boys, but they were getting much better.
The night before the race none of the boys could sleep.
“I heard a boy died in the last race,” Fez said.
“I heard that too. And another boy’s legs were crushed,” Aseem added.
“Just try to hold on and try not to finish last. At this time, we must just survive; there’s no way we can beat Jawad and some of the other boys,” Tariq agreed.
“I’m scared,” Fez confessed.
“I’m scared, too,” Tariq admitted.
“I don’t want to die, Tariq,” Fez said.
“Just hold on tightly and move with the camel like we were taught.”
“I miss my parents, Tariq. I miss my family. I don’t know if I can do this,” Fez said and began crying.
“Fez, listen to me,” Tariq explained. “I know the pain you are feeling. But you are not alone—you are never alone! Aseem and Margaret and I will look after you. You will be fine, that is my promise.”
“Okay,” Fez said, his tears slowing.
“Besides,” Tariq continued, “you’re the best camel rider of all of us. I can barely stay on the thing, and Aseem looks like he can barely sit on it.”
“I can’t sit on it because my bum is so sore. I haven’t been able to sit down for three days!” Aseem said and Fez started laughing.
“See there? Just treat the race like a big game and you won’t be afraid. Don’t think about falling, only think about going faster and winning,” Tariq said.
“Okay, thank you, Tariq,” Fez said and smiled.
“It is my pleasure, Fez, my little brother.”
All three boys settled back into bed, each with their own thoughts. Tariq lay awake. He had to be strong for little Fez, but inside he was just as scared. He could scarcely stay on the camel himself—and that was only running at half speed. What happened when the camel ran at full speed in a pack of others? He had seen some of the scars on the other boys. One had a scar running all the way down the back of his leg from a fall during a race. He was told that the boy still had to race with a broken leg, and it almost killed him. In just three days, two boys had gone to the nurse after nasty falls.
Over the past three days, Margaret had endured a much different kind of prison.
First, she was forced to bathe for two straight hours before putting on a long flowing kaftan brightly colored in red and yellow. Then, she was shuffled into a windowless room with only some pillows to sit upon. After a few moments, an older woman took her through a hallway and into a kitchen. The woman said nothing to Margaret, and didn’t so much as make eye contact or smile in the least.
In the kitchen, there were about thirteen or fourteen girls, all around Margaret’s age. Each stopped their work and stared at the Caucasian girl, some whispered to one another, but no one spoke a word loud enough to be heard. Each of them performed a specific task. Some peeled potatoes, others chopped onions, and the rest went about cleaning and scrubbing.
The older woman had Margaret sit at a table next to another girl. The girl was a few years younger than Margaret, perhaps ten years old. She managed to give Margaret a bit of a smile. Margaret smiled back and felt relieved that at least someone was friendly. The younger girl was scrubbing vegetables with a loofah made of dried sea sponge. The older woman gave Margaret a similar loofah and pointed at her to follow the younger girl in scrubbing.
Hundreds of potatoes, turnips, carrots, and other vegetables were mounded on the table in front of them. Each girl would take a vegetable, dip the sponge in water, and scrub vigorously until all the dirt was removed. Margaret followed the example of the younger girl and began scrubbing and washing alongside her, tossing the scrubbed vegetables into the designated bucket.
Nobody said a word or gave Margaret any kind of instruction. Some of the girls continually peeked at her, curious about her white skin.
Margaret scrubbed vegetables for the rest of the day. After a few hours, her fingers became soft, then started to ache and split. Her fingers were tired and hurt, but she dared not complain. She was scared, yet the scrubbing was somehow peaceful. It provided her with something to do rather than sit and worry.
After another hour, a different older woman came to the kitchen. All the girls stopped their work and followed the woman. Margaret joined the formation at the end of the line.
The girls were led through a series of hallways and finally reached a large door with two sentries on either side. The sentries opened the door and the girls were ushered through. They walked into a magnificent room about forty feet high and half the size of a football field. The floor, ceiling, walls, and pillars were made of the finest Italian marble. Jasmine incense and myrrh created a beautiful aroma. Massive vases of peacock feathers were everywhere.
The room was littered with pools and fountains. Many of the girls dipped their toes in the fountains and others lazily slept on the many pillows and couches. On the ceiling and walls were enormous stained glass windows of every color and image, allowing sunlight to fill the room but preventing the harem from being seen by outside eyes.
Once inside, the older woman allowed the girls to wander freely. The other girls quickly dispersed. Margaret walked over to an empty wall and sat on a pillow. She felt more alone than ever. She missed Tariq, Fez, and Aseem and wondered if she would she ever see them again.
Margaret started to cry softly. She missed her parents. She missed her home.
A very fat girl called Fatima saw her crying. She went up to Margaret and stood over her.
“Why are you crying?” she yelled at Margaret.
Margaret said nothing, balling up her knees tightly to her chest.
“You think you’re better than the rest of us because you’re white?” Fatima scolded her.
“No,” Margaret muttered.
Fatima grabbed Margaret by the hair and stared her straight in the eyes. Margaret trembled with terror.
“Listen little girl, you do exactly as you’re told, you understand?” Fatima scowled at her.
“Yesss,” Margaret stammered out.
“You get in my way and you won’t live a week, you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good, now go get me some tea and then fan me with a feather,” Fatima ordered.
Margaret did as she was told.
Fatima was squalid and obese, with rolls of fat dripping down her body. She was constantly sweating and eating. Her face was pudgy and caked with mounds of garish makeup—like a grotesque clown. A black moustache formed around her upper lip.
Fatima was not necessarily desired by the Caid or anyone else within the kasbah, but she held considerable power within the harem because she was bigger and fatter than the other girls. She was a bully and forced the younger, skinnier girls to perform tasks for her. As she was unattractive and unwanted, this was her way to get back at the more attractive girls. Yes, they may be desirable, but they were forced to become her servants. From the outside, life in a harem might seem ideal, even dreamy. The reality was quite different.
Within the harem there was a very strict hierarchy. New girls were treated harshly and forced to serve the other, more senior, members. This might include scrubbing their backs as they bathed, painting their toes, fetching them food and water, washing their laundry, or spending countless hours brushing their long, thick hair. But it was the verbal abuse that was the most difficult. The older members ridiculed and mocked the new girls in an effort to tame them into servitude. Ungrateful or rebellious slave girls could expect a good beating from the older members of the harem. At times, they might even take a piece of wire, hold it to a flame until it was red hot, and then singe the bottom of a slave’s foot—holding it in place until the girl screamed with agony. This torture left a scar to remind the rebellious girl of her place in the harem.
Margaret spent her first days within the harem scrubbing vegetables and waiting hand and foot on fat Fatima. None of the girls talked with her or comforted her. Some made eye contact and a few smiled, but that was all. No one was friendly.
It was as if someone had given the other girls specific orders to ignore her.
The sun appeared over the mountains, signaling Ocho to wake the orphans. The group quickly assembled and marched outside. Instead of their traditional handful of rice, the slaves were urged to sit down at a table. Covering the table were crepes with jam, figs, juice, and pastilla, a flaky pastry filled with roasted pigeon. The boys inhaled the delicious breakfast. Tariq learned this feast was customary prior to a race, as the Caid and the sheiks wanted their riders full and strong.
Next, more changes were in order. The boys were shuffled off to a bathhouse. Inside, twenty tubs full of warm water lay in rows. The boys were each given fifteen minutes to wash themselves.
“I could get used to this,” Fez said.
“This is very nice,” Aseem agreed while washing his hair with lemon-scented soap.
A servant entered the bathhouse carrying a long stick with jockey uniforms hung from beginning to end. A guard went to each boy, measured up his size, and placed a uniform next to his tub. After all the uniforms had been distributed, the guard ordered the boys to dress and meet him outside. The boys dressed, with the help of Jawad, and lined up single file outside the bathhouse.
“Okay. You follow me, single file, and never look anyone in the crowd in the eyes. Do you understand?” the guard asked.
“Yes, sir!” they replied in unison.
The camel jockeys marched in unison to the stables. At the stables, they randomly selected a camel and were ordered to form a single-file line. Aseem struggled to control his camel, while Fez and Tariq seemed to have complete command over theirs.
“What’s the problem? Why won’t he obey me?” Aseem asked in a worried tone.
“His name is Kino. He’s the fastest camel in the stable but also the most wild. You must be very firm and control him with strength,” Jawad told him.
Aseem pulled on the reins more tightly and squeezed his thighs in hard. This helped to control Kino a little, but he was still quite spirited.
The jockeys marched the length of the kasbah, and its inhabitants came out to greet and cheer them. People threw flowers and rice at the boys and beat drums. Many waved red flags, while others danced and clapped their hands. Women yelped and screamed and men chanted. The boys felt like heroes walking through the crowd. For the first time since their capture, all three boys smiled.
They exited the kasbah gates into an entire village of tents that had been erected during the night. Under the tents, sheiks and warlords from various tribes basked and bargained, surrounded by their slaves and harems. The sheiks were easy to spot—their robes were overflowing with pageantry, and they walked with an air of entitlement and superiority. Under the biggest tent sat a man on a gigantic throne made of oak. The man was fat, with tanned skin, a black goatee, and rosy cheeks. He ate grapes slowly as he watched the camels emerge from the kasbah.
“That is Caid Ali Tamzali,” Jawad whispered.
The three boys couldn’t help but look sideways at the Caid. He was seated front and center, and his eyes blazed through them—hotter than the Saharan sun.
In the back, although they could not see her, Margaret Owen sat watching them. They would not have recognized her. She was wearing entirely Arab garb, and her face was completely covered.
The boys were ordered to stop their camels and to form a single line in front of the tents.
“His Excellency Caid Ali Tamzali is proud to present today’s race, fifteen miles through the desert and back. We will now choose the riders’ colors.” Zahir appeared with a large basket.
“Each of us will be given a scarf and that is the sheik we will ride for,” Jawad explained.
Zahir reached into the basket and handed each rider a ball wrapped in paper. Each boy took off the paper and placed the scarf around his neck and shoulders. The scarves had bright colors and represented the houses and kasbahs of the various sheiks and the Caid.
Fez was given a yellow and black scarf which represented the house of Sheik Hasim Asoof.
Aseem’s was a blue and maroon scarf honoring the house of Sheik Ali El Babel.
Finally, Tariq’s package revealed a scarf colored red and white—the scarf of Caid Ali Tamzali.
“You better ride fast. The Caid does not like to lose when he is hosting a race,” Jawad whispered.
Tariq placed the scarf around his shoulders and steadied his camel. He stared out into the desert, where the orange sun was just coming complete on the horizon. A stiff breeze at his neck, his heart pounded in his throat.
The riders were now in single file waiting at the starting line. They would ride for seven and a half miles into the desert, circle a flag marker at the half-way point, and then race back. Guards on horseback and camels patrolled the route to ensure no one escaped.
Right before the start, several guards came to each rider. With brine rope, the guards tied each boy’s ankles to his saddle and his wrists to the bridle. The ropes were supposed to help riders stay on galloping camels, because the reality was, if a rider did fall off he would almost certainly be dragged to his death.
Once all the riders were tied in, the Caid stood at his chair with a rifle, held it high, and fired. Almost every man in the crowd also held a rifle high and commenced firing after the Caid’s first shot. The desert suddenly became an echo of gunfire and explosions, and the camels lurched forward in response to the noise. Off they went, racing into the desert.
The camels seemed to understand that this was a real race and began to run harder and faster than they had during practice days. Tariq felt the rope dig in and begin to burn his skin. Aseem bounced up and down and struggled to maintain control. Little Fez, the lightest of the group, was having the easiest time.
For the first mile, all the racers stayed in a tight pack, but then the more experienced riders began to increase their leads. Jawad went to the front followed by two others. Fez was in fourth, while Aseem and Tariq were at the end of the pack, almost last. Only one other boy was behind them.
After a few more miles, the pain from the rope was excruciating for Tariq. With the camel’s every step, he felt it dig in, and soon his wrists were covered in blood. He tried to loosen the rope, but it was tied too tightly. All his struggling made him go slower, and soon he was in last place and unable to keep up with the pack. He grimaced with pain and ground his teeth together. He couldn’t see how he would make it back.
Aseem slowed down.
“Are you okay, Tariq?” he yelled.
“The rope is burning my skin. Every time the camel goes fast, it digs in deeper.”
“Try leaning forward more to take tension off the rope,” Aseem suggested.
Tariq tried this technique and it helped a little. He was able to go faster, but the two still lagged far behind the group.
“The Caid will kill me if I finish last,” Tariq worried.
“Don’t worry, I will finish last,” Aseem reassured him.
The group gained more and more distance on them until the last camel in front of them was no bigger than a tiny dot on the horizon. Aseem and Tariq rode as fast as they could, but the pain was too much for Tariq. He had to slow down every thirty seconds. Blood continued to drip down from his wrists, drenching his hands.
Up in front of the pack, Jawad separated himself from the other boys. He was fifty feet ahead of the closest rider. In the distance, he could see the tents and urged on his camel. The animal lunged faster, and Jawad increased his lead with each passing minute. He rode on until he crossed the finish line first. Everyone shouted and whooped and hollered. More gunfire erupted in the air. Women came and threw flowers on him. Sheik Raz Khamin greeted him personally, first by taking his dagger to the ropes that bound Jawad’s ankles and wrists, and then by helping him off the camel and escorting him to his tent. There was always a considerable amount of wagering on each camel race, and Sheik Khamin had won a small fortune for finishing first. He kissed Jawad on both cheeks and ordered his senior servant to prepare a feast for Jawad. As a slave, Jawad would not be allowed to sit at the Sheik’s table, but would eat his feast with the other camel riders in the servants’ quarters.
Jawad smiled broadly, and thanked the Sheik for his generosity.
The other riders trickled across the finish line. Fez finished fourth, extremely well for a new rider. The second- and third-place riders were greeted almost as enthusiastically as Jawad had been. Their sheiks had won wagers as well. Slowly, the entire pack crossed the finish line, with the exception of two—Aseem and Tariq.
Caid Ali Tamzali sat angrily waiting for Tariq to arrive. Zahir stood at his side. No rider for the Caid had ever finished this poorly. With each passing second, the Caid became more embarrassed and angry. Zahir could feel his master’s temper rising to a boil. Zahir would take care of it.
By the time Aseem and Tariq crossed the finish line, Tariq was in so much pain he could scarcely remain seated on his camel. His ankles and wrists had been scraped raw, and blood and skin dripped down his feet and hands. His face was white, and he felt he might faint from the pain. He leaned forward on his camel and draped his body over its back.
Zahir came from the Caid’s chair, unsheathed his dagger, and cut Tariq loose. He dragged him by his outstretched arm through the sand. Tariq moaned in pain, but Zahir paid him no mind. He dragged Tariq past the tents, back into the kasbah, and past the silenced onlookers. Zahir would make an example of Tariq for anyone else who dared to embarrass Caid Ali Tamzali.
Next to the slaves’ quarters, Tariq was tied up, with his hands stretched over his head and his bare back facing Zahir. Zahir took out a leather whip with silver lacings at the tip.
“What kind of riding was that? You have embarrassed the Caid. You have embarrassed this house!” he yelled, and brought the whip down on Tariq’s bare back. Tariq yelped in pain as he felt blood begin to drip down his back.
“You ignorant, pathetic little slave. We treat you well and this is how you repay the Caid?” he screamed and brought the whip down again. Tariq screamed in agony.
Zahir whipped him twice more, and by this point Tariq could barely keep from passing out. Zahir put down his whip, walked behind him, and grabbed him by the neck.
“Do you know how much money you cost the Caid today? Do you know how much money you cost me? I should kill you right now and be done with it. The only thing that has saved you is the fact that this was your first race. If you ever race that slow again, I will slit your throat and feed your dead body to the hyenas.”
Tariq moaned again, his vision blurry with pain. Zahir untied his wrists and led him to a metal box about three feet by three feet with just a few holes punched on top for air. He threw Tariq inside the box.
“Stay here for a couple of days and think about how to go faster,” Zahir sneered, and locked Tariq in the box.
Once inside, Tariq immediately passed out. The box was too small for him to lie down flat, so he had to curl up in a fetal position. His back was sore and raw, and his entire body throbbed with pain.
He did not cry. He would not give them that satisfaction.
Tariq started to dream, and as he drifted off, he dreamt of Zijuan. He saw her face and her smile and he knew she was thinking of him. He remembered something she once said to him.
“Tariq, you already have two strikes against you. You are poor and an orphan. You must be stronger and smarter than the others. You must turn your circumstance into a positive one. You must use your suffering to create strength. You have already tasted how hard life can be. Nothing can hurt you now, so you have the freedom to be fearless.”
Tariq lay in the box all day, drifting in and out of consciousness. It was unbearably hot and his sweat mixed with his blood. At dusk, he finally fell into a deep sleep.
During the night, Tariq heard the lock rattle and the door swing open. He felt soft and tender hands lift his body out of the box. He was disoriented—it was very dark outside, and he had been sleeping very deeply. He felt the soft hands sit him down in the sand.
“Is your name Tariq?” a female voice asked.
“Yes,” he answered. He looked up and saw a beautiful woman, dressed as a belly dancer, kneeling in front of him. She had a bucket of water and some food with her. She began rubbing a warm cloth on Tariq’s wounds.
“I’ve put some healing herbs in this water. It will help your wounds. Here, I’ve brought you some orange and lamb. Please eat it, you will need your strength,” she said.
Tariq slowly ate the slices of orange. He had eaten nothing since breakfast and had barely noticed due to the pain in his body. The juices invigorated him and he sat up a little.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Your friend Zijuan has asked for me to look out for you.”
“Zijuan? How do you know…?”
“I don’t have time to explain. You are in very serious danger. I am going to help you escape.”
“Escape?”
“Yes. The plan is being put together as we speak. It will happen very soon, so be prepared.”
“Who are you?”
“I am a dancer in the Caid’s harem.”
“One thing, I have a friend. She is a white girl. Her name is Margaret Owen. We must bring her and two other friends.”
“One of your friends is the black boy that rode with you?”
“Yes, his name is Aseem.”
“He was also beaten for finishing last. I will try to get you and your two friends out, but it will be very difficult to get Margaret away. She is being saved as a gift for the Caid’s son. He is returning soon from the wars in the north.”
“No, we must bring her. I promised,” he said, looking the woman in the eyes.
“Okay, I will see what I can do.”
“What is your name?”
“Do not worry about my name for now. Just wait for my signal. Now, don’t let anyone know you ate, or there will be questions.”
“One last question, when will we escape?”
“Soon. Very soon.”