Retribution

Terminal 1, International Arrivals,
Heathrow Airport, London

Ali Sitwa continuously played with his short beard, unconsciously twisting the hair as he stood, waiting, under the arrow sign. The meeting point was Heathrow’s arrow sign, which was just beyond the customs release gate. Everyone knew of the arrow sign, and if by chance one didn’t, the crowd of waiting people just beyond the gate made for an unmistakable signal.

Sadik Zabara was a stranger to Sitwa. But he, like everyone who worked at his London newspaper, was familiar with Zabara’s reputation. Zabara had survived the worst of the ethnic cleansing of the Bosnian war, becoming a Muslim legend. His posts to the Oslobo

enje newspaper recorded three years of the brutal bloodshed, during which time Muslims were dragged out into the streets on a daily basis, begging for their lives, only to be knifed or shot or raped by the drunken Serbian death squads. Zabara and his wife managed to escape the purges in the attic above a neighbor’s shop, like a modern-day Anne Frank, living on cold kupus and grah. His host, a Serbian farmer who couldn’t stomach the death squads, became, like few in mankind’s history, a hero who protected a fugitive family from its predators. It was truly a miracle that the Muslim journalist had survived.

Al-Quds Al-Arabi had become the media lifeblood of hundreds of thousands of Muslims in Great Britain. Readers as far away as Scotland and western Europe followed the paper’s daily report of Muslim affairs. Zabara would extend Al-Arabi’s already broad reach, perhaps dramatically.

A lanky man accompanied by a woman carrying a toddler on her hip pushed their luggage cart through the arrivals door. There could be no mistaking Zabara, though he appeared taller than Sitwa had expected. More expected was the poorly cut sandy hair, tight to the extreme on the sides and long and wavy on the top, and the stubble of several days’ growth. Zabara’s outfit—an off-green plaid shirt and brown trousers—appeared well worn and looked like the garb of someone who lived day-to-day in a poor country.

Sitwa had been told that Zabara was a pale Caucasian. This had come as a surprise. It was Mansoor’s own prejudice to assume that a Muslim must be darker-skinned. At least he was able to recognize that prejudice and let it only be a passing thought. But it wasn’t only the skin tone that raised Sitwa’s eyebrows. As Zabara came closer, he looked much more fit than the newsman had expected.

The wife, however, had the look of a once-attractive woman who had lived through too many years of war and nights of fear. The baby girl, with her round face and large brown eyes, hung closely. But she didn’t resemble either the mother who held her or the father who stood nearby. Her red, curly hair, in fact, seemed quite her own. Nor did she match their relatively advanced age.

Sitwa looked more closely at Zabara’s wife. She was well-proportioned for a woman in her mid-forties, although her shape was well camouflaged by an oversized orange-and-blue coat that looked like a decade-old ski jacket. Where it hung open, Sitwa could see a rather slim waist. She carried two stuffed plastic shopping bags marked with the name of some store in Sarajevo, and he pushed a cart that carried three bulging suitcases that were well worn and frayed on the edges. Stacked on top of the suitcases were two rolled-up prayer rugs tied tightly with hemp.

“As sala’amu alaikum, Sadik Zabara.” Much shorter than his newly arrived employee, Sitwa looked up into Sadik’s light blue eyes.

“Walaikum as sala’am.”

The two men briefly hugged as Zabara’s wife looked on. She seemed sad, and her eyes were flat and distant.

“You must be Mr. Sitwa of Al-Arabi?”

“Yes, I am, and welcome to Great Britain. We are all excited about having you on at the paper.” For now, both Sitwa and Zabara spoke broken, heavily accented English.

It had surprised Sitwa when his usually cautious editor had suggested hiring the Bosnian journalist. Sitwa’s boss was a man who always chose the safe route, eschewing stories about jihad for the tame lifestyle articles that pleased advertisers. One day, though, when an argument over the paper’s vision heated up with his editorial board, the editor told everyone to submit a list with three names on it.

“You think there is a problem here. So you give me names and we will see.”

Several had put Sadik Zabara on their lists—a bold gesture indeed, since Zabara was well known for editorials that announced the end of the bin Laden era and called out for a new leader of the jihad.

The greatest shock of all had come when Sitwa’s editor had told him to contact Zabara with an offer of employment.

Zabara smiled broadly and put his hand on Sitwa’s arm. “I am honored to be here and write for Al-Arabi.”

The baby started to fuss, then cry.

Zabara’s wife comforted her. “Otac, otac, otac . . .”

The child kept crying.

“Such a young child.” For middle-aged parents, Sitwa was thinking.

“Ah.” Zabara smiled. “She is our niece. The daughter of my wife’s younger sister.”

Sitwa didn’t need to ask. The child’s mother would not have let her daughter go abroad with her aunt and uncle if she were still alive. In all likelihood, both of the child’s parents had been lost.

“Otac . . . What word is that?” Sitwa asked.

“Oh, it is just a child’s word.” Zabara rubbed his hand on the child’s head as the mother tried to silence her. Suddenly Zabara grimaced and clenched his fist; once, twice, and then a third time.

“Is your arm all right?

“Oh, yes. No problem. Too many hours on airplanes.”

“I have a car waiting. We have a flat for you on Spruce Hills in Walthamstow, just off of Forest Street. It’s near Walthamstow Central Station. Very easy to get around.”

For centuries, the East End of London was the first stop for migrating people moving into Great Britain. It was near the docks. New immigrants would get off the boat and immediately settle in the nearest neighborhood. But the Olympics changed the city. Where tenants had once lived at arm’s length, now there were large plazas and stadiums. Now the new immigrants wandered farther in from the river, huddling in neighborhoods of similar others. For Bosnian Muslims it became Walthamstow. It had become a haven for the growing Muslim population of London.

“Is it near the paper?”

“No. The paper is, unfortunately, on the other side of the city. But your flat is on a main road and within a short walk of the Victoria Line. The paper is just a few blocks from the Ravenscourt Park tube. Once you get the hang of it, you will be fine.”

Zabara smiled as he pushed the cart through the doors and followed Sitwa, who carried on the conversation while talking over his shoulder.

“Besides, there is a restaurant just a block away from your flat that serves begove corba.” Sitwa wasn’t from Sarajevo and knew about the lamb stew only from what he was told, but he wanted Zabara to become comfortable with his new life.

“Really?” Zabara glanced at his wife.

Sitwa saw the ghost of a smile flit across her face.

“Yes, indeed. The restaurant is called Jehzh Café.”

“I am sorry about our flights,” Zabara said. “We were delayed almost a day in Vienna. Apparently, Lufthansa had made an error with our tickets.”

Sitwa had wondered why the trip had taken so long. He had expected Zabara the day before.

“It still is difficult coming out of Sarajevo,” Zabara continued.

His wife followed, quietly whispering to the little girl.

Perhaps her English is not very good, Sitwa thought as they cut across the roadway to the pickup point. He began frantically waving his arm.

“There is our driver.”

He pointed to an old Volvo station wagon parked at the curb. Upon seeing Sitwa, the driver jumped out and opened up the hatch.

“It is good to have you at Al-Arabi, brother.” Sitwa lifted the first bag into the car. Like the others, it was heavy. It had to be. It, and the few others, contained all of this family’s possessions. “And I must say . . . we are particularly excited about the invitation you have received.”

Zabara nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed.”