Shafiq was the one who left, but she was so embedded in every crevice of his mind there was no getting away.
That evening, Shafiq shut his eyes and tried to remind himself about college in America, the breathtaking excitement of going to the capital of the world: the triumphant winner of the war, the place to realize his dreams…
But instead of feeling excited, he felt empty. What an utterly selfish choice. He would be abandoning his country and his family for his own personal glory.
The image of Naji burned in his mind, telling Shafiq to live for something bigger than himself. It was a pure sentiment, noble and great. But Naji had thrown it away on the wrong cause, like a man who loves an unfaithful wife. Communism was an abstract theory that led to nowhere but prison.
Kathmiya might only be a single individual—but what was worth more than one human life? Saving her felt like a calling.
His calling.
It would mean leaving his parents, but he would still have Omar. He would still have Basra. And he could rescue one lost person.
America or Kathmiya? The more he thought, the more he was convinced of his decision. If she needs me, then I have to stay.
Kathmiya did not greet Shafiq when he arrived the following day while she was hanging laundry on the roof.
“I brought you a present.”
Against her better judgment, she smiled. He’s back.
“I wish you would face me so I could give it to you,” he continued.
She turned toward this tall boy, nearly a man, the sheet in her hand rippling slightly in the breeze, the clear blue sky overhead the only witness to their encounter. He moved closer. “Give me your hand,” he said gently.
Kathmiya let the sheet fall on the brick roof and held out her work-reddened palm, watching as Shafiq placed a ring on her finger. She stared, the glint from the stone reflected in her black eyes. She had never received a gift, unless you counted a tattered children’s book whose origin she did not even fully understand, and here he was giving her something precious.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, catching her breath.
“Just like you,” he confessed, taking her decorated hand in his.
They walked together back to her small room, moving quietly so as not to rouse any attention. This time he sat close to her on the bed. “This is very unique,” he began. And then he explained the story of the pink sapphire.
Kathmiya experienced something she never had before: she felt understood. Because the story of the ring was her story. She had been trying so hard to fit into a society that couldn’t accept her, with no success; just utter, abject failure. But the ring held the promise of a lofty perspective: she may never have the rewards that society prized, but rather than becoming less worthy, she could be more rare, more precious, more beautiful.
It was as close as they would ever come to a wedding night. Neither family would accept their union, but Shafiq and Kathmiya both believed in that moment they were making an eternal pledge, and so they came together as either had only barely imagined.
Even more sweet than the love was the sleep that followed. They nestled together in a deep, restful slumber. But when Shafiq awoke, she was gone.