Mosul, Iraq
The university was closed again. Akram Tijani studied the empty campus through the morning haze from the balcony of his apartment building. He wondered if he would ever teach again.
His eyes were drawn to the line of pickup trucks and armored vehicles crawling along University Highway below, all flying the black flags of Jihad Nation.
Jihad Nation had come to liberate. To bring order.
What a hideous joke.
“I’m just going out for a moment, Akram.”
Akram, turning from the balcony railing, saw his wife of many years wearing her burqa. It still took him by surprise. She hadn’t worn the thing for decades, favoring her simple light housedresses and scarves for public. But of course she wouldn’t be safe on the streets in that kind of garb anymore. Not with the jihadis in charge.
“No,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere, habiti.”
“We need bread.”
“I’ll go.”
He could see her shoulders slump inside the restrictive garment. “I need to get out of this apartment for a few minutes.”
“Perhaps later,” he said. “If we see people go out walking. After dinner.”
“You always say that. It doesn’t happen.”
“Sit out on the veranda here. That’s almost like going out.”
“No, it’s not. You know it isn’t. And even so I still have to wear this, in case anyone sees me.”
He sighed in agreement. “I don’t know what to say. But it’s too dangerous for you to go out.”
“Any word from our son?”
“Not today.”
“I’m worried about him over there, in Paris. That shooting. On the news. Do you think . . . ?”
“No,” he said abruptly. He was worried too. More than worried. His son, working for the jihadis. Insanity. It was like riding a tiger—one could never dismount. But Kafka promised them he would get them to a better life. Out of Iraq. To the west. “Take that silly thing off.” Akram headed to the hall closet. “I’ll go fetch bread. Maybe they’ll have some ice cream.”
His wife removed the hood at the same time he pulled his light white windbreaker from the closet, slipped it on over his Izod shirt. “Where are my glasses?”
Her soft features, plump but still attractive, were marred by lines of sleeplessness and worry. “They’re on your head, you silly man.” She actually divulged a smile, one of the few he’d seen since the jihadis came. He returned it, glad for the small respite.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Don’t let anyone in.”
“I know, I know.”
He turned to the door of their apartment, just as he heard noises out in the hallway. Any sound these days was cause for alarm.
“Akram,” she said. “What’s that?”
“Just the boy delivering water.” They hadn’t had water from the taps for days. Even so Akram’s insides churned with anxiety.
“Do be careful.”
Akram opened the front door and jumped to see two men, heads and faces covered in full scarves, carrying AK-47s.
Jihadis.
He went for the money in his pocket, the smaller bundle he carried for bribes.
“Collecting taxes?” he said. “I am happy to pay.”
“Akram Tijani?” one man said. “Father of Kafka Tijani?”
“Yes,” he said, the rapid beating of his heart making his arm shake as he held the door partially closed.
“Come with us,” the man barked. “You and your wife.”
“My wife is not here,” he lied, praying that she had overheard the situation and secreted herself somewhere. Her weak heart would not handle what these men might have in store.
“You let your wife out alone?” the taller of the two men said. “That is a violation of Sharia Law.”
“She went out with her brother,” he said.
“Akram,” his wife said, coming out into the hallway behind him now, wearing just a floral housedress and sandals. Her hair had been brushed. “Who is it . . . ”
And then she saw them. Her face dropped. “No!”
Akram turned back to see the tall man’s eyes blazing through the slits in his scarf.
“You lied to me,” the man hissed.
“It was a mistake.”
"Allah will not call you to account for thoughtlessness in your oaths, but for the intention in your hearts."
“I said it was a mistake.”
“You’re coming with us. Both of you.” He jerked his head at Akram’s wife. “Put on a burqa, woman.”
Akram cleared his throat, shaking visibly. “My son reports to the deputy emir. He is Kafka Tijani, as you have duly noted yourselves. He has quite an important position.”
“And that is exactly why you two are coming with us,” the taller man said. “To make sure your son realizes where his allegiances lie, eh?”
“No!” Behind him, Akram heard his wife gasp then spin on her heels, clacking away across the tiles. Where did she think she was going to run to?
“Get back here, woman!” one jihadi shouted, knocking the door wide open with a crash against the wall, marching angrily into the apartment. He strode across the tile floor, his rifle slung over his shoulder, into the bedroom where Akram’s wife had fled. Akram beseeched his wife to calm down, knowing resistance was the worst course of action with these people. One lived at their mercy.
Soon, amidst cries and whimpers, the jihadi brought his wife back out, gripping her soft, fleshy arm in his dirty fingers. Her face streamed with tears as he pushed her roughly, telling her to stop her noise or feel the back of his hand. Akram was powerless to stop him.