Outside the barn, under a bare lightbulb, Zeinab and Mr. Ammar have been endeavoring to allay Samira’s fears, but she will not be persuaded. Frustrated, she raises her voice: “They’re against everything the women’s committee believes in—what you taught me to believe in.” She scowls at Zeinab. “Why change now?”
Samira gets up from the crate and walks away. Her friend, following, guides her back to where they stand glumly together, staring at the ground.
Mr. Ammar lowers his voice. “That’s why Zeinab and I need to talk to you.”
Samira peers at the both of them over her glasses and sits down. Mr. Ammar moves to the nearest crate beside her. Hunched over, he talks with his hands. “When I said the front is widening its scope, I wasn’t just referring to them.” He motions toward the town. “As you know, Zeinab leaves tonight. We take her as far as the Nasib/Jabir crossing in the west, or if she can’t leave from there, then to one of the unofficial places in the east of Jordan, where the smugglers bring people in. Those areas are heavily patrolled by the Jordanian army and there are rumors that the US will be giving Jordan the same heat-seeking surveillance equipment used on the Mexican border. The time is right now. She will be met and taken across the desert into Syria. It’s nearly impossible to enter Daesh-controlled As-Sweida, but it can be done.
“If that fails we take Zeinab to Iraq and she crosses the border there. Too many factions are fighting inside. However, rebels we know supervise a stretch. She has to avoid populated districts where the regime or the Russians are bombing.”
As the contours of Zeinab’s journey take shape, Samira’s anger about the youth in the garden subsides. She has heard stories about comrades disappearing in the middle of the night from members of the women’s committee, employed as secretaries in one of the front’s dummy offices. Normally it was the men who vanished across borders. This time Zeinab has made the decision herself. Samira feels a twinge of satisfaction.
“I wanted to ask you,” Zeinab begins quietly again.
Samira is listening carefully.
“If you’ll consider coming with me. We work well together. The toughest part will be the desert crossing. Once inside, our real work can begin.”
Samira is secretly thrilled. But before she can react, feelings of regret suffocate her. “M-my mother?” she stammers.
“We’re your family now,” says Zeinab soothingly. “You will visit them from time to time. Remember, you will be among those who believe enough in you to entrust you with their lives.”
Her words return Samira to the disagreeable encounter among the sickly-sweet honeysuckle and jasmine in the garden. “And the sheikh and his followers, are they trustworthy too?”
Zeinab becomes exasperated. “You’re not being realistic. Tell her, Ammar. We survive on the grace of others. The same forces that nurtured us in the past invest in others. It’s the old story—divide and rule. Everyone wants to drug the masses. Why not with religion? The loyalty of people can be bought, some believe, with little effort. Whoever organizes the militias, buys the guns, runs the hospitals and schools, cleans the streets, generates a thriving underground economy, has the power. Whoever digs the tunnels and runs the blockades are kings in the land of the brutalized. But it doesn’t have to be that way. If the Americans and the Peshmerga fight Daesh in Iraq and the only fighters left in Syria are Assad’s assassins, the Russians, al-Nusra Front, and Jaysh al-Islam, what’s to become of us? I have no choice but return.” She is silent after her outburst.
“Believe me,” Mr. Ammar stresses, “none of us wants anything to do with the Islamists, but they have unlimited resources and a formidable network through their charities and religious madrassas. Who else is strong enough to support us and give us arms?”
His argument gives way to anger. “If we are weak and do nothing, it means death. If we stop moving, even sleep, we die. We need them now, not forever.”
Samira feels dejected. Where they sit, against the barn, Hussein erected an old plaque of their father’s, a faded handprint in the blood of a sacrificed goat. It was a sign of Al Jid’s belief that God Himself protected the grain and animals. Samira prays that she too will share in its provision and that against the odds her life will not be wasted.
A burst of close gunfire rouses her from the crate and she abandons Zeinab and Mr. Ammar without a word, rushing toward the car. “What happened?” she asks Uthman, who is returning the Kalashnikov to the trunk. Zeinab, Mr. Ammar, and Muna join them.
Uthman brags, “Your cousin is a feedayeen—a freedom fighter. Mabrouk, congratulations!”
Samira is more excited than relieved. Smiling, she turns to Muna and announces, “I’m going to work for Syria whatever way I can.” A decision has been made in the short distance from the barn.
She continues speaking, even though she knows Mr. Ammar would prefer her to say nothing of their plans. “I leave tonight.”
Samira, hugging her cousin, feels her flinch. She would like to talk with her more so she won’t worry. Instead Samira stops and listens to a whining car engine straining on the hills. It’s not as faint as it should be, which means it’s closer than she thinks. Once the car is on the turnoff and the long reach of its lights reflects off the dirt track, Uthman takes charge. Quickly gathering the small group behind rocks, he signals for them to keep out of sight and remain absolutely still, as a battered station wagon pulls near them.
The elderly turbaned sheikh with a walking stick is the first out, followed by two younger men dressed in loose tunics and trousers. One of them brandishes a handgun. Samira can’t be sure in the dark, but she thinks she sees the youth from the garden. Two more men emerge, supporting a third incapable of walking by himself. Badly beaten up, his body hangs limply forward. Although his face is hidden, Samira immediately recognizes Hussein. Biting her knuckles, she clutches at Muna.
The men drag Hussein around to the front of the car and drop him. He moves fitfully in the headlights. His captors have apparently been having their own heated discussion on the drive up. A large man wearing a prayer cap speaks first: “This place is an abomination. Behead him now. Be done with it. Why care about an infidel? He will burn in hell anyway.”
Another man calls for calm: “Do we kill everyone in our path?”
The youth from the garden is impatient. “We’ve debated enough. Haven’t we warned him? Each day that goes by we are abused by his vile presence, and all of this”—he dismisses everything around them—“just by breathing in this stench we endanger our souls.” He grabs Hussein by the collar and lifts him off the ground. “Ya kalb—dog—we’ll show you what we do to people who disrespect our religion!”
Behind the rocks, Samira hisses at Mr. Ammar, pleading, “Do something!” Tears of mascara form in deep pools beneath her glasses. “I warned you not to trust them, but you wouldn’t listen—”
“Your brother will be all right,” Zeinab whispers. Her dark beautiful eyes are frightened but her demeanor cool. She looks to Mr. Ammar for confirmation.
“We’ll do everything for him, but not now,” he promises Samira. “One man can’t destroy something that has taken a year to build.”
Samira whimpers, “And when will you do it, after he’s dead? After I’m dead?” How many have been tricked by this political fraudster?
He attempts to calm her by taking her hands in his.
“Don’t touch me!” she screams, and stands up. Muna pulls her back, but it’s too late. Before Samira walks into the light, Mr. Ammar steps decisively in front of her, followed by Uthman and Zeinab. The sheikh and his men are so astonished, they let go of Hussein and he falls with a thud to the ground.
The political officer wastes no time. “I am Mr. Ammar.” He speaks as though there is nothing out of the ordinary about his appearance in the middle of the night on a disreputable farm. He nods respectfully to the sheikh. “The two of us have been in correspondence. Tonight I received your final terms and conditions.” He raises his voice to emphasize the seriousness of his commitment. “I never thought we would conclude our negotiations here.”
“There is no place my followers and I do not go—”
“What are you doing to my brother?” Samira goes to Hussein, but the youth from the garden blocks her way.
The sheikh addresses Mr. Ammar. “I know you have connections to this family. A courier is one thing,” he admits brusquely, “but I did not realize the extent of your relations. Political officer, it makes me think twice about our plans. The price of our cooperation is a willingness on both of our parts to fight a common enemy.” He dispassionately points his stick at Hussein on the ground. “Some actions demand a response. We tried reasoning. For this man, words were not enough.”
Samira interrupts him by screaming, “Leave my brother alone!”
The sheikh turns and regards her. His voice is colorless and flat. “Have you ever considered, little sister, that we both fight on the same side? Everywhere our people suffer. At this very moment some are bombed or tortured or live starving under siege. Life without fear is the preserve of the wealthy, never the poor. In this world, an individual is powerless. Only sharia will restore the balance. But how can we hope for His guidance with corruption and pollution all around us.”
“Yes, we must take our decision.” It is the youth from the garden again, contemptuous of Samira and her friends. “They are with or against us. There is no middle way.”
“Show them who we are!” another of the sheikh’s followers shouts out, and kicks Hussein, who covers his head with his hands.
As the others taunt, “Kill him!” the sheikh pronounces, “The Qur’an is clear. For His survival alone, enemies of the faith must fall. Our actions will breed terror in the hearts of the kaffirs.”
“Before you kill him, you will have to kill me first.” A disembodied voice, weary and indifferent, floats to them from out of nowhere. Mustafa steps in front of the sheikh’s car with no shirt, in his boots. He holds one of his travel souvenirs, America’s finest for CQB—close quarters battle—an M4 carbine assault rifle.
“I am the only person here truly qualified for the job. My credentials are”—he wets his lips—“impeccable.” His quiet deliberation gives the impression of a man talking to himself. Then raising his voice, he growls at the men standing over Hussein, “Move!”
The sheikh’s followers step closer together, forming a tight circle around the heaped body on the ground.
“Should I demonstrate?” Mustafa is seconds away from firing.
Even in the poor light, the henna prayer etched across the young man’s chest is visible. “But you,” the sheikh is staring at him, “are one of us. You are marked, a soldier of Allah.” He leans on his stick. “Mujahid, remember your instruction; put down your weapon.”
“Move!” Mustafa shouts again. “Or everyone will die, except the lieutenant. He’s suffered enough. All of us have suffered enough.”
The sheikh’s words sound honey-coated. “Why threaten us? As true believers, we are only doing our duty.” When the soldier doesn’t reply, the sheikh becomes aggressive. “I demand the truth. You have dedicated your life to Allah—what are you doing in this hellhole?”
Mustafa answers thoughtfully. “Only what I have been taught, master: bide my time, surprise the enemy, then be quick, be brutal. Jihad is only satisfied with human blood. And these revolutionaries,” he jeers at Mr. Ammar, although his eyes won’t leave Samira, “look at me for your lost innocence.”
Muna stifles a scream as the young man from the garden throws himself at the soldier, but the mujahid is quick. He swings the rifle hard into the boy’s stomach and, as he doubles over, once more across the forehead.
“Such foolishness,” Mustafa sounds coldly detached. With a faint jerk of his chin, he glowers at the man with the handgun, daring him to act. The sheikh’s follower throws it to the ground.
Hussein staggers to his feet, and Samira, rushing to his side, leads him away from his attackers. A low rumble of engines belonging to at least two vehicles—now on the mountain, are making the turnoff. Hussein, leaning on his baby sister, whispers the only real advice he has ever given her: “Take who you love, travel lightly. Leave now!”
She thinks he must be delirious until he promises her, “I will tell Mother Fadhma and she will understand. Send word when you can, return if it’s safe; we will wait for you.” When she hesitates again, he stresses, “Go before it’s too late. Those who come now are truly dangerous. Listen to a brother who has witnessed too much.” Despite his weakened condition he gives her a last piece of useful advice—“The soldier knows the way”—before forcibly pushing her aside and stumbling off into the darkness.
The sheikh is berating Mustafa again. “Believer, among us, your brothers, you are not an outcast. Among them”—he points at Samira—“a hired hand, a murderer, condemned to run for the rest of your days.”
The soldier takes aim. “Before you drown in your own blood, drink from mine.”
In the split second between threat and action, the assault weapon wavers. Samira, recognizing the signs, positions herself beside him to do whatever she must, as two sedans barrel down the dirt tract toward the farm. Headlights akimbo, they screech to a halt. Heavily armed men rush the sheikh and his followers. In the confusion Samira seizes her chance and she is not alone. At that moment the heavy barn doors slide open and a cascade of fluorescent light fills the yard. The roar of grunts, howls, thrashing, and cussing dies down. All eyes are drawn to Hussein, beaten and weak, standing perfectly still. In his hand is an enormous meat cleaver. He gazes at the assembled and walks around the enclosures housing the pigs. Each time his step falters, he supports himself against a railing. It is the arduous journey of a man in pain, but his purpose is clear.
At the largest pen, he places one leg over the bars, summons his remaining strength, and climbs into the minuscule space not taken by Umm al-Khanaazeer. Shocked by the unexpected visitor, the pig’s gargantuan body rears onto her hind legs. Hussein is nearly dwarfed, but his weapon is well placed. Treachery from the hand that once cared and nourished it is the cruelest blow. The pig’s bellowing cries intermingle with whimpering groans that Hussein identifies as human and belonging to Abu Za’atar. His corporeal body or astral spirit—Hussein isn’t sure which—has ascended Musa’s mountain to bid his lucrative IVF experiment good-bye.
But nothing distracts Hussein from his errand. A lifeless face squeezes words out through clenched teeth. Every third one is emphasized as the cleaver hacks into flesh. “I will not let a pig stand between you and your maker. If you believe that Umm al-Khanaazeer’s death means our resurrection, it’s my pleasure to help you.”
The sharp blade comes down hard on the sow again and again. Crouching, she endeavours to crawl into the four corners of the pen, but Hussein is relentless.
“How we all yearn for greatness.”
Blood rises in fountains and falls like rain.
“And all the while it is here, in the belly of a pig. God knows we are all tired of being last, stupid, corrupt, attacked.”
As Hussein works on, the animal stops moving and the mass of flesh accepts the blows as easily as a pillow. He hauls himself up on the side of the pen, holding what’s left of the big pig by one ear. Her half-open eyes peer haughtily out.
“This is my sacrifice so the killings will end. No more wars over useless land. No more feuding between the godless and the godly, one bloated with hunger and thirst, the other with righteous greed. What benevolent ruler kills hundreds of thousands for a Swiss bank account? Who considers rape of little girls religious ecstasy? Any excuse is convenient when you want to destroy countries and steal lives.”
Abu Za’atar has been watching Hussein with mounting revulsion. When he can no longer restrain himself and is about to fly into the barn, a hand reaches out from the darkness and holds him firm. Squinting with his good eye, he can just make out the charm against the evil eye around Samira’s neck. Its dull gleam catches the light before it fades away into nothingness. He could have easily imagined it but will brag about this detail for years to come. Muna stands at his side as Samira blows both of them a kiss before disappearing behind a ridge for good. Following her are two unlikely companions: one wonderful and the other an unknown quantity but more than likely useful in a pinch.
Sometimes when his good and bad eyes cross each other, they prevent him from seeing clearly, or rather that will be his excuse if called to the witness stand. He could alert the mukhabarat that the fugitive they seek is getting away, but with so many suspects to choose from, he won’t be missed. Abu Za’atar has been in the company of the secret police long enough to appreciate their particular brand of deterrence: men intent on doing so much good they cut down everybody in their way. Abu Za’atar removes his never-without, woven from five hundred thousand of the finest Egyptian cotton threads, and derives much-needed comfort from its softness. No matter the situation, Samira wouldn’t want it otherwise, and he won’t allow her impeccable standards to slide.
“Hope is something with wings” is his final comment on the whole sorry ordeal, which he imparts to Muna.
In the barn Hussein has sunk to his knees and plunged his hands into the massive dead pig. “God Almighty,” he sobs in great gasps, “let this khanzir wash away its sins and ours.”
His clothes are bathed in blood. He lays down the meat cleaver and steadies himself enough to climb out of the pen. Something else is on his mind.
“My father taught me to give in order to receive. Wild boar ran in the Yarmouk Valley before man sowed the first seeds in 5500 B.C. They will thrive there once again,” he vows. As he regards his blood-soaked fingers, he is astonished to find that, for once, they are not trembling. The pain of the beating and the sorrow of killing his pig have been pushed aside by a curious elation. At last, he feels responsible for himself.
As he walks the length of the barn, flicking open the latches on the pens, his mind is racing. It will be impossible for his rapacious uncle to understand, but Hussein and his family will manage. Any material deficiencies will be compensated for with love and attention. Laila will learn to trust him. So will Mother Fadhma—if she can fight her natural tendency of living in regret. There will be the initial shock about Samira, but he and the old woman will cope. For too long each and every one of them has been engulfed by memories more vivid than the reality of their lives.
Hussein’s hands begin to pulsate and expand, filling his field of vision. He can clearly distinguish every fold of skin in sharp, unnatural detail. Each is a tiny river of blood, and in the rivers a thousand futures are flowing. He cannot be sure what will be unleashed. His sons will either end up as doctors or killers. He doesn’t know which. His sister was the one person in the family who could have benefited from his experiences. Tonight was the first time he tried to help her. If they meet again, and this too is an uncertainty, he will explain that many roads lead to redemption. Temporarily, his burden feels lighter. As the barn starts spinning fast and then very, very slowly, with great difficulty Hussein raises his head and sees the specter of his father. Al Jid is no longer angry or ashamed of his son.
Pigs of every conceivable shape and size run amok—speckled, tan, black, and brown, hairy and smooth, the beauties and the ginger beasts, piglets with the good fortune to evade their mother’s digestive tract but who will not survive the cruel night alone, the castrated six-month-olds ready for slaughter, the crippled and the runts. Caught in the teeming animals, the sheikh and his followers, the mukhabarat strongmen, and the front’s political wing fall angrily over one another. Wordlessly, Muna and Abu Za’atar detach themselves and go to Hussein while all around them porcine mouths, from which milk teeth have been lovingly plucked or filed, issue an unearthly cry of liberation.
A handful of male animals, their instincts dulled by captivity and testosterone growth hormone, turn northwards and ascend the barren higher slopes towards the church and ruined monastery on Jebel Musa. The rest, as through drawn by gravity, move downhill. Suddenly mountainside rocks and shrubs are alive with hoof, snout and twisted tail. Faster than anyone can drive, for the road is far from being the most direct route, the pigs flee through the lower pastures and fields. Some, sensing the long journey ahead, stop for water at the prophet’s springs and drink before trotting off to catch up with their friends. When older sows start slowing down and losing their way, brazen younger pigs take over and, at the bottom of the small hills, avail themselves of the pleasant respite offered by the lilies and oleander in Matroub’s fragrantly cool and fairy-lit garden.
By the forked crossroads, siblings who have not been separated since birth gamble on the final destination of the main arteries through the town and take off in different directions. Some head into the Eastern Quarter, and the thin streets and contorted alleys become a racetrack, from which the animals emerge at the other end, dizzy but amused. Others are waylaid by roadside garbage near the covered market but not for long. Soon every corner of the town is filled with snuffling rooting pigs.
In the grey before dawn, as the rich dew forms, the dogs yield their accustomed haunts to an unseen threat. Glimpsing the cause from the front terrace, Mother Fadhma carefully disengages herself from sleeping Laila and the boys so as not to disturb them. The old woman walks slowly through the new house and doesn’t stop to consult her dead husband. In the kitchen she starts her preparations for the family’s comfort food, hot mint tea and toasted za’atar bread. Samira and Hussein have been out all night and they still might not be on their way home. Fadhma realizes she will have to face whatever comes calmly, rationally and without fear. It is no good preparing all the while for disaster; sometimes you have to be ready for what might have a passing resemblance to success.
At that hour the only person on the streets of the town is the butcher’s assistant Khaled. The juvenile favours the wee hours of the morning and often sneaks out of his father’s house for a relaxing stroll. Initially the odd pig or two doesn’t make much of an impression on him but as their numbers grow he stands out of their way on the steps of the mosaic church and observes. He is well versed in Biblical stories about plagues of frogs, locust and vermin but khanaazeer has never been mentioned. He doesn’t mind. The animals are in too much of a hurry to cause him trouble. When an adorable bonetired runt collapses, Khaled picks it up and strokes the soft downy fur beneath its belly. He thinks about keeping it under his bed but he’s never been good with pets. He might be slow but he isn’t stupid. As he leaves it snoring on the steps three veiled women pass in front of the church. He thinks he catches his name on the wind. Only then he notices that one is wearing heavy boots and has feet like a man’s.
For the pigs, the unpaved streets seem to hold little fascination, except for the smell of food from the falafel stand. Two, which don’t have the good sense to follow their noses to the service square and frolic in the rubbish heaps of the barbecues and restaurants, find themselves listlessly sniffing around Abu Za’atar’s Marvellous Emporium, where the scent belonging to their great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother is vague but unmistakably pungent. On Lovers’ Lane, a large rust-colored boar releases his pheromones and urinates under a lamppost.
Most of the pigs converge on the track between the boys’ and girls’ schools, which leads to the fields and open countryside of the surrounding plateau, eventually down the desert steppes to the valley, and finally to the jungle wilderness of the zur along the banks of the Jordan River. They have been given a chance they cannot afford to squander. Only the most ignorant would choose to be in the town after the first glimmer of light in the east signals the beginning of another hot bothered day.