“Did you see the news?” The anger of Ali’s voice slices through my phone.
“No. I’m on a job. What happened?”
“Three more drone attacks this week.”
I exhale, the power of my grief rising in my throat. “Where?”
“Two in Pakistan, one in Palestine.”
I move behind a steel container on the rig floor so I can speak out of my colleagues’ line of sight. “Deaths?”
“The defense department commented on the Pakistani attacks. They are saying three militants near the Khyber Pass and five Afghan Islamic insurgents were taking refuge on the Pakistani side of the border.”
I note that Ali has told me about the Pakistani attacks first. His usual Palestine-centric worldview momentarily shifted.
“But they’re not talking about Palestine. The Israelis are beating their chests with pride, because they hit one of our bravest Hamas leaders. Killed in his bed. Sister-fuckers. The Israelis think they are so clever, but the drone was American.” He continues in a familiar screed about America’s complicity in everything the Israelis do. His words crescendo to an uncharacteristic silence.
I wait. I know Ali will fill the void in a moment.
“Now is the time for us to act.” His tone is completely devoid of his previous near hysteria. “My friend has received your new documents. Canadian Sikh. So now we need to make some arrangements on our end.”
“When?”
“No more waiting. As soon as you come back from your job. We can store materials at my house until we arrange for the U-Haul trailer.”
“I…I don’t know if I’m ready, Ali.”
“God will make you ready Rashid. Call me as soon as you are back.”
I close the phone, pace back and forth, banging my hand against a steel railing. Years ago, when my father had made arrangements for me to study in London, I had sat close to him in our courtyard. Even though we were the same height, even though I could have physically overpowered him, I sat next to him like a child, trying not to allow any fear to creep into my voice. Daddyji, I had said, I don’t know if I’m ready. He had smiled. You’re a man now. God has made you ready, beta.
I retrieve my wallet from the bag in my rig locker and pull out a phone card. I calculate the time difference and figure that my brother will be sleeping. I dial the long string of numbers to reach him. I hear the distinct rings of an international phone call through the speaker. The rings stop and I hear a shuffling before a voice speaks into the line. “Hahllo?”
“Majid?”
“Han ji, yes.”
“It’s your brother.”
“Rashid? How are you?”
“Majid, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Yes, what?”
“I need money. I want you to bring ten thousand dollars to the hawala we use in Lahore. Not the village one near the farm.”
“What for?”
“I just need it. Maybe not all at once, but make sure, it’s there with him. And depending on how things go, I may need more. I’ll let you know the hawala that will receive it on this end.”
“You need a transfer? I can send it through my Citibank account.”
“No. Just do what I say. Use the money I have in my bank there. If something happens, tell the hawala to send money to my wife and sons, every three months. Make sure the money is there.”
“Of course, I understand.”
One week. I return to shore and Ali tells me that we have one week to prepare, plane tickets have been purchased in my new name. Scores of details fill my world. I don’t even have time to go to the mosque. Every morning I check the traffic reports, trying to understand when the freeway interchange is busiest. I use the library computer to find U-Haul rental locations. Surprisingly, Ali calls less frequently.
When I arrive at his backhouse this morning, his behavior vacillates between extreme anxiety and serenity. I notice that his refrigerator contains only a shriveled lemon and a few packets of ketchup.
“I am ready,” Ali tells me as I heat the water for tea. “My father came to me last night in a dream. He said he has prepared a place for me.”
I am not surprised. I have been thinking of my own father often, just before I sleep, almost hoping he will come to me in my dreams. “What did he look like?”
Ali smiles and closes his eyes, recalling the image of the man in his dreams. “He looks as he did in the photo on his wedding day. Young and handsome and happy.”
“Ali, have you warned your mother or your family?”
“No. Insha’allah, they’ll be surprised. My mother will be proud that my jihad is successful.”
Guilt strikes me. My mother will also be proud that her husband’s death will be avenged. But Ali’s mother will also lose her son in the process.
“Are you sure this is the way you want to do it? Perhaps we can plan some other way, so you don’t need to be in the car. Perhaps I can pick you up before we detonate.”
Ali cocks his head, looks at me curiously. “Why would I want to stay? To live in this horrible place?” he gestures to the room. “So I can continue to grieve my father and watch the kafirs continue to kill Muslims?” He places his hand on his heart. “I have only one regret, I didn’t make the Hajj. But Allah will forgive me. He knows I wasn’t able.”
I stir my tea out of habit. Ali no longer has sugar to add.
“What’s the name of your town, where your mother is?”
“Nablus. We are the Nassan clan of Nablus.” Ali sips his tea, winces as he burns his tongue. “We have had olive groves there for generations. My great grandfather was able to protect them during the 1947 war.” He looks up at me, his usual anger returning to his eyes. “You know the British supported the Zionists. They supported drawing lines in Palestine. The British drew lines all over the world, leaving people to kill their neighbors on the other sides of the lines.” He holds his hands in a circle on the table, outlining the globe. “We should plan something to hit Britain too.” He draws his fingers together, then floats them out, miming an explosion where London would be in his imaginary globe.
“Others will take care of that,” I say. “We have our plan.”
“Yes. Yes we have our plan.” He sits up in his chair. He starts to pick at his thumbnail with the opposite hand, abandoning the imaginary globe. “Brother, don’t call me unless it’s absolutely necessary. The closer we get, the more we have to worry about surveillance. The government can listen to our calls, read our emails. It’s best we talk in person.” He practically jumps out of his chair, turns off the light and pulls back the shade to look out the window. “Did you hear someone outside?”
I strain my ears, but hear only the dull roar of the freeway a few blocks away. “No. Probably just a cat. Sit down, I want to make sure we have everything in order.”
Ali returns to his chair, but does not turn on the light. Eventually my eyes adjust to the pale light of the streetlamp leaking into the darkness and I can see enough to write down a list in a notebook I have brought along. Ali quietly fidgets in his chair. Somehow the news of the latest drone attacks has flipped a switch in my mind. I bear a responsibility not only to my mother, but to the Pakistanis, the Muslims I don’t know, the umma—our collective community persecuted by the drones of the West. I list the materials we will need, the expected times we will accomplish each detail, everything must be planned precisely.
“You forgot the Koran,” Ali says when he looks over my writing.
I look again at the paper as I would a packing list for a client job. I write down Koran, then look up, waiting for more.
“The words of the Prophet, peace be upon him, should be with me.”
“It will burn up.”
“Let’s get a fireproof box, so when they investigate the remains they’ll know we are Muslims.”
I add fireproof box to my list.
Ali gets up and disappears into the bathroom.
I flip the page on my pad to reveal an unblemished sheet. I start writing, not a list, but a letter. I don’t address it, as I am not sure who might read it. ‘I am acting out of love. I loved my father, I love my mother, I love my homeland. I am not alone, all over the world sons are loving their parents, seeking to honor their wishes or their memories. Your drones do not understand the love we feel. They are inhuman. They do not fear Allah. We are responding in the language the drones will understand. We will destroy a little piece of what you love. You will feel the same kind of pain.’
Unaccustomed to writing such words, the effort exhausts me. I realize Ali has not returned to the table. I look around the room, walk to the back of the house and find him asleep on the little cot in the bedroom, the Koran next to him on the bed, his hand clutching the cover as Michael would clutch a stuffed animal.
I let him sleep, leave him to his dreams.