Desert Wanderings -- Critiques Welcome

Desert Wanderings

Ylanne Sorrows

12 May 1965

It was her fifteenth birthday and she was alone. Aunt Solara had offered to cook something special for the occasion, but Tahira Ali had no desire for a hot, spicy meal. So Solara had watched, her brow furrowed with concern, darkness settling heavy over her eyes, as Tahira Ali slipped out the door of their little mission house. The last thing Tahira Ali saw was Solara’s hands clutching the tiny gold cross around her neck.

Outside, she turned back slowly, her form silhouetted against the overcast skies. The home was not theirs in truth. It belonged to Hope International Ministries, the Christian missions organization Solara belonged to. Solara had come here to bring Christianity to the Moslems. And she partly of Moslem ancestry herself! It was not something Tahira Ali fully understood, but it was also for that reason that she went to school where she did.

Tahira Ali attended St. Mary’s Mother of Hope Preparatory Academy, a ritzy school she could not afford to go to. Solara was given free tuition on Tahira Ali’s behalf because of her important work for the Christian cause, but she did not feel welcome there. Some days the nuns were kind, other days they were horrid. Mostly they were apathetic to her existence; Tahira Ali was one more student, one more nuisance to put up with, one more head to cram Virgil into.

That day in school, she had walked slowly through the great halls of the stone building, designed in European style, as students rushed by her. They were almost all white with a smattering of Arabs, the children of wealthy parents. She was neither one nor the other. As she made her way down the side of the hall, the students parted like a wave for her, their eyes slipping over her as though she were a chair or painting and not once making contact. No one spoke to her, not even to mock her.

She had taken her seat in class and waited for the teacher, Sister Theresa, to join them. Tahira Ali could not wait for school to end—to remain there was to smolder in a private hell. No one knew, or no one cared, that today was the day to celebrate her birthday. When the final bell rang, a harsh, alien sound against the desert landscape, Tahira Ali fled as fast as she could from those oppressive halls.

Once home, dressed still in the Catholic school girl uniform, Tahira Ali had changed into the more comfortable abaya Solara had sewn just for her. The abaya, an all-covering garment worn by most of the religious Moslem women, draped over her slender frame gracefully, leaving her face and hands free. For Tahira Ali, it made her one more face in the crowd, and the crowds at the bazaar and in the streets did not part like the Red Sea when she approached. She was just another woman.

Outside, then, she turned her back on her home, the old mission house, now beginning to fall into disrepair for all of Solara’s hours spent scrubbing and fixing and dusting. The desert sun, a welcoming and familiar presence, blazed down on her as though in greeting. But she was protected from burn by the soft material of the abaya, and she walked slowly through the streets, not sure where she was going or what she hoped to find. She heard the women talking and the men talking, and laughter from somewhere, and children clapping and singing, and a dog barking, and a church bell ringing, and the call to prayer in the imam’s sonorous voice, and market sellers hawking their goods, only to fall silent at the azhan.

Near the center of the city were flowering gardens, the Beautiful Gardens, and she was drawn to them. The hanging plants and flowering vines held an ancient beauty, the same beauty that resonated throughout the Old City. Tahira Ali entered through the South Gate, the walls of the garden shutting out the white noise of the city. Inside, she inhaled the aroma of citrus trees and flowering plants, arranged artfully in a master’s scheme, around several geometric designs of water and arabesques. Wandering among the silent plants, Tahira Ali found a place to sit, beneath a Cyprus tree, and there she sat in silence.

It was then that the young man passed by, a young white man at least into his twenties, with flowing, rich chestnut-colored hair, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Tahira Ali immediately stood in deference to the white man, offering him her seat. As the two stood in mutual silence, each regarding the other with some measure of wariness, Tahira Ali noticed the man’s fine suit and tie, and that, further behind him, some one hundred metres away at least, two more white men also in suits stood watching. After a moment, she realized they were watching her. So was the man in front of her.

“Salaam alaykum,” he said, surprising her with his command of Arabic with the proper greeting. Peace be upon you. Not many whites took the time to learn the language of the people whose nation they ruled.

“And also unto you,” Tahira Ali replied in English, surprising herself.

“You speak English,” said the white man, his eyes lighting up. He moved closer and gestured to the stone bench. “Come, sit with me. Why alone?”

So, beside herself, and quite unable to do anything other than what this white man asked, Tahira Ali reclaimed her spot on the bench and joined the white man there. “This is beautiful, isn’t it?” The white man gestured to the garden. She nodded.

“Yes, it is. I come here sometimes, when I need. . . when I need silence.”

“Ah,” said the white man, and in his eyes there was reserved concern. “Have I interrupted your reverie, then?”

“No, no,” Tahira Ali said hastily. It was then she realized she wanted him to stay. So she said, “Stay.” And then, “it is my birthday today.”

“Your birthday?” The white man seemed amused. “How old are you then?”

“Now I have fifteen years,” said Tahira Ali proudly, looking up at the white man, for he was much taller than she.

The light in his eyes danced. “And I have twenty! Tell me then, what is your name?”

“I am called Tahira Ali,” she responded. “How do you call yourself?”

“My name is Carlos,” he said, laughter in his voice. His smile was radiant, all the teeth showing. In the distance, the other two white men seemed to be talking, but they moved no closer.

And so with their names revealed to each other, they remained in silence for a long time, admiring the trees, shrubs, and flowers, and, secretly, each other. They would not have made a strange couple, if another had happened by. It was common these days, that a white and an Arab would have a relationship, although it was never public, and no self-respecting Arab would be seen dating in the Western fashion. In keeping with tradition and honor, the two sat a respectful distance from each other, though close enough to touch, had they chosen to do so. But they knew they were being watched.

So they watched as the sun slowly began to set, its brilliance setting the whole sky ablaze in a red inferno, the heat slowly giving way to the bleak cold of night. In the distance, they heard the azhan, and they waited until the faithful completed their obligatory prayers. Then they heard distant chanting, all men’s voices, shouting in unison, something over and over. The chorus grew and rose in volume until it reached close enough to the garden that both could hear, and the two watchers, too, turned, anxious from the worried looks on their faces and the animated expressions they gave in discussion that neither Carlos nor Tahira Ali could hear from their seats. But they heard the protestors.

“Death to Europe! Death to Christendom! Death to white barbarians!” That was the English of the Arabic they shouted. Tahira Ali began to tremble, now not sure whether she could make it home or else whether she would come across the riot if she left the gardens. Beside her, Carlos was the image of calm, the only sign that he understood the harsh words a deep frown line etched above his brow. How handsome did he seem!

“It is getting worse, this political turmoil,” he commented quietly. Tahira Ali nodded, unsure what else she should do. “Every day there are more riots, but none before in the city. not here. But I guess times change.” Carlos smiled wryly at his companion. He sighed then, a sound too heavy to come from a man of only twenty years. “I only pray that it will not become more violent.”

So they remained on the bench beneath the star spattered sky, together in silence, and after another hour or two had passed, the angry chants had grown dim, until eventually, they had stopped. She wanted to stay forever, but she knew Solara would be worrying and so she stood, and as soon as she began to rise, Carlos did also, and he remarked, “It’s getting late. Please let me escort you home.” But she shook her head, afraid of what Solara would say if she came home after several hours of absence with a man.

And so, she left him, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Carlos standing, watching her go, his eyes liquid with compassion. Tears formed, and then they fell, a waterfall of grief of unknown cause, spilling from the depths of the soul of a stranger. The last she saw of him that night was the look of despair in those brown eyes.

18 July 1968

“Your father , who was my brother, and your mother left you to me so that I would raise you and love you,” said Solara Asfah to Tahira Ali, the older woman dressed in a deep red shalwar kameez, looking imperiously down on her niece as she spoke slowly in English. “And I have done so. They asked me not to tell you too much of their history, so as not to burden you, and, more importantly, not to place you in danger. But they died long ago, you are eighteen, and I think it is time you know. ”

“What is there to know?” Tahira Ali laughed dismissively with a toss of her black hair that she had learned from the white girls in school. “It is as you say; they left me to you to raise me and love me, and you have done so.”

“Ah but your roots are important!” Solara’s eyebrows rose and she stabbed her finger in the air to make the point. For a moment she seemed to tremble, to glow, even, with passion. “Your mother was called Beatrice Marie, and she was a professor of philosophy, one of the liberal arts, at a university in China. There she met your father, who was called Shasta Wadiri Almontaser. Yes, indeed, that is our name. They wed, and your mother conceived and gave birth to a baby boy, who was called David Basam.”

“I have a brother?” Tahira Ali stopped fidgeting and looked up at her aunt, her head tilted to the side, the unspoken question on her lips after the one she had voiced.

“Truly. But hush, and listen, and do not repeat this, for there may still be danger.”

“Danger?”

“Hush! China is ruled by a man called Mao Tsetung, and he does not like being criticized. Like here, if you speak against this man Tsetung, or you speak against his government, he will arrest you, send you to a prison, or shoot you with a gun until you are dead. Your father was a journalist and he published many articles denouncing this man Tsetung, and your mother, the professor, was the one who incited him to it. Both were targeted by the secret police. By the year of your birth, your father and mother feared not for themselves, but for you.”

“What about my brother?”

Solara frowned thoughtfully, her eyes creasing around her heavy lids, making her appear like a sleepy empress. “Your brother was elsewhere already. Now listen, Tahira Ali. Your father and your mother left China and they spent time in different countries, using different names than their given ones. By the time they made their way to the United States of America and applied for asylum, your mother was nine months, and you were born there. Your name,” said Solara, and then she sighed mightily, looking away from Tahira Ali, “your name is not Tahira Ali.”

Tahira Ali did not dare speak. She stared at her aunt in excitement and fear, desperate to hear her name, her real name. “Your name is Elan. Elan Tahira Almontaser.” Solara paused, and then looked at her niece again. “Your father and mother were afraid that even in America, the land of opportunity, this man Tsetung would find them and kill them, and they came here, and they gave you to me, and they said to me not to let you use your real name, or theirs.”

“Then,” said Tahira Ali, unable to contain her fascination, “is Solara your name? Solara Asfah? Is that a false name also?”

In the flickering lamplight, Solara looked more tired than ever, and she slid her sleepy gaze to her left, then to the right, finally, finally, settling on Tahira Ali’s pale eyes. “It is, my child. When I was born, I was called Sumitra Wurud. Sumitra Wurud Almontaser.” She sighed again, a sound of deep sorrow. “But that is not all. After your father and mother left you to me, they returned to America. A few months later, they were killed, most likely by men sent by this man Tsetung. This is why.”

It did not occur to Tahira Ali that most of her life had been a lie, or that her own parents had abandoned her, or that her whole family was a flock of fugitives on the run from a mysterious evil dictator, one not like the one at home here. It did not occur to her that she had been born in America and was, in fact, an American citizen, not one here. It did not occur to her that she, or her whole family, might have been something different.

It was only what she had always known it to be. Solara feared her niece’s response, harboring a fear that Tahira Ali would suddenly throw a great tantrum, or sink into a deep depression, or run away from home never to be heard from again, or cease to speak to her ever again. But she was wrong.

“I see,” said Tahira Ali in a calm voice. “I see.”

Inwardly, Solara breathed a sigh of relief. Her brother’s daughter was made of the same stuff as he, or she seemed to be. She was not easily shaken. “Then take these,” said Solara, a trembling hand reaching for a folder on the table in the home that Tahira Ali had not noticed until the precise moment Solara reached for it. Solara steadied her movement, and then picked up the folder, opening it, revealing identity documents with Tahira Ali’s most recent school photograph, taken just before graduation. Tahira Ali read through the papers with some disinterest, nodding at the date of birth, and her physical description.

“But this name,” she said suddenly, pointing. “This name is wrong. I am not Soraya Khan.”

“I know,” said Solara, her voice softer than ever. To Tahira Ali, she seemed like a mystical saint, bathed in the orange glow of lamplight, the edges of her shalwar kameez fading into the darkness of night, her sturdy frame rising from the floor to stand a full head above her niece. “But you may need these. You may need to be somewhere, when you cannot use the name you have used all your life. And these will help you.”

Tahira Ali stared. “But. . . what if I do not want them? Where would I go? What would I do with these? Isn’t this, isn’t it illegal?” Her voice grew in volume and her eyes widened with the sensation of rising panic, and Solara commanded her silence with a piercing look, lest the neighbors overhear. The slums were crowded. Tahira Ali trembled, and she felt tears begin to form in her eyes. She clenched her fists, fighting the urge to cry. She did not want to burst into tears at the drop of a pin any longer.

“You may need them,” Solara repeated, her voice grown soft. “Take them. You may not need them. But it is better to be safe. It is better to take caution. You are older now. You have eighteen years. Soon, my child, you will venture into this world.”

Tahira Ali nodded and made to leave, but Solara stopped her with a glance.

“There is more you should know,” said Solara, her face contorting in the lamp lit shadows. “My daughter, Alia, who even now is in Tokyo, in Nippon, at the International Academy, she herself has no father.”

“But I thought there was no one without a father. Is that not so?” Tahira Ali held the fake identity documents cautiously, trying to piece together the life she had.

“That is true in science, my child. But I have not lived here forever. Your father and I went to the same school, an elite private school. He went on to journalism and became quite famous in China, until Mao Tsetung was angered by your father’s writings. But I chose another path. I chose to listen to the call of God and to move here as a missionary. I was not here long when, in a violent riot against the white government, a group of men broke into this mission house, carrying machetes and rifles, shouting against whites and Christians, and. . .” Solara trailed off, stiffening, her eyes drifting to Tahira Ali’s side before finding her niece’s eyes again. “They violated me, Tahira Ali.”

But Tahira Ali did not comprehend. What did her aunt mean? “Ama Solara, what are you speaking of? Violated you?”

“They raped me,” said Solara, her voice quieter than ever. “They knew me intimately, and it was by force. Immediately, there was no way I could continue in my work. For as you know, for a woman to be raped is a great sin.” Tahira Ali nodded. “Yet I have remained, as you see, and am here, even to this day.” She sighed, a lonely sound against the distant racket of the neighbors. “I was pregnant with Alia, and she was born nine months after the riot.”

Tahira Ali squinted, trying to think. “But why were there riots?”

Solara smiled sadly. “My child, you do not need to know everything. There are people who hurt others, and people who hate the ones who hurt them. And so these things happen. Do not forget God, though, Tahira Ali. He is with you at all times. And nothing will happen unless he permits it. Now, I think you have learned enough of our family . . . it is time for sleep. But, before I forget, let me remind you, you are not to speak of these things again, not to anyone, not even to me. Let us pray.”

28 July 1968

She walked home from the school, leaving the oppressive stone walls to wander through the crowded streets, the aroma of halal meat and rice wafting from a restaurant hidden behind its green canopy. She stood out like a wolf in a sheep pack, she thought, still dressed in her catholic schoolgirl uniform, the skirt falling to just below her knees. But she attracted no curious stares, as the catholic students numbered several hundred, and all were dressed alike.

Outside, it was cooler, the winter air offering a mild alternative to the simmering heat of January. By the time she turned onto her own small street, the homes pressed up against each other with precious little space between, she was quite alone. Only a few small children ran in her street, laughing carelessly as they chased after a tattered soccer ball. In the distance, she heard another explosion, another bombing no doubt. There had been more and more of them over the past few years, increasing so that there was at least one each day. But she did not dwell on it.

The hand-painted sign hanging beside the door of the house was chipped and fading, the Arabic juxtaposed with the English, both reading “Hope International Ministries”. Inside, Tahira Ali found Solara sitting with one of the priests at her school, Father Sebastian, an older Scandinavian with wispy white hair clipped in an uneven tonsure, his clerical collar starched and cleaned. Father Sebastian always dressed impeccably in pressed cassocks, and the students suspected he did all of his own laundry. Now, Tahira Ali nodded at the priest, who smiled gently at her, and then returned to his conversation with Solara.

They were seated at the small coffee table in the Western fashion, on old, rickety chairs, pressed into the tiny living area by the couch and three bookcases overflowing with volumes. Tahira Ali slipped by, making her way to her own room in the back. It was a tiny, claustrophobic space with the bed crammed in the corner and a desk backed up against the side of the bed, with a set of drawers against the other wall, leaving no standing or sitting space in between. The walls were ugly cream stucco, peeling in places, but in perhaps better condition than some of the neighboring slums.

Tahira Ali pulled out her math textbook, easily completing several problems before the voices down the hall captured her curiosity. She peeked from the door, and saw Solara’s face, backlit by the sun’s afternoon rays, inclined toward the priest, who was nodding slowly. Tahira Ali strained to make out the words. They were speaking fast, fluent English, with Solara struggling just a little, and Tahira Ali focused hard, determined to catch the words.

“But they will have to concede to the people soon. They cannot rule a nation while ignoring its people, not forever,” said Solara, a brief moment of anxiety fluttering across her face. She and the priest sat in close proximity due to the size of the room, but Tahira Ali felt as though there was a chasm between them, her aunt in the dark green shalwar kameez, and the priest in his black robes and collar.

“But you forget, Solara, that they already have,” Father Sebastian reminded Solara gently. “They have been here over five hundred years.”

“That is the sad thing,” said Solara, shaking her head. For a moment, Tahira Ali thought she might begin to cry.

“I think it is time our government takes responsibility for its actions,” said Father Sebastian mildly, absentmindedly twirling a strand of his white hair in his finger.

“I think it’s time you start acting like Christians!” For the first time Tahira Ali could remember, Solara appeared angry. Her eyes flashed at the priest, and the distance grew between them. “All your talk of helping the poor, of bringing glory to God, of praying and worshipping, all of you say you are Christians, and yet you have not lifted one finger to help the people of this country!”

Father Sebastian offered no response. Solara fell silent, her eyes flickering to the walls as though the neighbors might overhear. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, more measured. “That committee, the one with the new appointee, Carlos Hodgson, it has issued a new law. Did you know that, Father? This new law has made it illegal to speak against the government.” Solara laughed bitterly. “That has been a law de facto since I came here! Now it is official. Now those who criticize the government, or are even perceived to be will be taken to court and then thrown into prison. And who will this law affect the most? That’s right, Father. It will affect the non-whites.” Her voice dropped even lower and Solara fixed her eyes on the priest’s. “Well, damn their law. You can go back to your cushy home. Go back. Go back and continue to ignore the plight of the poor and the non-whites. Go back and continue to live in your hypocrisy. I don’t want to see you here again.”

Solara stared at the priest, daring him to remain. After a moment, Tahira Ali saw Father Sebastian rise indignantly, his hands trembling. He spoke not a word to Solara, and turned, closing the door quietly as he left. Solara, she remained in her seat, her chin stabbing the air defiantly, her eyes smoldering, and her lips pressed thin. Her silhouette against the waning afternoon spoke fury.

And all Tahira Ali could think was that she had never seen Solara this way before. That her beloved was one of the Oppressors, that was a thought she could not permit.

3 August 1968

She met him in the gardens, on the far side, and they admired the flowers together in silence, inhaling the sweet fragrance with each low breath. In the distance, they heard the scream of a rocket and then the explosion rocking the ground. The attacks had grown more frequent. There was talk of not opening St. Mary’s for the next academic year. But having graduated from the sixth form, school was over for Tahira Ali. The diploma framed on the wall of her room was proof, offered to anyone who cared to look.

But it had been only Solara and herself who would care to look, and neither had been admiring the English calligraphy. Tahira Ali heard movement, the rustling of clothing, and some other sound she could not quite identify, coming from inside the parlour, even as she opened the door and entered the mission home. There—she heard it again. Slowly she turned, and she saw Solara sitting on the battered couch, the newspaper, the white man’s newspaper, open and in her aunt’s hands. Solara had the expression on her face, the one she had had that one time when Tahira Ali had been lost for an hour in the bazaar.

She had understood then, what Solara was doing, sitting on the couch, that newspaper in her hands. In the light of day, streaming through the half-closed drapes, Tahira Ali saw tears cascading down her aunt’s cheeks, her knuckles white with the furious grip she held on the paper, that damn paper.

“Khala?” she had asked timidly, “Khala Solara?”

There was silence, and then, painfully, Solara wrenched her gaze from the paper, turning her dark eyes towards her niece. “Yes?”

“Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

“It is nothing, Tahira Ali,” said Solara in a strangled voice, even as she wiped her face with the back of one of her bejeweled hands. “It is nothing. Now go, leave me. There is much to be done. . .”

And so Tahira Ali had left the mission house gladly, wanting to leave behind the gloom that perpetuated that home, the tragedy that surely lay buried within the English words of that newspaper, the misery of her aunt.

She met him at the gardens.

Even as they enjoyed the flowers together, Carlos was silent, his eyes neither on the exquisite specimens nor his paramour. He looked to the rising smoke in the distance, from the explosion that had caused the blast, the haze darkening the dreary sky. Perhaps he thought it was a portent. From what little she knew, Tahira Ali knew that Carlos Hodgson had power in the government. And the white government was attacking native dissidents. But on whose orders? Was it someone Carlos knew? Had shared dinner with? Spoken to, greeted, welcomed into his home? Did he know, could he feel the devastation wrought by emotionless orders, exacted on paper, when they were slammed home by a concussive missile into the homes of humble families, leaving orphans and widows at the mercy of the crime-ridden streets?

How could he know? How could he feel that? The look in his eyes was full of pain, though they were not fixed on her. Even as the ground trembled, she wanted so much to reach for him, but she did not. Instead, Tahira Ali stood in silence, tears slowly sliding down her olive-toned cheeks, sorrow setting into her like a viral infection.

Finally, Carlos remembered his companion, and he turned to look at her, taking in the wordless tears. “Tahira Ali, what troubles you?” he murmured, reaching for her tiny hands in his strong ones. She let him take her hands, rub them affectionately, looking up, up, up into the eyes of this man she loved. There was so much she wanted to say, but she found she did not know how to speak. So she stood in torturous, pregnant silence, tears falling freely, looking into Carlos’s eyes.

“Why?” she managed to choke out.

“Why what, Tahira Ali?” Carlos bent down so that he was nearly at eye level, concern in his brown eyes.

“Why? Why is there this death? Why are your people murdering mine?” She had not meant to say that, but the words felt right. She was more at home among the natives than the whites, though in reality, she could not rightfully claim either as her people.

Immediately, though, his face darkened, and he dropped her hands. “I am not a murderer!” he growled dangerously, his eyes smoldering, now, feeding the pain she had glimpsed. He looked away, then, perhaps ashamedly. In a softer voice, he spoke, sounding very much the way Tahira Ali had imagined Mao Tsetung to speak about her father and mother. “The bloody Arabs want to murder good Christian men, women, and children, Tahira Ali. They don’t see the distinctions between soldier and civilian, guilty and innocent. They see Them and Us. Just yesterday, Tahira Ali,” Carlos said, his voice cracking, “just yesterday, one fragging Arab gunned down children in the Sister’s orphanage. Children, Tahira Ali. We are not murderers. We are protecting our women and children, Tahira Ali. We are trying to stop the evil ones from doing more evil. That is justice, yes? Justice is purging the evil from among us. Permitting a bastard to murder helpless, innocent children, and permitting him to do so without fear of punishment—that is injustice, Tahira Ali. That is injustice.”

“But how?” said Tahira Ali, bringing fresh tears to her eyes. “How can justice be murder? Murder for murder, Carlos, is this justice?”

“Shut up!” he screamed, rising to his full height, over half a meter taller than she. His face contorted in rage, his eyes wildly burning. O how the agony and fury would destroy the crucible of his heart, and Tahira Ali knew it. “Shut up, stupid bitch! You don’t know anything! They’re fragging murdering us, they’re murdering us, do you hear me? No good man can sit back on his ass and let evil men rob innocents of their lives! Not one! I hate you! And I hate your aunt too! You know she’s a dissident? A freaking dissident, Tahira Ali! She thinks what I’m doing is wrong! She thinks we’re wrong to go after murderers! And now you too? I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! Get out! Get out and never come back! I swear if I see you, I’ll—”

But she had already fled, the only trace of her presence a moist trail of tears in the rich desert soil of the gardens.

She left one city, and now stood out away from the clay and brick buildings baking in the desert sun. Near the city walls she stopped, and could hear the sounds of the riots from the city center, where buildings are being torched, and the hated men and women dragged from their homes and beaten and slain in the streets. Blood flowed there. Here, the sun, though it began to slip below the horizon, staining the sky scarlet and ochre, a pervasive, un-quarantined dye; here, the sun burned fiercely with the fire of ten thousand warriors of God, the ardor of the worker ants, and the persistence of a Sufi mystic.

Tahira Ali could not think. Something filled her head, echoing all around her, thundering, thundering, thundering, and heat swelled within her—she needed to leave this place. She hurried through the empty streets, the city gate looming above her, distant, but o so near, and in it she sensed safety, haven. There! She had only one hundred metres. . . seventy-five. . . she would escape this dreadful city! God willing, she mumbled thoughtlessly, the phrase tacked on more of habit than true belief. Yes—indeed, there was the gate.

But then, as she drew nearer to it, she found that there was another man there, a white man, an American whom she had seen earlier that week inside the city, and he too, was making way to leave. The guard at the gate was gone. He was not there, perhaps drawn into the fray at the center of the city. The American was a taller man with sandy colored hair; his white face turned an embarrassing red of many tales of the desert sun.

She hoped to slip by him, and slowed her step, her eyes on the ground. She did not dare look the American in the eye. Still, she felt his predatory gaze on her as she came within spitting distance of the stranger. “The government’s all tied up, idn’t it?” The American spoke to her, his voice a strange drawl she did not recognize and struggled to understand. “All on account of them durn Europeans, Arthur Stone, Carlos Hodgson. . . they’re jes tryin’ make life miserable for the rest of us. . . But it ain’t right, what the People’s Congress is tryin’ t’do. They’re over thar, butcherin’ the people in the streets. You gettin’ yerself right away from that mess, huh? I don’ blame ye.”

At the mention of Carlos’s name, she felt the suffocating rage return, and she blinked furiously, trying to keep the tears away from the American. “Yep, that’s right,” the American said. “They’re destroyin’ us all. Carlos Hodgson was a bad, bad decision.”

She flew at him, the knife coming to her hand as though it were a pencil, and he looked up at her, eyes widening, and the American stepped back; they made impact and she brought down the knife, and she brought down the knife, and she brought down the knife, and the American’s red, red blood spurted into the air, and he opened his mouth to scream or to ask something or to whisper her a secret, but then a strange, gurgling sound came from him, and then he stopped moving, and she kneeled back in the sand, staring at the American.

What was this now? What had she done? She stood there for hours, the sun drying the blood quickly, but none came to peer or investigate, for there was more death inside the city. When she could bear the heat no longer nor the sight of the body baking in the sun, she turned to go, the anger not gone but merely pushed aside, replaced for the moment by a deep sorrow. But she found there were no tears to cry.

December 1968

Germany

It was like the bazaar just before prayer times, an influx of people swarming from every direction, craning their necks to see some spectacle beyond her line of sight. She felt herself pressed inward along with the crowd, buoyed by their general movements, though so many of them towered over her, she could not see. They spoke a language, but she understood no words. It sounded like harsh, guttural shouting to her.

„Aussehen! Der Kardinal! Und die amerikanische Senator!“ It was a wild, wild language.

„Ich habe gehört, Senator Normandeau wurde nominiert für den Präsidenten. Von den Vereinigten Staaten.“

„Ist es wahr? Kardinal Doshi könnte Papst! Er ist unter il preferiti.”

She closed her eyes, but could not think; another man brushed by her with no regard to the space she occupied. His body odor wafted in the air as he moved, and she coughed involuntarily, spurning another grumbled complaint from someone else. Finally, mercifully, someone moved, and she found a space in the crowd, able to see the procession advancing down the boulevard, and the spectators on the other side of the street, as loud and unruly as the ones she contended with.

Moving slowly down the street was a fancy motor vehicle, of the kind she had had only glimpses of, hidden behind gates in the private streets of white men’s mansions. Leading the way were two men, one older and one younger, though the word was relative. The older man, who seemed not quite white, wore the robes of a priest, Tahira Ali knew them well and bitterly. He seemed to be speaking to his companion, a man of Solara’s age, with carrot colored hair speckled liberally with gray. He wore a Western style suit, and though Tahira Ali was no judge, it seemed expensive to her eyes.

„Sie sind hier für eine Friedenskonferenz. Und andere Führungskräfte."

The two men walked with purpose and dignity, the motor vehicle trailing them as they strode down the center of the boulevard. The sun shone in front of them, and the priest shielded his eyes, a shadow falling across his distinguished features. Suddenly, voices erupted all around in deafening cheers and she stooped low, cringing at the auditory disruption.

“He’s murdering the children of God!” she heard a voice say clearly in Arabic, and felt herself shoved forward, emerging almost from the crowd, just enough to see the furrow in the priest’s brow and the enlightenment in the eyes of his companion, and the people began to applaud vociferously, and she drew her gun and did not think but pulled the trigger again and again.

When the men on either side of her realized what she was doing and moved to stop her, it was too late. They were torn helplessly between crossing the barrier and aiding too many fallen men whose blood already leaked out of them so fast, so damn fast, faster than blood should leave a body, and chasing after the tiny figure already disappearing, shaken, into the crowd, where she lost the gun and her orientation.

In only moments, the procession had turned to chaos, but Tahira Ali had neither the will nor the way to observe the aftermath of her destruction. She was already away from the city with its houses identical in style to the white men’s mansions at home and its language of harsh, guttural sounds. Her al ayrhabeiyah was so much more beautiful. It was a language of life.

13 December 1968

To have fallen so far and so fast, the last six months were quite literally a blur in her mind, a sea of terror and violence and death she wanted nothing more than to eras, but the fury, the fury ignited by some passion within, blinded her to the necessity of ending this rampage, and she had struck again and again. No amount of confession and prayer could cleanse her soul now.

In six months she had traversed eight countries, many of which she had not learned the names of, and in three of them, in three of them she had murdered, with the very hands that so fearfully clutched the blood-stained knife. Her clothes hung loose on her frame, and she must have looked a fright to any who saw her, yet those thoughts were out of her range of comprehension.

All around her she was in a sea of people, and none spoke a word of French she could understand. This was another barrier, another wall that separated her from these people, the women and the men mingling in the crowds. This country, she knew, or had reasoned, was France. Here, perhaps, she would have peace. Or, more likely, she would be drawn once more into the murderous frenzy that had already taken so many lives.

By nightfall, there was no one in the streets of this place, a smaller village, and Tahira Ali stopped across from a church, desire pulling her to enter, but fear keeping her from approaching the doors. She sat in silence, wishing for all the world someone would come to end the curse of loneliness, but that was a wish she had already crumpled and thrown into the trash, long ago. After an hour or perhaps two of patient silence, she was rewarded, when the priest exited the church, a woman with him. Perhaps she had left after a particularly lengthy confession.

The woman and the priest remained in the doorway for a time, oblivious to the tiny woman hidden from them, just across the street, her minuscule figure obscured in the shadows. For them, she might have been just another shadow. She watched, emotions rising unbidden, as the priest and the woman in the doorway reached for each other, and then drew close, kissing passionately. The rage manifested itself again, and she barely restrained herself, the knife hand shaking, until the priest withdrew into the church.

When she left the church, the woman lay dead, her blood spilled into the street on the church steps.

23 December 1968
Washington D.C.

“Something must be done about Tahira Ali,” said the FBI official, mispronouncing her name. “It has already been four and a half months. Why has no one found the damn woman? We need to publicize this fugitive. . . more than she already has been. We need to offer a larger reward. We need to create a task force. Whatever it takes. If she murders once more, we will be just as guilty for not stopping her. We have a warrant for the murders of the Americans?”

“Judge Doherty signed it this morning,” said the lawyer from the prosecutor’s office.

“Good,” said the FBI official. “If anyone sees her anywhere, they can call us in and we’ll make the arrest. It doesn’t matter where she is. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

5 January 1969
New York City

She descended the stairs from the airplane, frightened and overwhelmed by the scent of Lysol and body odor and a woman’s sickeningly sweet perfume, the Americans conversing loudly in rapid English too fast for her to follow, the vastness of this space, called an airport, or so the nice man had told her.

“Let me walk with you, Fatima,” said the nice man, for that was the name she had given him. “I’ll escort you to the street and you can call a cab there. Walking might be a bad idea, especially if you’ve never been to America before.”

So they navigated through the throng of passengers, separating only at customs, and she handed over her documents to the customs officer, who gave them a cursory glance and waved her onwards, where she rejoined the nice man. She held onto his arm, uncertain of what to do in this strange city. When they emerged into sunlight, the nice man pointed to the skyline, and she looked, her breath taken away. What tall buildings! They seemed to stretch forever into the sky, daring God to look down from heaven. And so many buildings and people, in one city. New York seemed a thousand times bigger than home.

“That,” said the nice man, pointing to two particularly tall towers that appeared not quite finished, “is the World Trade Center. It won’t be done for several years. Less if we’re lucky. Those will be the Twin Towers. They will stand forever, in testament to the greatness of the Big Apple. Groovy, eh? Well, I’ll leave you here. You can call a cab to take you to your hotel, if you already have a reservation. If you’re just visiting family, you might want to find a pay phone and call. Good day, now.” The nice man tipped his hat and walked off at a brisk pace.

She wandered the streets, alone in the crowds, unsure of herself or her place. When she was sufficiently lost, she turned a corner and caught her reflection in the glass of some store. It sparkled inside for a moment, and Tahira Ali realized it was a jewelry store. She entered, a bell ringing softly as she opened the door. A young American woman appeared at the counter and smiled a false smile, dripping acid with her fake polite words. “May I help you?”

She did not respond, but was distinctly conscious of her threadbare clothing and sleepless eyes. Instead, she admired the necklaces, her fingers lingering over the glass where several gold chains were interlaid against a mannequin.

“Do I know you?” the attendant asked snobbishly, cocking her head with a dignified frown. “You seem familiar, somehow.”

Before she was forced to answer, the little bell chimed again, and another American, a man older than the female attendant, strode inside. The attendant smiled as soon as she saw him. “Mike!” she exclaimed, stepping from behind the counter, embracing the man in a hug. “Have you heard? All these murders! What if that maniac came here? To America?”

“Hey!” the man shouted strangely. “It’s her! That murderer! Omigod, Irina, get outta here! A murderer on the loose, in New York, of all places! This will be the end. . . Irina, GO!”

Tahira Ali had inched up against the glass display. The gun was in her hands. She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, her hand on the trigger. Bam. The man went down, swearing. Bam. Another shot to the man. Suddenly, he was silent. The girl, the girl. Tahira Ali looked up and in her blurred vision saw the attendant trying to drag the man with her towards the door, the expression on her face no longer full of condescension. Bam. Bam. Bam. She too went down, and fell across the man with a strangled cry.

Outside, she heard voices, and Tahira Ali found another door, climbing unsteadily over the counter, in her confusion, leaving the gun behind. The door. She pushed it open and stumbled, suddenly enervated, into the street. Two more, she thought numbly. Two more dead.

1969

Spencer, Massachusetts

After she had left the State of New York, she journeyed north on foot, stopping to rest each night. There was a certain church, the sign identifying it as St. Helena’s of Spencer, Massachusetts, and she walked inside, and it was empty, except for soft, yellowed light coming through the windows. She stood in the center aisle of the sanctuary, and was alone in silence. Was God there? If so, he did not appear among the faint fragrance of incense and splendor of stained glass.

After perhaps an hour or two, the parson appeared, emerging almost soundlessly from a side door. Tahira Ali turned her head and lowered her gaze out of respect. The parson was not quite an old man. When he smiled gently, she saw that his eyes smiled also, and he did not speak at first, instead permitting Tahira Ali to ponder infinite questions as she stood on the faded maroon carpet.

“Why have you come?” the parson asked, in his voice neither accusation nor fear. “To pray, to sing, to worship? To find a safe place, perhaps?”

Tahira Ali found she had no answer.

The parson walked over to the murderer and he laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a strong hand, but he did not hurt her. He lifted his other one, palm up, to the heavens, and spoke quietly. “I will pray for your troubled soul, my daughter, for something is afflicting you. The peace of God is great and overcomes all fear and anxiety.”

He then drew in a deep breath, and let it out in a weary sigh. “Father, keep watch over your child. You formed her when she was in her mother’s womb, creating her in wonder. Your angels kept her safe when she fell as a child, and comforted her when she cried in the night. Let your presence not depart from her now. Guard her heart and light her ways, O Lord. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen.”

The parson did not speak further, but he smiled softly. “Thank you,” whispered Tahira Ali, ashamed of her accent, but somehow aware she had found the right words.

November 1975

Silence washed over her like a wave, bathing her in the beauty of words unspoken. She had come full circle. Seven long years, of nothing but tempestuous rage and its irreversible ramifications. How the blood of her victims must cry out to God, if the blood of Hābīl had once. Even the rivulets of rain forming on the lines of her hands were tinged faintly pink, or so they seemed to her, staring despondently at her own hands, the hands she so desired to chop off, but could not muster the courage to do so.

Now she laid in the desert sand, baring herself naked under the merciless sun, the silhouette of the city hazy in the distance, rippling in the heat. Surely, thought Tahira Ali, she was growing nearer insanity, for she swore she saw Solara walking towards her, her kind, motherly image shimmering, flickering in and out of existence before solidifying, smiling, not unkindly, at her brother’s daughter. Tahira Ali drew back, scrambling for a grip on the sand, her arms flailing uselessly, a scream silent on her lips.

“Tahira Ali, peace!” cried Solara, her commanding voice splitting the stifling heat. It dove for shelter from her. “Are you well?”

“No,” replied Tahira Ali truthfully, with a pathetic shake of her head. “No, Ama Solara, I am not well at all.”

Solara advanced, and Tahira Ali wearied of further efforts to evade her aunt, and so she waited with dread for what the mirage might say, for surely it must have been a mirage. Solara reached out with her brown hand, her bangles tinkling softly as she trembled, ever so slightly, and for a moment, Tahira Ali thought her aunt might blow away in the desert wind. She watched the hand, moving ever closer, and Tahira Ali flinched when Solara finally laid her hand on her niece’s shoulder. Expecting a cold condemnation, she felt nothing at all. Relieved, she was certain she was hallucinating. Then, thinking of that again, she thought perhaps she should not be so relieved. Yet still, Tahira Ali remained in the desert, and did not make a move to run.

Solara remained silent for the longest time, the absence of sound thundering around Tahira Ali, pounding against her inner ear as the hot winds slammed into her frail form, and she wrapped the fraying ends of her faded shawl around herself, to protect her skin from the gale. She would not admit to herself that it was not the wind she feared, but her own self. Why had her mind conjured up the image of Solara? And not merely the image, but the voice, the fragrant perfume, the movement? Ah but it was a welcome demon over the ones that had inspired her to murder!

Suddenly, Solara’s kind, warm face turned dark, sorrow palpable in the wearied lines of her face, her eyes closed, as if to shut out the sight of the source of her sorrow, and a wave of apprehension passed through Tahira Ali. What was this? Then, she knew. Solara was disappointed.

The first word that erupted from her throat sounded as though it was wrenched from the depths of despair: “Why?” And within its power, its meaning, the word encapsulated all that Tahira Ali feared. She recoiled from it; she feared its implications. What did Solara know? She feared the words that would follow. She did not want to see a look of repulsion or hatred or fury etched on Solara’s gentle features.

“Why have you done this?” Solara spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. For Tahira Ali, her hallucinations were quickly metamorphosing into something much more frightening—a nightmare. “My child, my beloved child, o one whom I have loved, do you see the bitter oceans that traverse this earth? Do you see how they are stained red? O but that you could understand the suffering you have caused.”

The tears welled up in the murderer’s eyes, and though she fought without word to restrain them, they fell, one by one, sending miniature, invisible showers of sand to fall upwards, evaporating as soon as they made contact with the desert’s surface. She could not look at her aunt. Instead, she stared at the sand, reflecting the glare of the sun, and forced her eyes to remain open, to burn. Perhaps it was due punishment.

“Do not come home,” said Solara, shaking her head slowly. Her voice was barely a whisper. “We do not want you any longer.”

When next Tahira Ali dared to look up, Solara was gone. In her place stood Carlos, her handsome, loving Carlos. If it were not for the darkened scowl on his face, his brow furrowed in rage, his eyes hopeless and hurt. . . if not for this strange painting of the features of the man she loved, he might have seemed as he did the night of their tryst. As it was, Tahira Ali knew she was hallucinating—she had gone far too long without food or water, and the desert heat was known to cause death. Yet, she had no energy to crawl to the city in the distance, its impossibly far off walls shimmering kilometers away, taunting. Her breaths came ragged and heavy, and she felt so tired.

“What have you done?” The shout came with such force it nearly threw her backwards. She looked up and saw Carlos standing over her, his arms thrown wide. “You murderer! Do you know how hard, how long I labored for peace? I wanted to end this war! You fool! You’ve only worsened it! You haven’t murdered just those you touched, Tahira Ali, you’ve murdered thousands more by running your goddamn mouth!”

She wanted to cry then, to weep for the man who once loved her, but she found, to her dismay, she had not one tear left.

“There is only one path to justice. One path to righteousness. One path to excellence. Why did you ever wander from it? You’ve destroyed me, Tahira Ali. You have destroyed every dream I dreamt, every castle I built, every hope I dared to hope. You have stolen my life. May God damn you to the hottest depths of hell.”

When Carlos was gone too, Tahira Ali summoned the strength by inhuman force of will to crawl the kilometer or two to the outskirts of the city, her childhood home, the one she had ran from. Was it right she should return? Surely Solara’s words were conjured only from her own pessimistic thoughts, and not reality. Would there by any chance for a warm welcome? Might she even be accepted as a lowly slave? Carlos. . . was he still here? And the riots, were they over, or still continuing? Five years. . .

By the time she was within twenty meters of the city walls, all coherent thoughts had left her. She felt her body give way, and with a sigh, she crumpled to the hardened sand, unconscious before her body hit the ground.