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Kill the Courier |Part 1 – Hiding in Plain Sight

This story picks up two months after The Deal left off. If you have not read that story, please go back and do so, then read this one. Caution: the second half of this chapter contains a torture scene.

March 22, 2010
San Francisco, California

When Hassan arrived at Jackson Park for Dhuhr prayer, he was pleased to see a group of almost fifteen Muslims there. Some had put musallas down on the grass near the fountain and sat reading pocket Qurans or making dhikr. Others sat on the benches, chatting and eating their lunches.

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In the two months since he and Jamilah had begun meeting here for prayer, the group had grown through word of mouth. Hassan was not surprised. There were at least two or three hundred Muslims working in the Financial District. They included Indian technology consultants, Arab business owners, restaurant and hotel workers, cabbies, janitors and secretaries. The Islamic Center was only a few miles away, but between downtown congestion and the limited time workers had for a lunch break, it might as well be on Jupiter.

He spotted Jamilah talking to two other sisters.  Hassan gave her a discreet wave as he greeted the group with salam.

He checked his watch. It was 1:15. Dhuhr had just come in. “Anyone call adhaan?” he said.

“No,” brother Salman replied. “Please do.” Salman, a well-dressed Indian programmer with a thick beard,  was a hafez, ma-sha-Allah, and as such was the group’s unofficial imam.

Though Hassan was not the imam, the group always waited for him, unless he texted one of them that he couldn’t make it.

Hassan called the adhaan, followed immediately by the iqaama. Some of these people had short lunch breaks and could not afford to dilly dally. The group lined up, men in front and the three women in back. Some laid down their own musallas, some used scarves, and others prayed on the fresh, green grass.

After prayer, the brothers and sisters began to dissipate.

“Got anything?” Hassan asked Jamilah.

Jamilah shook her head in frustration. “Napier Lane,” she said. I don’t know where the heck this place is. I never heard of it, and it’s not on the map. I don’t want to ask Jen – you know she hates to be bothered. I was going to call Mo on his direct line.”

Hassan smiled. “No need for that all that. It’s not really a street. More like a wooden sidewalk.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. It’s on the side of Telegraph Hill. You know where Filbert Street crosses Sansome and dead-ends at the hillside?”


“Lock your bike at the bottom of the hill and climb the Filbert Steps. Napier is halfway up the hill. You can only get there on foot.”

Jamilah rolled her eyes. “Wonderful.”

“It’s not that bad,” Hassan said. “There’s a flock of macaws that live on the side of the hill. The houses are Victorians that go back 150 years. And some of the gardens are fantastic, just brimming with blossoms.”

“Huh. What about you? You holding?”

“Consulate run in the Heights. The Danish Consulate and the Russian. I have to roll, actually. Clock’s ticking.”

“Wait, I want to ask you something,” Jamilah said. “What’s your opinion on Muslim women working? Like, when they are married?”

Hassan laughed and shook his head. “Jamilah, you are tripping. You want to have this discussion now? I told you, I have to run.”

In one smooth motion he ran a step, hopped on his bike and began to pedal. As he rode away from the park, he once again turned and gave Jamilah the raised-fist salute. It had become sort of a tradition between them. He felt slightly silly doing it, but the gesture still meant something, didn’t it? The struggle for freedom and human rights continued around the world – even if nowadays most people thought of the oppressors as freedom fighters, and vice versa. Independence of thought was a rare commodity. That was one great thing about Jamilah: she chose her own path, and she was a fighter.

Hassan himself was not in any fight. Not anymore. He felt deeply for the Muslims of Palestine, Chechnya, Myanmar, East Turkestan… the list of oppressed Muslim peoples was long. A part of him felt that he should be using his skills to save his brothers and sisters, even if that mean saving only one soul. Maybe a time would come when he must live and die on that path. But for now his soul needed peace. He had seen too much bloodshed, done too much evil, and pulled the trigger too many times. He needed a placid life, neither harming nor being harmed. Laa darara wa laa dirar, in the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him. There should be neither harming nor reciprocating harm.

That was what his wife Lena would have wanted for him, he was sure.

He would do what he could with his money, rather than his fists. More could be done with cash in any case. For several years now he’d been the primary sponsor of an orphanage in Indonesia that cared for victims of the 2004 tsunami. He kept many things hidden from his friends, but this was a good secret. He held on to it like a lifeline, and offered it to Allah as a penance and a plea. Often, lying on his sleeping mat at night, he let his thoughts dwell on the children of the orphanage, many of whom he knew by name and whose faces he could picture from the photos he’d seen. Saleem, with a big smile and curly black hair. Munirah, who liked to make dolls out of palm fibres.

Sometimes he thought the orphanage and his martial arts class were the only things he’d ever done that justified his existence on this planet. All the rest of his life was a waste.

Hassan remembered visiting an old Roman ruin on the outskirts of Beirut. Some of the ancient stones and pillars stood tall and proud in the Lebanese sun, while others had succumbed to the ravages and pressures of time and were tumbled over each other like fallen trees. Still others were pockmarked by gunfire or had been destroyed by shells. Across the street stood a lovely art-deco apartment building, its facade carved with a sunburst design and tall faux pillars. It seemed to mock or mimic the old Roman ruins. That contrast exemplified the schizophrenia of Beirut – a clashing mixture of the old and the new, constantly dying and rebirthing itself. Thousands of years of serial civilizations, each built upon the detritus of the last, had lived and died here. And yet Beirutis lived in the moment by default, for the Lebanese were haunted by the past and disbelieving in the future.

Hassan felt the same way. His soul was full of buried ruins. How many times had he risen from his own ashes? Level on top of level, each with its own secrets. His emotions tumbled like those ancient Roman stones.

What would he do about Jamilah? Lately he thought about her every day, and sometimes dreamed about her. He had an ache, a yearning to be loved and held again. Marrying Jamilah, waking up next to her in the morning, sharing his life with her, would be like inhabiting a blessed garden on earth.

He remembered a poem from his father’s first collection, mouthing the words as he rode along Pacific, heading for Columbus:

Shrugging off doubts.
Wistful for a house
I’ve seen in dreams.
A green garden
and a woman with kind eyes.
A Western sky
and a bell of brass.
A wall that evil cannot pass;
a patch of sunlight on the grass;
a place to live and laugh.

His father had written that shortly after Hassan himself had been born, and for years his father had strived to realize that dream. In the end he had failed.

Was it a betrayal of Hassan’s own past to want this for himself? Was it a betrayal of Lena? Was it selfish to want a life like anyone else? He didn’t know.

For years he’d simply been existing. Managing his investments, teaching classes, praying, and hiding in plain sight, which was all the messenger gig was really about. He’d been on autopilot, but he’d been okay with that, because life had been peaceful. More and more he’d come to realize that peace was worth any degree of ennui. Then Jamilah had come along.

Jamilah was so strong. Her faith shone brightly as a full moon. The way she had plunged herself into Islam, unshakeable in her commitment… Hassan remembered when he himself had been on fire that way, ready to do anything that the Quran and the Prophet ṣallallāhu 'alayhi wa sallam (peace and blessings of Allāh be upon him) demanded. No doubts, no weaknesses. He still had no doubts about the truth of Islam – what could possibly be real in this crazy world if not Allah? – but as he got older he found himself less and less certain of everything else. What was his mission in life? Where was he heading?

Of course Jamilah was vulnerable in her way, and that appealed to Hassan. He knew this about himself, that he was most attracted to women who were struggling to survive, but who were also self-assured and no-nonsense. It struck him that Jamilah needed to be saved, but could save him as well. He could rescue her and be rescued at the same time. Jamilah would pry him open and expose all his secrets to the sunshine.

He wasn’t going to pretend that he loved Jamilah. Not yet, anyway. The world “love” was tossed around so easily nowadays. It was even used as a stand-in for sin. Real love took time. Real love was the product of two people sharing struggles, accepting each other’s beauty and ugliness, and supporting each other through grit and clover. Real love was not about possessing the other person. It was about wanting the best for them, on their own, as an independent, feeling being.

So many people felt physical attraction and mistook it for love. Speaking of which, Hassan thought, how much of my interest in Jamilah is simply attraction? Jamilah was a lovely young Arab woman.

But there was more than that. Jamilah was a warrior at heart, and Hassan could think of nothing that would give him greater pleasure in this life than to make her his wife and hold her in his arms.

He knew she was thinking about it as well. Whenever they met lately, she found a way to slip in a question about their future, though she disguised it as simple conversation. Did Hassan like children?  What were his thoughts on polygamy? And today, with her question about women working after marriage. He chuckled again.

He couldn’t blame her. Some Arab men were domineering and rigid. She was probably worried that a controlling husband might shut down her law career. Personally, Hassan supported Jamilah’s goals one hundred percent. The Ummah desperately needed qualified people who cared. And Jamilah was all heart. She had a passion for justice that only one whose people had been dispossessed could understand. A Palestinian, a Native American, an African-American… or a Jew, ironically.

Hassan knew that he and Jamilah were a good match. He could feel it. But it seemed an impossible fantasy. There was so much about him she didn’t know. So much he had hidden.

He considered. He had a class to teach after work, and then he’d see Jamilah and the others. Tuesday nights were Tu-Lan nights, when a handful of Hammerhead Courier’s employees gathered at the tiny Vietnamese restaurant on 6th Street to eat and talk. Maybe it was time to tell Jamilah certain truths.

But how could he? His past was a package deal. It was all or nothing. How could he tell her the truth about his family, his nationality, his history? She would hate and revile him, and rightly so.

To be hated by Jamilah would be like having his center hollowed out and discarded. He’d be a human Jack-o-lantern. But it would also feel proper, like karma swinging around after all these years and sledgehammering him to his knees.

Leave it in Allah’s hands, Hassan thought. He said these words to himself often lately. The words were comforting, but were they an abdication of his own responsibility to make choices?

No. Trusting Allah was never a cop-out. Surrendering to Him was the only way to live, as long as you kept on striving. Hassan believed that down to his bones.

Heading up Columbus, he approached Broadway. He’d take the Broadway tunnel to the far side of Russian Hill, coast down to Van Ness, cruise Lombard to Baker and then up a few blocks to the Russian consulate on Green, avoiding the steep ups and downs of Pacific Heights. He chuckled, remembering the joke that Muhammad had told when he’d dispatched the Russian consulate tag just before lunch. “One Russian asked another if he thought there was life on other planets. The second one said, ‘Of course not! No life here, no life there.’”

Just as Hassan was about to turn onto Broadway, his radio squawked and Jen’s voice blared, “Five nine, what’s your twenty?”

“Five nine at City Lights,” Hassan replied as he passed the famous bookstore founded by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Hassan often went there to read poetry. “Heading for the tunnel to drop the Russian.”

“Turn around,” Jen said. “Cash and MacNamara at the Pyramid, 22nd floor, has a rush for the Lebanese consulate in Cow Hollow, 2600 Green. Delivery to the consul or his personal secretary only. We need a signature and printed name. Pick it up and call when you’re clean.”

“Check.” Hassan had a fleeting moment of admiration for Jen’s ability as a dispatcher. He hadn’t spoken to her since before his lunch break, but she’d just handed him a juicy rush with a pickup only two blocks from his present location, and heading to the same area as his current jobs. He could swear sometimes that the woman was telepathic.

She was also quite young to be working as a dispatcher. Twenty maybe, twenty one? She could be anything she wanted in life, Hassan was sure: air traffic controller, chess champion or army general, managing the movement of men and material around the world. Maybe she would be; she had time.

As he made a quick u-turn and coasted down to the TransAmerica Pyramid, his brain registered for the first time what Jen had given him. The Lebanese consulate. He pulled up to the base of the Pyramid and locked his bike to a pole. He needed a moment to think.

He walked around the side of the Pyramid and entered through a small gate to a hidden oasis beneath a grove of towering redwood trees. Many San Franciscans, even those who worked in this area, did not know about this incredible grove of trees in the shadow of the Pyramid. Hassan sat on a bench beneath the leafy giants. Beside him bubbled a large fountain adorned with small brass statues of frogs leaping from lily pads.

A visit to the Lebanese consulate would be a risk. His entire life for the last several years had been about minimizing such risks. Hiding in plain sight was still hiding. He felt his breathing quicken and realized that his jaws were clenched and his shoulders hunched, as if anticipating a blow to the head. He needed to calm himself.

He slowed his breathing, taking in the rich, earthy smell of the redwood trees. He forced himself to breathe zazen, a kind of meditative practice that he had learned from his Jujitsu sensei many years ago. Sensei Jamil had been a lean, dark-skinned African-American brother with angular features and a bright grin. He carried a prayer cloth folded and draped over one shoulder and greeted everyone with a warm handshake. Nonetheless, no one ever made the mistake of thinking him soft. There was a lurking power in his easy gait, and his smile did not quite melt the icy strength in his eyes.

Hassan had met Jamil Hakeem Qawi during one of the darkest periods in his life. Jamil had taught Hassan to quiet his emotions by observing them as if from a distance, acknowledging and experiencing them, then letting them pass like clouds in a night sky. In traditional zazen one counted breaths, but Jamil had turned it into an Islamic practice by uttering one barely audible syllable of laa ilaaha-il-Allah on each breath. Inhale… exhale with laaa… inhale… exhale with ilahaaa… inhale… exhale with illl… inhale… exhale with Allahhh. And repeat until one’s mind became still.

As Hassan breathed and consciously relaxed his shoulders and neck, he considered. He could pass off both the consulate deliveries to someone else – trade off with another courier, maybe, without telling Jen. That was the smart thing to do.

But Jen might dispatch concurrent tags, and then everyone’s time would be wasted. Hassan would be on his way down Third Street or the Mission and Jen would unwittingly give him a Pac Heights tag in the opposite direction, or a pickup in the Marina where the consulates were located.

He allowed his gaze to travel up the tapering height of the 48-floor, iconic tower. His apprehension faded away, borne into the air with his breath, and a smile spread over his face. What a beautiful city this was. His years here had been the most comfortable and anxiety-free of his life, by far. Hasbun-Allahu wa ne’m Al-Wakeel. Allah is enough for us, and the best in Whom to trust.

The Lebanese consulate it was, then. He’d drop the package, get the sig and that would be that, right? No one would look twice at a lowly bike messenger.

Hassan often rode the Broadway tunnel at street level eastbound, where the tunnel sloped downhill and he could outrun the traffic behind him if he timed it right. But even he was not crazy enough to attempt it westbound, going uphill. The tunnel consisted of a pair of narrow tubes that burrowed beneath the towering peak of Russian Hill for the equivalent of five city blocks. Each poorly lit tube contained two tightly spaced vehicle lanes with no shoulder. The traffic noise inside was like a jet engine as cars reached speeds of 60 mph before exiting the other end. There was nowhere for a cyclist to go, no escape. If he was hit he’d be crushed and mangled like a grasshopper beneath a boot.

It was too much of a risk. He would ride on the elevated pedestrian walkway instead. It was narrow, and filthy with accumulated exhaust, and if he encountered a pedestrian he’d have to wait, or ask them to flatten against the wall to let him pass. It was a hassle.

Indeed, he soon found himself stuck behind an elderly penguin-shaped woman who carried two grocery sacks and and shuffled her feet as she made her way laboriously along the pedestrian catwalk. She wore flat brown shoes that had seen better days, and an old brown coat. Her white-haired head bobbed from side to side like a buoy.

Hassan wasn’t sure what to do. The woman never looked back, and with the noise in the tunnel she undoubtedly didn’t know he was there. If he tried to squeeze past her on the bike she might be startled. She might even fall. Coming to a decision, he dismounted his bike and tapped the woman gently on the shoulder.

She turned quickly, alarmed, and almost stumbled. Hassan gripped her arm to steady her.

“Ma’am, can I help you with your bags?” he said in a loud voice, indicating the bags and smiling as charmingly as he could.

The woman peered at Hassan and smiled. “Why, aren’t you a sweetie!” she said, handing him her bags. “And so cute in your little outfit. Where are you headed?”

“Making deliveries, ma’am,” Hassan said. “I’m a bike messenger.”

“Oh, is that a job?” the old woman said. “What fun.”

Hassan bungeed the bags carefully onto his rear bike rack and began walking, pushing the bike and keeping to a slow saunter. As he and the old lady walked they carried on a loud conversation, trying to make themselves heard over the booming traffic noise. Hassan learned that the woman had lived in Germany in her youth, and had come to the United States on her own after World War II. He wondered if she were a Holocaust survivor, but he was too shy to ask such a personal question.

Once they were through the tunnel Hassan handed the woman her bags, accepted a grandmotherly pat on the shoulder and went on his way, riding as hard as he could. The stroll with the old lady had cost him ten minutes. The Russian embassy tag was a two-hour rag, but the Danish was a one hour and the Lebanese was a rush, and both were on the verge of getting moldy.

Two long and disorganized lines of people bumped elbows at the Russian consulate. Hassan had been here before and the place was always chaotic. There were no lines in the traditional sense. People sat in chairs around the walls or milled about like lost sheep. Newcomers would enter and shout, “Who’s last in line?” in either English or Russian (at least he assumed that’s what they were saying in Russian).

Couriers never waited in lines. Hassan went straight to the window and said, “Delivery. I need a signature.”

“You must to wait in line,” the functionary behind the window said in heavily accented English. He was a heavyset man with thick glasses and coffee-stained teeth. His nose was crisscrossed with burst blood vessels – the effect of a lifetime of vodka binging, no doubt.

“No line,” Hassan said. “I’m a courier. I need a signature.”

“All must wait,” the man said. “Read sign.”

Hassan sighed internally. Beaurocrats. Should he try to loosen the man up with Muhammad’s Russia joke? No life here, no life there. No, he’d botch it and create a diplomatic incident. Instead he gave the clerk a serious look and said, “Listen my friend. If I have to wait you’ll be billed, and then your boss will want to know what the extra charges were for. Plus, I actually have two things for you.” Hassan reached into his bag and rooted for a pack of Life Saver candies he’d purchased just an hour ago, before Dhuhr prayer. “One,” he said, setting the Life Savers on the counter. “Delicious capitalist treat. Just for you, because I like your attention to detail. Two” – he set the envelope and signature sheet on the counter – “delivery.”

“Ho ho, funny man,” the bureaucrat said, decidedly not laughing. “Like Easter Bunny, da? Okay, give me.” He took the delivery and the candies and signed. “We Russians are capitalists too now, you know.”

“Da,” Hassan said, exercising his limited Russian. “Shasliva! Be happy.”


The Danish consulate drop went like clockwork. Hassan was in and out literally in one minute. There was nothing like Scandinavian efficiency.

Five minutes later, standing in front of the Lebanese consulate, Hassan swept his gaze over the steep bulk of Pacific Heights behind him, then turned his face to look across the Bay at Alcatraz Island. The sky above was high and clear as glass, with only a few wispy clouds. A crisp wind blew off the Bay and made Hassan’s windbreaker snap like a battle flag. He passed his hand over his face, feeling the light stubble on his cheeks, and smoothing his goatee.

One thing he’d never lost through all his adventures and heartbreaks was his innate sense of curiosity. Sometimes he felt that life was like a serialized novel, with constant surprises and revelations, and if the novel had been written more as a tragedy than a comedy in his case, wasn’t that true for everyone? The thing was to keep turning the pages. Al-harakah barakah, as his father used to say. Movement is a blessing. Love, tragedy, life, death – was there anything more fascinating than simply being alive and seeing what tomorrow would bring?

Just before entering the consulate Hassan scanned the street quickly as was his habit, and saw something that stopped him in mid-stride. A wealthy-looking woman in a cream-colored cashmere coat was two steps away from stepping off the curb into Green Street, unaware that a 30-foot Muni bus was barrelling up the right lane toward her. The woman was immersed in her smartphone – no doubt checking her email or whatever people did with these ridiculous devices – and did not see that the crossing light was red.

Hassan dashed toward her, calling, “Ma’am!” The woman did not look up. Hassan was sure that he was about to witness her death. In one second she would go flying through the air, her bones crushed like chalk. She began to step off the curb and the bus sounded its horn loudly. The woman looked up in panic but could not stop her forward motion – when Hassan reached her and yanked her backward by one arm. The bus struck the heel of the woman’s shoe and it flew off her foot as she sat hard on the cold sidewalk. The bus roared on, not even slowing.

“Oh my God,” the woman said, sitting with splayed legs on the sidewalk, her hands flat against the hard cement. She looked right and left along the sidewalk.

“Where’s my phone?” she muttered, seemingly to herself.

“Ma’am,” Hassan said, reaching out a hand. “Are you alright? Can I help you up?”

The woman looked up and saw Hassan for the first time. She was an attractive blonde in her early 40’s perhaps. A San Francisco professional, on top of the world. Probably a financial analyst, or a jeweler, or maybe a real estate agent to the local software and internet magnates.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, thank you.” She reached out with a trembling hand and Hassan took it, lifting her to her feet. As soon as she set her left foot down she cried out in pain and almost stumbled. She reached out for Hassan and grabbed his shoulder to steady herself. The woman looked down at her feet, one shod and the other flat, only a black stocking between her flesh and the chilly cement. “Where’s my shoe?” she said in bewilderment.

“The bus hit it,” Hassan explained. “How’s your foot? Can you move it?”

The woman moved her foot from side to side and up and down, wincing as she did so.

“It hurts,” she said, “but I think it’s just a sprained ankle. I’m okay.” She let go of Hassan’s shoulder and stood on her own.

“Hold on,” Hassan said. He jogged out to the middle of the intersection and retrieved her white high-heeled shoe. Handing it to the woman, he pointed to some scattered plastic and glass debris in the gutter. “I’m guessing that’s your phone,” he said. “It almost cost you your life.”

“Oh my God,” the woman exclaimed again as she put on her scuffed shoe. “You saved my life!” She stared at Hassan. “Why did you do that?”

The woman wasn’t making sense. She might be in shock, Hassan thought. “Look,” Hassan said. “Let me flag you a cab. You should go to the hospital and have your ankle x-rayed.”

Clarity seemed to return to the woman’s eyes and she stood up straight, passing her hands over her hair as if to clear away a cobweb. “It’s alright,” she said, smiling at Hassan. “I’m fine. What’s your name, young man?”


“Well, Hassan,” the woman said, pronouncing it Ha-sahn. She removed a white leather pocketbook from her coat pocket and took out an embossed business card and an expensive-looking silver pen. She wrote something on the card and handed it to Hassan. “I’m Melanie Carter. You call me sometime and we’ll go out to dinner, on me. It’s the least I can do for the dashing young man who saved my life.”

Hassan was flummoxed. No doubt the woman simply wanted to express her gratitude, but he had no time to explain Islamic mores, and he didn’t want to be rude.

“I’ll think about that Miss Carter,” he said.

“Call me Melanie, please!” the woman insisted.

“Okay. But right now I have to go. I have a rush delivery for the consulate here. At least go home and ice your ankle and rest it, alright? And hey, umm….”

“Yes?” Melanie smiled widely. Her teeth were white as pearls.

“Keep your head up.”

The woman gave Hasan a quizzical look, then laughed. There was something very open and sincere about her laugh. “I’ll do that,” she said.

Hassan turned and entered the Lebanese consulate, slipping Melanie Carter’s business card into his pocket.

The Lebanese civil war was over, but the consulate was still fortified. Concrete pillars had been installed around the building to stop suicide car bombers. Hassan had to pass through a metal detector staffed by two uniformed security guards and allow his bag to be searched.

Hassan didn’t like being searched. It made him feel guilty, even when he had nothing to hide. Perhaps because he had been through it so many times, and often in the worst of conditions, where – if the search turned up something the guards didn’t like – the consequences would be dire. Nevertheless, he carried himself with a confident, businesslike air, nodding at the guards and holding his bag open for inspection.

He had no reason to be nervous, after all. He would make the delivery, get the signature, and be out of here in five minutes. Right?


At the same moment, 7,000 miles away in the Bekaa Valley of Lebanon

The six foot tall, blonde-haired man known to his closest colleagues as Mr. Green and to everyone else as The Crow, applied a pair of steel alligator clips to the ears of the terrified Palestinian fighter strapped to the cold steel table.

Green was not the torturer’s real name, of course. That was long forgotten, beaten out of him in the Kataeb’s secret assassins’ training camp for children, where he had been known only as cadet 64. He had grown up in the camp, schooled in the arts of killing and torture. Graduates of the camp became Kopis – members of an elite brotherhood of assassins and torturers, named after the curved blade used by the ancient Phoenicians for war and slaughter.

His instructors and tormentors – for the training had always been merciless, and he could not count how many times he had been waterboarded, confined or beaten as a child – had come from many backgrounds. They included Israelis, Lebanese and even the odd European. Each was, in his own particular way, a master of the application of pain and death.

The Crow had no memories before age ten or so. He knew nothing of his parentage or ancestry. It did not matter. He needed no one and nothing.

For a long time his only family had been his fellow Kopis, and his only loyalty to the Kataeb Party – the right-wing Phalange organization and militia dedicated to the purification of Lebanon from foreign scum – and to the Haddad clan that ruled the party.  He’d been a true believer in the Kataeb’s mission to rid Lebanon of Palestinians and maintain the dominance of the Maronite Christians over the Muslims.

Over the years, though, as he saw founding members make war on one another and even slaughter one another’s families, his fanatical dedication had been replaced first by disappointment, and eventually by cutting cynicism. As he approached his thirtieth birthday he had come to feel that his only true obligation was to himself. Only personal power – and an utter lack of moral restraint – could keep one safe in this hellish world. In order to survive a man had to be willing to kill, torture and destroy. Men, women, children – it didn’t matter. There were no innocents.

As for his name, it was a private joke. Years ago, one particularly sadistic trainer named Pascale – perhaps resenting cadet 64’s unusually deep green eyes – had named him Puke for Eyes. Thereafter cadet 64 had been forced to respond to that filthy moniker, under threat of beating or worse. And there had been much worse. He did not like to remember the tortures and the… the other thing.

In the end, though, he had triumphed. At the age of fourteen, on an extended training patrol with Pascale, he waited until the man slept, chloroformed him with a homemade mixture and bound him. When Pascale regained consciousness, cadet 64 stared into the man’s black eyes as he killed him. He wanted his “puke green eyes” to be the last thing Pascale ever saw. Pascale’s death screams were the sweetest thing cadet 64 had ever heard.

Upon graduation, every Kopis chose his own name. Cadet 64 had taken the name Green as a way of turning the long-time insult on its head. As for his code name – the Crow – it came much later, paid for with the blood of the dead.

He brought his attention back to the man on the table. The subject could not protest, as the Crow had severed his vocal chords. It was not that he was afraid someone might hear – the room was soundproofed, and no one would dare interrupt his work in any case – but because he knew that noises above 85 decibels could permanently damage one’s hearing. He had personally measured the human scream under torture at 120 decibels. He had to consider his own health, after all.

He’d been taught to keep his body strong. He ate only healthy foods, and ran at least five kilometers every morning. In the camp he had trained extensively in martial arts and had been the best fighter in his age group. For the last several years, however, he had focused his attention on an exploration of exotic torture techniques, from the “brazen bull” of ancient Greece to the “heretic’s fork” employed by the Spanish inquisition. He enjoyed replicating such devices for use in his own work. Much could be learned from the brilliant torturers of the past, especially the Catholic church, whose innovations in the field were brilliant. The Crow only regretted that he could never publish the results of his studies. He had to content himself with the recognition of his subjects, even if it came in the form of pleading, shrieking and despair.

As he worked he listened to the soulful voice of Umm Kulthum, emanating from a small CD player on a nearby table. Arak asey al-dami’, she sang. I see you refusing to cry.

The current subject had been on the table for two days. It was unlikely he would last another day. When the Crow was done with him, he would have the man’s body incinerated and would carry the ashes home to his villa on the slopes of Jabal Eddin. Two years ago he’d planted 1,000 grape vines, and the harvest would soon be ready. With its limestone soils and high elevation, this part of Lebanon was perfect for wine grapes. To top it off, the Crow had a secret weapon: the ashes of his victims had been tilled into the soil, adding nutrients that would yield a rich, full-bodied wine grape. He would bottle the wine and label it Mont Dena. He beamed, imagining the praise his wine would receive from local enophiles and collectors.

In addition, it would make a good cover for his occasional overseas assassinations. He would be a respected vintner, traveling the world to market his boutique wine.

The man strapped to the table was a captain in Fatah al-Islam, an organization based in the crowded Palestinian refugee camps inside Lebanon. The Crow had long ago extracted what little information of worth the man possessed. But one had to respect the process, yes? One must be thorough. Besides, these were the moments that the Crow lived for. There was no true power but pain. Everything else was fantasy and delusion. The only measure of the effectiveness of one’s existence was the ability to inflict suffering. As for killing, it was the only action that brooked no argument. It was the one objective reality in this world.

He felt no sympathy for the man on the table. He was a Palestinian, and a Muslim to boot. The Palestinians were an infestation on Lebanese soil. Communists and vermin, all of them. Beasts on two legs, as one-time Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin had said. Palestinian children were nothing more than future terrorists and must be slain without mercy, after being suitably tortured of course. Torture was necessary to establish and maintain the proper relationship between Lebanese and Palestinian, fascist and Communist, man and beast.

Sometimes the subjects on the tables were women and children. It made no difference to the Crow.

With the clamps attached, the Crow flicked a switch to send an electric current through a set of cables into the man’s ears. The Palestinian’s body arched to the limits that the leather straps would allow. Umm Kulthum’s voice rose in time with the man’s body as the accompanying violins poured forth their sorrow and heartbreak. The Crow raised his arms to the ceiling, feeling like an artist himself, fully alive and fully in control.

Next:  Part 2 – An Enemy at the Lebanese Consulate

For a guide to all of Wael’s stories in chronological order, check out this handy Story Index.

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Wael Abdelgawad's novels can be purchased at his author page at is an Egyptian-American living in California. He is the founder of several Islamic websites, including,, and He teaches martial arts, and loves Islamic books, science fiction, and ice cream. Learn more about him at a guide to all of Wael's online stories in chronological order, check out this handy Story Index.



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              Day of the Dogs, Part 5: Sorceress of the Forest

              The eagle perched on one of the upper branches. It was a bizarre looking creature, and made him think of a child wearing a dark cloak and a mask.

              Harpy eagle

              See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories.

              This is chapter 5 in a multi-chapter novella.  Chapters:  Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |

              “You must overcome your fear.” – Mamá

              Home Alone

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              OMAR WAS RELEASED FROM THE HOSPITAL two weeks after the attack. Nemesio was gone, and that was a barakah as great as a cloud. The miserable man had taken his things and disappeared, leaving behind only a scattering of old papers and business magazines in the drawers of Omar’s old desk – the desk that Nemesio had appropriated for himself. Omar was going to throw them out but Mamá said no, put them in a box and store it in the closet. Shaking his head, he did so. He did not tell Mamá about the ultimatum he’d given Nemesio.

              Cash money in a canThe next day Mamá discovered that Nemesio had stolen the gold bracelet that had been given to her by her mother, as well as a wad of cash – Mamá’s emergency savings that she kept inside an old Thermos bottle in the kitchen cupboard. She hadn’t known that Nemesio knew about it.

              Mamá was melancholy, but Omar tried to reassure her, telling her, “Whatever Nemesio stole is a small price to be rid of him.” After that they did not speak of him again.

              Omar could finally breathe. Mamá’s mood too improved as the days passed, and he saw her smiling and laughing for the first time in years.

              * * *

              Hospital Nacional, Panama

              Hospital Nacional, Panama

              Mamá had to go back to her job at Farmacias Arrocha. She’d taken time off after the Day of the Dogs, but couldn’t afford to miss any more work.

              On the three days a week when Omar had physical therapy, he took a taxi to Hospital Nacional and back. He got to know many of the nurses and orderlies by name. There was one nurse, an Afro-Latina woman named Leticia, who told Omar he reminded her of her younger brother, who had gone to New York for university. She often brought him chips or brownies from the hospital cafeteria.

              There were days when Omar felt like the ugliest kid alive, with the scars on his face and his limp, and his hair that had still not fully grown in. He looked, he thought, like a gang member. Or an accident victim, which he was, in a way. Then Leticia would come along and give him a wide smile and say, “How’s my favorite young man today? Oh look at you, your hair is coming in curly like Eric Dane. And your scars are fading, I can barely see them. The ladies are going to fall at your feet!” And even though Omar knew it was half baloney, he would stand a little straighter, and his heart felt lighter.

              When he wasn’t at the hospital, he was home alone.

              In past summers, he’d avoided the house during the day, because Mamá was at work and he never knew when Nemesio might be there. He’d spent his days reading at the library, playing football in the street, taking classes at the dojo, and sometimes visiting the masjid.

              So being home alone was a new experience. At first he loved having the whole house to himself. He could limp around in his underwear, turn the mop bucket upside down and pound it like a drum, or soak in the bath for an hour, reading a sci-fi novel. He could watch football with the volume turned up, and eat as much microwaved popcorn as he liked.

              Once the novelty wore off, however, he realized he was lonely. Entire days passed where he neither saw nor spoke to another human being. His mother had purchased him a basic phone, a little flip-model with talk and text only, but he didn’t know anyone’s numbers except his mom at work and the taxi service. He found himself watching the clock, waiting for Mamá to come home. When she finally did walk through the door, he often didn’t want to talk to her. She’d end up throwing her hands in the air and walking away, and he’d be lonelier than ever.

              Beetle Season

              He lay on his back in the dark. It was storming outside, the power was out, and the house was hot. Perspiration beaded his forehead and glued his back to the sheets. The digital clock on his nightstand was dead, but Omar knew it was past midnight. The window was a meter from his bed; one of the geckos that gathered on the outside of the glass, eating mosquitoes and termites, startled him by calling out loudly: “DAP dap dap dap dap dap dap dap.”

              He could smell the sickly-sweet strawberry air freshener that his mother sprayed in her room to help her sleep. Soothed her nerves, she said. Strawberries didn’t grow in Panama, and Omar was not sure he had ever seen one. Did his mother’s air freshener really smell like strawberry, or just some manufacturer’s chemical imitation?

              Golden beetle

              Golden beetle

              It was beetle season and the creatures were everywhere, to the point that he could sometimes hear them scurrying about his room at night. There were common black beetles, striped beetles, huge brown hercules beetles, and once he’d even seen a golden beetle, gleaming in the dark. He’d once seen a TV show about Bogotá’s Museo de Oro, and the beetle looked like one of those golden artifacts, come to life.

              Sometimes a beetle would end up helpless on its back and the ants would swarm out and devour it. Omar knew the feeling.

              Sleep was a torment. No matter which side he lay on, there was pain. He spent many summer nights like this, staring up at the ceiling, trying to think of something other than the throbbing of his wounds. All too often he found himself reliving the Day of the Dogs. What if he hadn’t gone? What if he’d forced Tameem to stop hassling the dogs? What if they’d taken a different route? Why had no one helped him? Was he stupid for trying to fight those two dogs alone? But what else could he have done?

              He’d told Hani that the past was gone. A lo hecho, pecho. But he couldn’t silence the self-recriminations, especially at night, when his body was exhausted and in pain. Ramadan was here, but he could not fast, and that shamed and angered him. He had not missed a Ramadan fast since he started at eight years old. He was in and out of the hospital, going through one procedure after another. A physical therapist worked with him three days a week, putting him through stretching and strength-building exercises. Omar wanted to know when he could resume karate training. The doctors said years, possibly.

              Pain stalked his days and haunted his nights. It was a strange thing, to live with constant pain. He felt stretched out, like a rubber band about to break. He couldn’t concentrate, and was irritable all the time.

              The doctors prescribed pain medication, but Omar remembered Toyo, a short, beefy man with the images of Catholic saints tattooed on his fingers. He’d been a brown belt at the dojo, one level above Omar at the time. Toyo had been tough, not only in the dojo but in life. One of those guys who grew up scrapping. Then he had a motorcycle accident and injured his back. In the wake of that he became addicted to painkillers, and when the doctors cut him off he switched to street drugs, so it was said. Omar watched Toyo waste away week by week until his skin hung on his frame like wet laundry on a line. Then he stopped coming. Some said he was living on the street. Others said he’d gone back to Santiago, where his grandparents were from.

              Omar never wanted that to happen to him, so he took the medications only when the discomfort became severe.

              Other times, when the sun was shining and his pain was dulled, he felt confident, and knew that he had done exactly what he had to do that day, and that Allah would take care of him, and guide him where he must go.

              This was not one of those times. Lying there in his bed, sweating like a runner in a relay race – except that he couldn’t run, and had no one to pass the baton to – he felt like his breath was trapped within him, unmoving, growing hotter by the moment. He needed to cool down. He should get up, rinse the sweat off and splash some cold water on his face.

              Stiffly, painfully, he swung his legs over the side, began to walk toward the bathroom – and stepped on something living. It crunched wetly beneath his foot, but before it died, it bit him. He gave a muffled groan – Nemesio’s fist-first training against crying out loud still in effect – and sat on the floor. He’d stepped on a beetle, of course, and though it was nearly obliterated, a few of its legs still twitched, and its antennae waved. Omar’s foot pulsed with pain.

              Sitting there on the floor in the lightless room, with the rain finally beginning to tire of its assault, Omar cried.

              E-Commerce For Idiots

              A Saturday morning in July. He sat at the kitchen table, poring over a book titled, “E-Commerce for Idiots.” Mamá was trying to expand her makeup business. She’d always bought goods imported from Hong Kong and South Korea, but she’d recently started her own line of organic makeup, made from sustainable Panamanian forest products. She called it Puro Panameño.

              The problem was that Puro Panameño products were expensive, because of the cost of sourcing the ingredients. Mamá’s usual customers were working class Panamanian women who could not afford these products. She had to find a way to reach middle and upper class women.

              Mamá thought an ecommerce website would be the key, so here Omar sat, in a kitchen that looked like a storeroom, with boxes filled with raw ingredients, bottles, shipping labels and packaging stickers. His mother, who had the day off work, sat on the floor, cutting boxes open. She wore black sweat pants and a colorful Kuna blouse, hand-woven with a striking mola in the shape of a fish. Bits of cardboard clung to her long black hair. Her face was tired and sweaty.

              Eventually she’d have to lease a proper manufacturing space, but they were a long way from that. Orders were barely trickling in. It was deeply discouraging.

              Omar was trying to figure out how to place an advertisement on a social media website, and target it to a specific group of Panamanian viewers. He sat back and exhaled loudly, running his fingers through his curly hair, which had finally grown back after being shaved in the hospital.

              His mother looked up. “You want something to eat?”

              “What do we have?”

              She gave an apologetic head tilt. “Tuna, crackers, peanut butter, rice, bananas. The usual.”

              Omar grimaced. If he ate any more tuna he’d grow fins. Between the funds Mamá had invested in these new products, and the cash Nemesio had stolen, they were broke, with hardly enough money for food.

              Staring through the barred window, watching a man selling single cigarettes in the street outside their home, his eyes wandered over their little yard, with its neat flower beds that his mother had planted, and the wide acacia tree that shaded the house in the mornings. Though his eyes were on the tree, his mind was elsewhere. He still received phone calls from reporters wanting to interview him. He’d always declined, partly because he didn’t have the energy, and partly because it was intimidating. What if his tongue got tied? What if he ended up looking foolish?

              War or Death

              Suddenly his eyes focused on the tree, and what he was seeing there. His mouth fell open in astonishment. His mother, busy with her work, did not notice. Omar closed his mouth, opened it again. “Mamá,” he said. “The tree. Look, Mamá.”

              “Is it the neighbor’s cat again?” she said testily. “The silly thing can stay up there for all I-”

              “No,” Omar broke in. He grabbed his cane and stood, pointing. “It’s a harpy eagle.” He gaped at it. The national bird of Panama. According to Brother Mamdooh, his biology instructor, there were only two hundred breeding pairs in all of Panama.

              Harpy eagle

              The harpy eagle

              The eagle perched on one of the upper branches of the acacia, partly hidden in the foliage. It was looking off to the north, so he saw it in profile. The creature was massive, maybe 100 centimeters tall, with a gray head and a long, hooked beak, and wearing a tall gray crest. The upper body was charcoal gray, the belly white, and the massive black legs sported curved black talons the size of meat hooks.

              He’d seen photos, of course, but had never imagined he’d see one in person. It was a bizarre looking creature, and made him think of a child wearing a dark cloak, a hood and a mask. A chill ran up his spine, and he shivered.

              His mother leaped to her feet, scattering a pile of small metal canisters filled with pigments. She looked where Omar was pointing, then put a hand to her face, half covering her eyes. “La curandera del bosque,” she breathed. The sorceress of the forest. “Don’t look at it!” She reached out and put a hand over Omar’s eyes.

              He pulled away, grinning. “What are you doing?” He looked back at the harpy and now it was gazing directly at him. It gave a loud squawk, and Omar had the sense that it was in fact speaking to him, communicating something.

              His mother cried, “No!” then ran to the window and pulled the cord to drop the blinds, cutting off the view of the eagle. She said, “La ilaha il-Allah,” then sat at the table, closed her eyes and began to chant, rocking back and forth. She spoke in Ngäbere, the language of her people, and Omar could only understand a few words.

              He sat beside her, gripped her forearm. “Mamá! What’s wrong?”

              When she opened her eyes, they were liquid with fear. “The águila arpía is the curandera del bosque. She is the queen of the forest, while the jaguar is the king. When the curandera speaks, it means war is coming, or death, or both.”

              Omar shook his head. “We’re Muslims. We don’t believe in all that. Second, I’ve already been to war. I faced death and survived.”

              Mamá’s eyes, locked on his, went wide with surprise. “You might be right.” She jumped up again, and opened the blinds. The eagle was gone. Omar watched with amazement as his mother dashed into her bedroom and came out with her sneakers. She almost never wore these. She slipped them on, tied a scarf around her hair, and ran outside. Omar followed as well as he could, limping and leaning on his cane, and found her walking around the base of the tree, looking at the ground. Then, to his further amazement, she reached up for a branch, dug her sneaker toes into an old knothole in the tree trunk, and began to climb.

              “Mamá! You’ll fall.”

              She made no reply, but continued to climb, and in fact she moved with swift agility, as if she’d been clambering up trees all her life. Her small form moved higher, until she reached the branch where the harpy had been sitting. After a moment she cried out in triumph.

              When she dropped to the ground she held up a single long feather, gray with black stripes. Her face bore a wide smile. “You were right. La curandera left this as a gift, in honor of your courage. But it is also a challenge.” She held out the feather.

              Omar took it. The feather was half as long as his forearm. “What’s the challenge?”

              “You must overcome your fear. Then your status as a warrior will be acknowledged by the jaguar and eagle throne, and you will be ready for the crown.”

              “What crown?”

              “You are nobility, remember? My father is king of the Ngäbe.”

              “Oh yeah. But isn’t there, like, a whole gang of people in line in front of me? And aren’t you exiled?”

              His mother gave a noncommittal grunt. “Yes, that is a problem.”

              “What am I supposed to overcome my fear of, anyway?”

              “That is for you to decide. I want you to wear the feather around your neck always. It will protect you.”

              “We don’t believe that, Mamá. Only Allah can protect us.” Seeing the look of dismay on his mother’s face, he added, “I’ll frame it and hang it on my wall. Not for protection, just decoration.”

              She seemed satisfied with that.

              All this reminded Omar of something. “When I was in the hospital, I had a dream of an old woman who sang over me and gave me something bitter to drink. A Ngäbe woman.”

              “It was not a dream. She was a krägä bianga. She healed you.”

              “The doctors healed me.”

              Mamá shook her head. “The krägä bianga healed you. The doctors helped.”

              Like Father, Like Son

              “How do you people get my number?” Omar’s mother said into her mobile phone. “He’s not interested. Do you know how many-”

              “Let me.” Omar took the phone. The man on the line was from La Prensa. He wanted to conduct an in-person interview and take photos.

              “Will you pay us?”

              “No. We don’t do that. We feel it compromises the integrity of the interview.”

              Omar thought. The memory of the harpy eagle, and the challenge it presented, was still bright in his mind. He must overcome his fear, his mother said. He’d avoided publicity so far, but he had an idea. Maybe there was an opportunity here.

              “I’ll do it.”

              Spanish newspapersThe reporter came to the house. He was bearded and middle aged, and spoke to Omar with great respect. There were the expected questions about the dog attack: Why did you try to help your schoolmate instead of running away? What went through your mind when the dogs attacked you? Do you regret intervening like you did? Are you angry at the owner of the dogs? Have you spoken to him?

              From there the questions became more personal. Omar’s childhood and parents. When Omar explained that his father had been killed trying to stop a robbery, the reporter seemed pleased and excited. Omar stiffened with anger. The reporter must have sensed this, because he began to stammer. “I mean, it’s a tragedy of course…”

              Finally came the question Omar had hoped for. When the reporter asked him how he was spending his time this summer, he said, “I’m helping my mom with her organic makeup company, Puro Panameño. It’s the best makeup in the world, made right here in Panama.”

              Two days later, his mother came home from work with two copies of La Prensa. She layed one out on the kitchen table and they looked at it together. Omar’s story was on the front page. The headline read, “Like father, like son: a family of heroes.” Thumbnail photos of Omar’s face and Papa’s face stood side by side. Omar broke into tears. Why had they done that? He went to his room, and did not read the article. Later, he wasn’t even sure why he’d cried. It just caught him off guard, he guessed.

              Nevertheless, when a female reporter from El Siglo called on the house phone the next day, Omar spoke to her and let her interview him over the phone.

              That same day he received a call from TVN Noticiera Estelar, one of the most popular news shows in Panama. This was the first news outlet that actually offered to pay him.

              The day before the interview Mamá pressed a suit that she had purchased for Omar for this occasion. Where she found the money he did not know.

              Off With His Head

              That night he could not sleep at all. His left leg throbbed and ached, and his many scars itched like wildfire. The doctors said the itching was a normal product of healing, and that he must not scratch the wounds, but the sensation drove him mad sometimes. Finally he could not take it. Rising in the dark, he took one of the pain pills the doctor had given him, downed it with a glass of warm tap water, and went back to bed.


              Red boxing spiderThe Spiniflex hatchlings were beginning to eat their way out of his body. The pain was blinding, as if he were the centerpiece in a bonfire. The Ruby erupted out of his skin, and blood cascaded from his body, falling in rivers from his chin, his fingertips, his elbows… He fell onto his back, writhing in pain.

              The Ruby spiders massed on his chest, gathering in a V formation, their cilia-covered bodies glistening with his blood. He saw that some had the heads of hedgehogs, and others of flamingos, but no matter what their eyes were all insect eyes, black and mirrored, and all focused on Omar’s face.

              The largest spider stepped to the point of the formation. On its back it bore the shape of a red heart, the kind from a playing card. Pointing one hairy arm at Omar’s face, it cried, “Off with his head!” Its voice was thunderous, rattling Omar’s teeth. At the command, all the spiders produced axes. They were all hooded now, like executioners, and they advanced on Omar’s neck, coming to chop off his head.


              He fell out of bed, panting as if he’d run a race, his stomach heaving like he might throw up. He remained on his hands and knees on the tiled floor, gasping for breath, his body drenched in sweat. When would the dreams stop? He shouldn’t have taken the pain medication. “Hasbun-Allahu wa n’em Al-Wakeel,” he said out loud. Allah is sufficient for us and is the best Protector. He felt a sudden urge to call Samia, which was ridiculous. It was the middle of the night, he didn’t have her number, and they weren’t even friends. Not really.

              He rose, washed his entire upper body at the small bathroom sink, and changed the sweat-soaked sheets. His body hurt, but he could tolerate it. He would be okay. “A giant,” Samia had called him once. “You may be short,” she’d said, “but you’re a giant.” He’d be okay. And he’d never read that damned Alice in Wonderland book again.

              Next: Day of the Dogs, Chapter 6: The Curious Sensation of Pity

              Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

              See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.


              Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at

              Support Our Dawah for Just $2 a Month

              MuslimMatters has been a free service to the community since 2007. All it takes is a small gift from a reader like you to keep us going, for just $2 / month.

              The Prophet (SAW) has taught us the best of deeds are those that done consistently, even if they are small. Click here to support MuslimMatters with a monthly donation of $2 per month. Set it and collect blessings from Allah (swt) for the khayr you're supporting without thinking about it.

              Continue Reading


              Day of the Dogs, Part 4: You Are the Miracle

              Even with one eye I can see you lying here all tight and angry. Do you have any idea what you did? You saved my life. How many people could have done what you did?

              Goat standing on a cow's back

              See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories.

              This is chapter 4 in a multi-chapter novella.  Chapters:  Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |
              Chapter 5

              Krägä Bianga

              “Fear no one.” – Samia

              Support MuslimMatters for Just $2 a Month

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              The Prophet (SAW) has taught us the best of deeds are those that done consistently, even if they are small. Click here to support MuslimMatters with a monthly donation of $2 per month. Set it and collect blessings from Allah (swt) for the khayr you're supporting without thinking about it.

              Hospital IV bagLIGHTS IN HIS EYES AND PAIN EVERYWHERE… warmth pouring into his veins like liquid honey… his mother’s face close to his, saying his name… darkness…

              His mother and a doctor talking… everything blurry… his face hurt. He tried to touch his face, but his mother grabbed his hand and stopped him… sleep…

              Someone sobbing… why?… pain everywhere in his body. He moaned then fell into darkness…

              A nightmare, hands dragging him down into a well, and at the bottom of the well, sharp teeth and claws. He struggled, until a warm hand took his, and he settled into silence…

              An old woman in a red Ngäbe dress standing over him, singing. Her skin was walnut colored and deeply seamed. Her long ebony hair hung free, falling below her waist. She spooned something into his mouth and he swallowed. It was bitter, but as it slid into his stomach he felt it nourishing and strengthening him. The woman’s night-black eyes stared unblinking into his as she whispered a single word in a language he did not understand. His eyelids came down like shuttered doors, and once again he was asleep…

              The next morning he was somewhat aware. It was the third day after surgery. His mother and a doctor spoke at his bedside. He tried to eat something but could only manage a cup of pudding.

              “There was a woman,” he said, and his voice sounded like radio static. “Singing.”

              His mother touched his forehead. “A krägä bianga. A healer of my people.”

              “But we’re Muslims.”

              “Hush,” Mamá said. “She is a krägä bianga, not a curandera. Medicine, not magic.”

              That evening, Omar’s mind was completely clear for the first time. The doctor spoke to him personally about his surgery and recovery. He was able to eat some solid food. Samia came for a visit as well, and he learned about what had happened to her. At some point, as Samia was speaking, he fell asleep.

              The Old Nightmare

              The fourth day, the old nightmare returned. The spiders.

              Red boxing spiderTHE SPINIFLEX RUBIROSA LARVAE WERE IN HIS BODY, and they were hatching. They ate their way out, chewing through muscle and cartilage, fat and veins, destroying his body as thoroughly as if he’d stepped on a landmine. There was no point calling out for his mother. She was nowhere to be found.

              The spiders burst out through his skin, blood pouring from a thousand wounds, and through a crimson curtain of pain Omar saw that they had the bodies of spiders, but the heads of vicious dogs. Dewed with his blood, they growled, thousands of tiny dog voices joining into a single rumble.

              He rolled onto his back and saw that he lay on the muddy, putrid stretch of beach below the Panama City seawall. The ground was littered with rotting seaweed, plastic bags and used diapers. Above the seawall, the city was burning. Flames engulfed the tall towers, pouring from shattered windows. Smoke darkened the sky. Not a soul could be seen. The metropolis was dying.

              The Spinifex hatchlings advanced up his body toward his face, intending to eat his eyes. Their little dog eyes were solid ruby red, as if filled with blood. Omar thrashed, slapping his own face and crying out in terror.

              Where was Mamá, where was Papá, where were Samia, Halima, Hani, anybody? Anybody anybody the Ruby was killing him…

              Eighty Seven Bites

              “Hey. Wake up.” Someone touched his shoulder.

              Omar’s eyes flew open and he gasped as he shot up to a sitting position in the bed, looking around wildly. His racing heart began to slow as he realized that he was still in the hospital, of course.

              Samia sat in a chair beside his bed, wearing a fluffy gray robe and an orange hijab, and still reading Al-Ghazali’s thematic commentary of the Quran. One side of her face and head were completely bandaged, so he could only see her mouth, nose and one eye. Her skull had been fractured in two places from the attack. The doctors had shaved her hair, she had told him, but she wore her hijab on top of the head bandage, which made her head look about the same as usual.

              “You’re still here,” Omar breathed.

              “Where am I gonna go? Skydiving?”

              Omar’s mother slept next to Samia in a chair, her head tipped back against the wall, her mouth slack. She wore black pants and a dark blouse rather than her traditional dress, with a gray hijab. She looked exhausted, with purple circles beneath her eyes.

              He groaned and sank back. He hurt everywhere. It was not the pain of the Ruby hatchlings burrowing out of his body, but of the wounds from the eighty-seven bites he’d received in the dog attack. It must be almost time for his pain medication.

              He’d been here for five days. When he’d first arrived at the hospital, his organs had been on the verge of shutting down due to massive blood loss. He’d been in surgery that entire first day and halfway through the night, they told him.

              It hurt even to breathe, as he had a tube in his nose to prevent his nasal airway from collapsing, as Dr. Medrano had explained to Omar and his mother. A jaunty, heavyset man with thick black hair, Dr. Medrano had smiled and rocked back and forth on his heels as he detailed Omar’s injuries and the surgeries that had repaired him.

              A stent had been placed under Omar’s left eye. It drained out of his nose to keep his tear duct system from collapsing as well. He’d lost a piece of the upper half of his left ear. He had lines of stitches everywhere, like Frankenstein’s monster. Several parts of his body, including his face, had required primary reconstruction during surgery, to repair or replace flesh and skin that had been torn away. Much of his body was still purple and swollen with bruising. He was receiving aggressive antibiotic treatment to prevent infection from the many deep punctures. His left forearm might never recover to full strength.

              He would require multiple follow-up procedures, including secondary face, hand and calf reconstructions, as well as fat grafting to fill in depressed areas, cartilage grafting to reconstruct his nose, and ongoing scar treatments.

              Goat standing on a cow's back“Hey,” Samia said, interrupting Omar’s morose mental review of his Frankenstein-like reconstruction. Samia had been in his room daily, when she wasn’t in her own. “Remember we were talking about unlikely things? You know what else is unlikely? A goat standing on a cow’s back. But I saw that once.”

              Omar turned his head to look at her. The girl was certifiably crazy. He felt a laugh begin to form inside him, but it hurt to laugh, and it came out sounding like a cross between a chuckle and a moan.


              The sound awakened his mother. She stood with a soft exhalation of, “La ilaha il-Allah.” She came to his bedside and bent over him, gently stroking his cheek, taking care to avoid his injuries. “¿Cómo estás mi amor?”

              Omar began to reply, but then, seeing his mother’s face up close, noticed something. The discolorations beneath her eyes were not the result of exhaustion. They were bruises. Her cheek was bruised as well, and she’d made an effort to conceal it with makeup. She’d been beaten.

              Tio. Omar’s face settled into a hard mask. He seethed, wishing he could leap out of this bed and go thrash the little rat, taking the man apart limb by limb. For a moment these thoughts surprised him, as he had never been inclined to fight back against Nemesio in the past. Something had changed inside him.

              Beating up Nemesio was not the solution, however. Omar had bested him that last time because Nemesio had been drunk. But the two of them fighting sober would turn into an all-out brawl. He needed another solution.

              Mistaking his expression, Mamá said, “Don’t worry, baby. You’ll be back on your feet in no time. You’ll be as strong as ever. And these scars will fade.”

              Omar nodded tightly, saying nothing.

              “I’m going to go to the cafeteria,” Mamá said. “Can I bring you some guava juice?”

              The doctor had prescribed a post-op dietary regimen for Omar, but it was so bland it was like eating paper. Normally Omar would have said yes to some tasty tropical juice, but he was too angry right now.

              “I don’t want anything.”

              Mamá hesitated, looking between him and Samia. “Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll be back soon.”

              When she was gone, Omar spoke to Samia without looking at her. “You should leave now.” His fists were curled into balls beneath the blanket. Seeing the bruise on his mother’s face had brought it all back, pushing his rage to penetrate his very bones. His nightmare of a life just went on and on. Oh, you need something to break up the routine? life said. How about a dog attack? Okay, now back to the daily mess.

              It wasn’t only his foul excuse for an uncle he was angry with, but everyone who was supposed to have been responsible for him, who was supposed to have cared. He resented his mother for not being strong enough to protect herself, or him. The principal and teachers at his school had surely seen the bullying directed at him year after year, and had done nothing. Even his father he blamed for dying and leaving him. Why had his father done that? Why had it been more important to stop the mugging of some stranger on a bus than to survive for his own family? And lastly, Omar blamed himself for being a victim. His father would have expected more from him.

              He had to do something. Life could not continue like this. He heard Sensei Alan saying, “The only failure is the failure to act.” But what could he do here, in this bed, with his body torn half to shreds?

              Fear No One

              “I’ve been reading Surat An-Najm,” Samia said, hefting her book. “You want to hear?”

              He had forgotten she was there. He wiped his tears with jerky motions. “No, I told you-”

              Samia recited:

              “Or has he not been informed of what was in the scriptures of Moses, and Abraham who fulfilled his mission; That no bearer of burdens will bear the burden of another; And that there is nothing for man but what he strives for; And that his effort will be seen, and then he will be rewarded for it generously?
              And that to your Lord is the final return; And that it is He who makes one laugh and weep; And that it is He who causes death and gives life…”

              A Thematic Commentary on the Quran by Al-Ghazali“Al-Ghazali says,” Samia went on, “that we must recognize Allah’s power over everything, and know that no man can control another’s fate. There is nothing for man but what he strives for. If you want something, make a plan and go after it. Fear no one.”

              “Do I even have to tell you this?” she continued. “Even with one eye I can see you lying here all tight and angry. Do you have any idea what you did? You saved my life. How many people could have done what you did? How many did? Nobody. Only you. You might be short, Omar, but you’re a giant.” A tear ran down one cheek and she wiped it away.

              She finished in Spanish, something she almost never did: “Tu, hermano. Eres el milagro.” You, brother. You are the miracle. Rolling her Spanish r’s hard, sounding almost like Halima, and almost bitter. How strange.

              “Say hasbun-Allahu-wa-n’em-Al-Wakeel.” Samia commanded.

              Omar did so, then Samia stood and shuffled away slowly, one chubby hand grasping her book.

              Omar felt like Samia had taken a hammer and smashed the diamond-hard shell of fury that had encased him, shattering it. She was somehow able to see through his emotional walls as if they did not exist. Was she like this with everyone? And had she really just happened to be reading that surah, or had she chosen it specifically for him?

              Alone in his room, Omar began to think. He was still angry but it was cold anger now, the kind that did not interfere with his ability to reason. Make a plan. The only failure is the failure to act.


              When Mamá returned from the cafeteria with cups of mashed potatoes and mac n’ cheese for him – he could only eat soft foods for now – Omar said, “Tell Nemesio to come see me.”

              Mamá looked alarmed. “Why?”

              “Just tell him.”

              “He will not come, I think.”

              “Tell him I know a way to profit from this thing.” He waved a hand to indicate his ravaged body. “I want to consult with him.” That’ll get him here.

              She studied his face uncertainly. “Your friends are here again. The doctor says you are ready for visitors now, but only two at a time, and only ten minutes each.”

              He nodded his head, and his mother and Samia withdrew.

              First in were the three Muhammad sisters, all with large black eyes and rings in their left nostrils. Nadia and Naris were decked out in colorful shalwar khamees outfits,  looking like young mahogany trees hung with bright fabrics for a festival, while Nabila wore jeans, a band t-shirt and hi-top sneakers. One or all of them wore a musky, jasmine-scented perfume that filled the small hospital room.

              Many of the teachers and students at IIAP could not tell the sisters apart, but Omar always could. Nadia was quick to laugh, goofy and wide-eyed, as if constantly surprised. Naris was solemn, and asked hard questions, or gave uninvited criticism. Nabila – she of the band shirts and hi-tops – couldn’t stand still. She danced to her own music, ran when other people walked, and rarely spoke. Even now she was swaying her hips and rotating her hands Bollywood style. She had her own Youtube channel where she showed off dance moves. Omar had heard she was making money with it.

              “I thought it was only supposed to be two at a time.”

              Nadia grinned. “We dazzled them with our triplicate identicalness.”

              “They wanted to know,” Naris said seriously, “if we were Hindu princesses.”

              “Did you tell them you were Muslim princesses?” Omar asked. Nadia giggled, while Naris looked at him solemnly, as if he’d said something profound.

              “We’re sorry about what happened to you and Samia,” Nabila broke in, ceasing her dancing momentarily. “Our family’s been praying for you. Everyone has.”

              “Thanks,” Omar said, and he meant it. “So what’s new?”

              “Árabe Unido beat FCDeeeeee,” Nabila sang, and she did a little dance that ended in a victory pose, her fingers in Vs.

              “Halima and Hani are here to see you too,” Nadia said. “And the principal, and a couple of teachers, and the TV news people.”

              Just the thought of seeing all those people exhausted Omar.

              “And if you’re wondering if Tameem is out there,” Naris added, “he’s not. He wouldn’t dare show his face. He and his coward sidekick Basem.”

              Not surprising. Tameem would never bother visiting him. “Why do you call them cowards?”

              “He was the one who said to run, wasn’t he?”

              “Didn’t you all run too?” Omar was not accusing, just trying to understand.

              Nadia let out an explosive laugh. Naris shot her sister a chiding look, then said, “Yes, but we came back. Tameem and Hani kept going. I think they ran all the way to the main road. We haven’t seen them since the Day of the Dogs.”

              When Omar raised his eyebrows she added, “That’s what we’re calling it now. You know what, I heard they were laughing about it later. If I ever see them again I’ll stick kebab skewers in their eyes.”

              Omar sighed and adjusted his head on the pillow. His pain level was increasing, and he was tired.

              “Do you want us to leave you alone?”

              Omar thanked them for coming, and asked them to send in Halima and Hani. He was exhausted just from this short visit, but he needed to see those two. His memories of the attack were a mayhem of images and sensory impressions as overwhelming as a fireworks show. Teeth and claws, pain, slick blood on his skin, the hot metallic taste in his mouth, the smell of dog fur, the sound of Samia screaming, others shouting… a knife and a gun. People standing around as if they’d just witnessed a massacre. And Halima and Hani right there, above him. He needed to talk to someone who’d been there.

              Panama Rainforest

              Halima and Hani would not meet his eyes. Hani with his long face and nose that reminded Omar of a horse; shoulder-length greasy hair, and persistent acne. Halima, as lovely as a daydream, her eyes as green as the Panamanian rainforest.

              Omar remembered his fantasy of marrying Halima one day. If she’d been out of his league before, how about now? He was a mangled mess.

              He tried to put such useless thoughts out of his head. “What’s the matter with you two?”

              “We’re sorry about what happened,” Halima said. “I’m the one who pressured you to come. If I hadn’t done that, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

              “If you hadn’t done that, Samia might be dead,” Omar countered, then immediately realized he’d said the wrong thing by reminding them that they had done nothing to save Samia.

              “It was all Tameem’s fault,” Hani said, glancing up to meet Omar’s eyes, then looking away again.

              Omar said nothing.

              “I know what you’re thinking,” Hani went on. “I’ve been following Tameem like a robot. You and I were friends, and I abandoned you. I’m sorry. I know he’s no good. I can’t explain, man. He’s rich, and everyone admires him, and when you’re around him you feel important. But I’m done with him now. My eyes are open.”

              “Hani,” Omar said kindly. “My memories are mixed up, but I remember you standing there at the end with a bloody knife in your hand. What happened?”

              “Hani killed the one dog,” Halima said fiercely. “And the cop shot the other.”

              “But I ran away first,” Hani said dejectedly.

              “You were there when it counted. Whatever happened in the past, a lo hecho, pecho. And you, Halima, are a good soul. I remember you standing beside me when everyone else ran away. The Day of the Dogs is done. Let’s look forward.”

              He began to realize that he had changed. In his mind he heard Samia saying, “You might be short, but you’re a giant.” He was not speaking as one in need, but as one who held power, and therefore possessed the ability to forgive. He felt a core of iron within himself, yet strangely enough, from that iron flowed benediction. Cowardly Tameem and Basem didn’t matter. Omar saw now how meaningless they were, how petty.

              He thought of the verses of Surat An-Najm: That no bearer of burdens will bear the burden of another... And that it is He who makes one laugh and weep…

              Let Tameem and Basem bear their own burdens, laugh their own laughter, cry their own tears. Omar would be his own man, in the universe of his own soul.

              A nurse came with Omar’s medication, and instructed his visitors to leave. On the way out, Halima turned back with a quizzical expression and said, “Day of the Dogs?”

              Omar shrugged. “That’s what we’re calling it now.”

              Get Out

              He was awakened by a rough thumping on his shoulder. Nemesio stood there with his short, barrel-body and gold teeth, dressed in an expensive but rumpled yellow suit, the broken veins in his nose betraying his alcoholism. His breath stank and his cheeks were shadowed with a week’s growth of beard. A fat canary on a bender.

              “What’s this nonsense ‘bout making money?” Nemesio demanded. “You thinking to sue? The dog owner is a policia nacional captain. Sue him, you bring a heap of trouble on your head. Stupid boy.”

              In spite of Nemesio’s words, the man must have thought the possibility of a lawsuit held some promise, or he wouldn’t have come. Omar was going to have to disappoint him.

              “You know,” Omar said casually. “The police captain came to see me. The one whose dogs attacked me.” This was not true, but Nemesio would not know that. “He was extremely apologetic. He said if I ever need anything, I should only ask.”

              “Ah, I see.” Nemesio nodded knowingly and stroked his chin. “You wanna ask for compensation for the attack.”

              “No. I want to ask him to investigate the fire that burned down your gas station.”

              “Whaaa?” Nemesio’s eyes bugged and his cheeks turned beet red. He seized Omar’s bandaged wrist. “Watchu talking, you little bastard?”

              Omar ignored the pain flaring in his wrist from the puncture wounds there. He kept his tone calm, and began a carefully rehearsed speech. “I seem to recall that gas prices were at rock bottom around the time your station burned. And you were always complaining about your employees stealing from you. You couldn’t have been making much of a profit. What did the fire inspectors say? An electrical problem? Did you bribe someone to say that?” This was pure speculation on his part, but he saw Nemesio’s eyes widen and knew he’d struck pay dirt. “Then you had a huge insurance payout, but you didn’t restore the station. You abandoned it. I think the police captain would find all this very interesting. And you don’t have anything left to bribe him with, do you? You’ll end up rotting in La Joya for fraud.”

              Still gripping Omar’s wrist, Nemesio raised a fist.

              “Go ahead,” Omar said. “The captain can add assault to your charges.”

              Nemesio released Omar’s wrist and stepped back, looking as if he’d just released a viper. His chin trembled and a speck of spittle dribbled from his bottom lip as he spoke. “Watchu want?”

              Man walking away, leaving Omar brought his voice to a low hiss, letting some of his rage show. “I know you’ve been beating my mother again, Nemesio.” Normally he would never dare to call the man by his given name as it would bring a terrible beating, but now he spat it like a curse. “I want you gone, today. Pack your things, leave and never come back. If I ever see you again I will beat you to a pulp myself. If you don’t think I can, wait and see. Then I’ll report you to the police.”

              “I-” Nemesio stuttered. “I don’t got nowhere to go.”

              “That’s your problem. Leave today, you understand? And don’t you dare touch my mother again. Now get out.”

              Next: Day of the Dogs, Chapter 5:  Sorceress of the Forest

              * * *

              Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

              See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.


              Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at

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              Continue Reading


              Day of the Dogs, Part 3 – The Attack

              The dog spun and attacked Omar. The beast was lightning quick, and before he could get his arms up he felt the doberman’s teeth sink into his face…

              Doberman pinscher

              See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories.

              This is chapter 3 in a multi-chapter novella.  Chapters:  Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

              Stop Pitying Yourself

              “I believe in six unlikely things every day before breakfast.” – Samia

              Playa Santa Clara, Panama
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              MuslimMatters has been a free service to the community since 2007. All it takes is a small gift from a reader like you to keep us going, for just $2 / month.

              The Prophet (SAW) has taught us the best of deeds are those that done consistently, even if they are small. Click here to support MuslimMatters with a monthly donation of $2 per month. Set it and collect blessings from Allah (swt) for the khayr you're supporting without thinking about it.

              Playa Santa Clara, Panama

              OMAR DID NOT FIND A SEASHELL. At one point he heard the sound of muffled sobbing, and followed it to where Samia sat in her cabana. She had her face tucked into her knees, her forehead pressing against the book she’d been reading. When Omar said, “What’s the matter?” she looked up with a startled, tear-streaked face.

              “Nothing.” She wiped her face with her scarf.

              Omar shifted his weight and looked at the ground, unwilling to either press her or leave her alone.

              “My parents are getting divorced,” she said finally.

              “Oh. Sorry to hear that. I thought you guys were a perfect little Islamic family.”

              “Yes, well. Things are not always what they seem.”

              That sure was the truth. “Will you go back to Malaysia?”

              “No. My dad’s going back. I’ll stay with my mom.”

              That struck Omar as odd. Wasn’t it usually it was the man who traveled to work and the woman who accompanied him?

              Seeming to read his mind, Samia explained: “She’s an executive for Petronas. She interfaces with oil company executives from all over Latin America. My dad owned an electronics shop back home, which is fine, you know, it’s a good, halal business. I just think…” Her mouth twisted to one side as she tried to hide her distress. “I think he was happier back home.”

              Omar pointed with his lips to her book. “What are you reading?”

              “That’s so Panamanian. Pointing with your mouth.”

              “I am Panamanian.”

              A Thematic Commentary on the Quran by Al-Ghazali“Oh yeah. It’s Al-Ghazali’s thematic commentary of the Quran. Hey, can I give you a little advice?”

              Uh-oh. Omar’s shields went up. Samia always thought she knew best. Before he could say anything, she went on: “You should stop pitying yourself.”

              He glared. “Excuse me?”

              “How long have I known you? You think I don’t see you’re miserable? I know there’s something wrong.”

              “That’s not your business.”

              Samia sighed. “Would you listen? I’m trying to say that you’re so strong and smart. Almost as smart as me.” She grinned. “Whatever’s going on, you’ll get through it if you stop pitying yourself and just keep on working. You’ll come out on top. You’ll see.”

              “Unlikely.” She sounded like Sensei Alan, but he’d never give her the satisfaction of telling her so.

              “Is it? I believe in six unlikely things every day before breakfast.” Seeing his quizzical look, she added, “Halima told me you were reading Alice in Wonderland.”

              He wasn’t reading it. And if he recalled correctly, the White Queen believed in six impossible things before breakfast. But whatever. “That’s fine for you and Alice. You don’t have my life.”

              “Oh really?” Her voice was sharp. “Where’s your imaan, akhi? Allah always makes a way, don’t you know? You want to know something else unlikely? I’m unlikely!”

              “What do you mean?” he muttered, chastised.

              “One: My family comes from Kedah province, on the coast of Malaysia. On December 29, 2004, my father, who was not my father yet, was invited by my grandfather to go sailing on a boat he had bought. They were boarding the boat when my father received a mobile call from the wife of his best school friend. The man had been in a motorcycle accident and was in the hospital at Jitra, an inland city. My father said goodbye to my grandfather and went to see his friend. One hour later, you know what happened?”

              Omar shook his head.

              Indian Ocean tsunami

              Indian Ocean tsunami

              “The Indian Ocean tsunami. One hour later! You may have heard of it? It killed a quarter of a million people, including my grandfather, who was never found.”

              Omar made a sympathetic face, not knowing what to say. “I’m sorry,” he managed.

              “Two.” Counting on her fingers. “My father’s taxi was buried in mud, and he should have died, but the mud left his face exposed. He was able to breathe, and to lick rainwater that ran down the inside of the crushed car.

              “Three: He was rescued by a volunteer relief worker. She was my mother. Soon they married.

              “Four: My mother’s pregnancy was difficult. The doctors said she might lose the baby. I was born premature. In fact I was not breathing, but the doctors revived me.

              “Five: I have type 2 diabetes and high blood pressure.

              “Six: When I was five I had bacterial meningitis. My body didn’t respond to treatment and at one point the doctors told my parents I would die by morning. I remember hallucinating that the doctor was a wolf with a muzzle and huge black eyes. I tried to scream but didn’t have the breath. It was terrifying. My mother told me later that she spent that entire night making dua by my bedside. In the morning my fever broke and by noon I was walking. No one could explain it.”

              Seven.” She paused, touching index finger to index finger, then shrugged. “I don’t have a seven. But my point is, you say it’s unlikely that your life might improve? My entire existence is unlikely. But Allah does what He wills.”

              Omar hadn’t known any of that, and didn’t know what Samia was trying to tell him.

              Samia snapped her fingers. “I’m saying, the unlikely happens every day. And you know what else? Ramadan is coming. Ramadan is about not only the unlikely, but the impossible. Miracles. Angels pouring out of Jannah by the millions. The battle of Badr. Think about that, akhi. Say hasbun-Allahu-wa-n’em-Al-Wakeel.”

              Omar said it.

              “Go back to your wanderings.”

              The Gate Opens

              It was funny how people kept telling him to go away. What was he, a bad smell?

              At noon, when it was too hot to be out in the sun, the kids ate at a beach restaurant that served only fish and chips. Omar didn’t have enough money for that, but that was okay. He sat in a cabana eating the peanut butter sandwich from home. It was smashed into a trapezoid and the bread was soggy, but it tasted fine.

              They prayed Dhuhr in congregation, with Tameem leading. Omar didn’t mind. It was not about who stood in front, but about his personal connection with Allah. Though sometimes he wondered about that connection. Not about Allah, but about his own heart. The Creator felt distant sometimes, and Omar knew that was his own fault. But he didn’t know how to fix it.

              The group headed back up the road at two o’clock, wanting to make it to the highway before the afternoon rains came. As they passed the house with the vicious dog, the creature was nowhere in sight. Tameem kicked the gate and shouted, “Oye perro estupido!” and the dog came running, barking like firecrackers going off.

              Doberman pinscher

              Doberman pinscher

              This time a second dog, a tall doberman pinscher with alert ears and a black muzzle, rounded the house as well and sped toward them on the other’s heels. Drool flew from its mouth as it growled and bared its terrifying teeth. Again the kids screamed and ran, except for Omar, who only shook his head and trotted away quickly, and Samia, who was not a fan of running.

              A few houses further up the street they stopped and watched a massive silver-colored 4×4 truck cruising down the road. It might have been three meters tall, jacked up on oversized tires, with chrome running boards, and a top-mounted light bar that could probably turn night into day. On the front were bull bars that could be used to ram another vehicle.

              As it passed they saw it bore the logo of the National Police, and had a rifle mounted in the cab, though the driver was not wearing a police uniform. He was a youngish man, in his late twenties maybe, sporting shades and a cowboy hat. Spanish gangster rap battered its way out of the truck’s speakers. Heading right for the awestruck kids, the truck blasted its horn. The kids jumped out of the way, a few of them cursing the driver.

              The truck stopped in front of the house with the dogs, and the driver must have hit a remote control, because the gate began to roll quietly open.

              The two dogs came flying out, snarling, and charged straight at the kids. The German shepherd was in the lead, its large fangs flashing white in the sun, but the doberman was gaining ground. Both dogs were enraged, in full attack mode. The driver yelled at the dogs to stop, but they were so inflamed by Tameem’s provocations that they ignored him.

              The hair raised up on Omar’s arms and neck. He stood rooted, unsure what to do. Watching the dogs come was like watching a pair of nuclear torpedoes shooting at him. Living torpedoes of bone and claw, muscle and sinew, burning brain and vengeful heart. Their feet flew across the dirt, and their eyes were filled with rage.

              The Attack

              SAMIA HAD STOPPED TO CATCH HER BREATH after her brief trot and was now at the tail end of the group, closest to the dogs, with Omar just ahead of her, and Halima beyond him. All the kids froze utterly for one second, as if they were playing a game of red light green light where the losers would be shot dead. In that numb, dumb moment, the dogs covered half the distance from the gate to their motionless victims. Then Basem made a wordless whimpering sound, and Hani whispered, “Oh my God.” One of the girls screamed.

              Halima started to say, “Nobody run,” but was cut off as Tameem bellowed, “RUN!”

              Omar shot a glance in the direction of the group and saw they were all fleeing in a panic, led by Tameem and Basem. Only Halima was hesitating. He turned back toward the dogs and saw instantly that Samia wasn’t going to make it. She was jogging toward him but her run was little more than a fast waddle. The dogs were almost on her as they blazed forward with ears tucked and teeth bared. They would kill her.

              He could not let that happen. It was not even a decision – there was no decision to make. The believers are a single body. The only failure is the failure to act. He ran toward Samia and the charging dogs.

              Seeing him running toward them, the dogs hesitated, slowing just enough to buy Omar the time he needed. Samia’s eyes were wide with terror, and she looked like she might have a heart attack.

              Just as Omar reached Samia, the German shepherd leaped at her from behind. Omar tackled Samia, taking her to the ground. The dog sailed over them where they lay in the dirt. He shrugged off his backpack and thrust it at Samia, shouting, “Shield your face!” Then he turned toward the other charging dog and started to rise, bringing his arms up defensively, with a crazy idea that he could use his copper bracelet to block the dog’s teeth – then the animal was on him, crashing into him with the force of a sledgehammer, knocking him back to the ground.

              German shepherd

              German shepherd

              Pain exploded in his forearm as the dog’s fangs stabbed deeply into his flesh. He grunted in shock, but remained clear-headed. Falling back to his years of karate training, he used his free arm to deliver powerful elbow strikes to the dog’s nose and eyes. Not releasing its bite, it snarled and shook its head as if trying to rip the meat loose from Omar’s arm. He screamed as he felt the muscles in his forearm begin to tear.

              The doberman, meanwhile, had overshot. It turned and charged back. Samia lay on the ground just behind him and to the side, calling out loudly for help. Goaded by her cries, the doberman aimed not for Omar but for Samia.

              As the doberman raced past him, Omar shot out his good arm and made a desperate grab for the dog’s spiked collar. He caught it! But the dog’s momentum stretched his arm out until he felt something pop in his elbow. Between that and the spikes digging into his hand, he could not hold on. The doberman pulled free, and an instant later Samia cried out again. This time it was not a cry of fear, but a chilling wail of pain, shock and horror. Omar turned his head to look. Oh God. Samia must have begun to roll away before the dog reached her, because the beast straddled her side, and was biting the top of her head as she clutched the backpack tightly to her face.

              Desperately, with every shred of strength he possessed, Omar struck the German shepherd repeatedly in the face with his wrist, using his copper bracelet as a weapon. Dazed, the dog released its bite and stood over him, swaying. Anguished over Samia and given fortitude by this outrage, Omar pushed, flinging the monster off him. He turned and scrabbled toward Samia. The doberman straddled her, not biting once and clamping down like the shepherd had done to him, but biting repeatedly about her head and shoulders, and sometimes biting the backpack as well.

              The neighborhood Omar lived in was poor, and there were plenty of stray dogs, many of them hungry, rabid or vicious. He’d seen dog attacks, and knew what to do. He seized the doberman’s sleek black tail, and pulled it backward and up as hard as he could. The big black dog gave a yelp of surprise as it was dragged away from Samia’s weeping form. Then it spun and attacked Omar. The beast was lightning quick, and before he could get his arms up he felt the doberman’s teeth sink into his face, penetrating his forehead and cheek. At the same moment the German shepherd, recovered now, bit his calf, its teeth sinking into the muscle like the jaws of a bear trap. The pain was so shocking that he could not even draw a breath to scream.

              They were both on him. He rolled and fought as best he could, punching, kicking, clawing at the dogs’ faces, even biting the shepherd in the neck at one point. And the whole time the dogs were biting him. He felt wet all over, and knew it was his own blood.

              The blood in his eyes blinded him, so that he saw the world faintly, through a sheet of stinging red. He tasted it in his mouth, coppery and hot, along with the rank dog fur he’d bitten off. Pain burst and roiled everywhere in his body. He’d been in pain before, he’d been beaten and bruised and had even fractured bones. But nothing like this. He was baking like a piece of beef in an oven, transforming into something unrecognizable. They were killing him.

              Some of the kids must have come back to help, because he heard voices shouting and crying, men and women, but above them all he heard Halima very near, screaming, “What do I do, Omar? What do I do?”

              “Knife,” he managed to croak. “Hani’s knife.” Then louder, mustering his panic and fright, “Get me Hani’s knife!”

              The dogs continued to bite and tear at his flesh, and he fought, but his strength was giving out. His arms wouldn’t work properly. Then the doberman yelped in pain and was gone, pulled off him. The shepherd was still on top of him, its teeth deep in his upper arm. Omar put a thumb in its eye and it yelped and released his arm, then went for his throat. He turned, and felt its teeth sink deeply into his shoulder. His body went slack. He couldn’t fight anymore. Cold seeped into his body and mind. Even the pain was beginning to recede.

              Drifting Out to Sea

              A tremendous blast rang through the air. The shepherd wailed in agony and released his shoulder. Another blast, and the dog was gone. Not on him anymore. He heard terrible, anguished weeping, and realized after a moment that it was him. Tears flooded his eyes, clearing the blood, and he saw people standing over him, their faces registering horror and disbelief. Halima and Hani were closest. Hani’s knife was in his hand, and the blade was bloody to the hilt. His eyes were wide with shock.

              A man in a cowboy hat also stood over him, and Omar saw that the man was carrying a pistol, and that smoke wisped from the barrel. The man’s face was drained of blood, white as a bone. Who was he? Omar couldn’t think. He wasn’t even sure where he was anymore, or why he was lying here on the ground, burning with agony and covered in something wet.

              “Samia,” he managed to say, and wasn’t sure why he said that. Then his body began to shake. His teeth chattered and his limbs convulsed, and he couldn’t stop. He was cold, and didn’t understand why. Panama was not supposed to be cold. His heart raced and he could hear it thrumming in his ears, pulsing and crashing like ocean waves.

              He was half-conscious through all that followed. Hands doing something to him. Sirens. Someone wrapping him in something and lifting him up. Moaning rhythmically, asking for his father. A ride in the back of a vehicle, rocking. The pain going away, ebbing like the tide, to be replaced with a feeling of warmth and comfort, and a deep drowsiness. Something over his face, forcing air into his lungs.

              Then he was gone, lying on the deck of a sailboat in the Indian Ocean, drifting out to sea, borne on the back of a giant, warm wave. He would live on this sailboat, and Allah would provide for him as He had provided for Maryam, and he would be content. He would sail the world with Alice and Halima and Niko and the white rabbit, and…

              Next: Day of the Dogs, Chapter 4:  You Are the Miracle

              * * *

              Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

              See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.


              Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at

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