Origin of Catastrophes, Ch.2: Boy

“Throw me the ball!”

I looked up. A desert crowded with small, sand-colored buildings came into view. I was standing on a nearly empty playground. From a bustling street nearby sound of talking and laughing and walking was heard. About 20 feet away a boy, who seemed to be about 7, was standing with his arms hanging and was looking at me intently. Then the boy, looking frustrated, ran toward me.

“Why aren’t you throwing the ball?”

I looked down. A soccer ball. I picked it up and bounced it a couple times and threw it gently to the boy, who had now come close.

“Thank you. Why are you wearing funny clothes?” The boy asked.

I looked at my clothes and they were as I was wearing them when… I could not remember. I looked at the boy again and noticed he was wearing non-smart, cotton clothes that went obsolete decades ago.

“I know. I like yours. What’s your name? Are you playing by yourself?” I asked looking around. No one his age was in sight.

“Adnan. I play alone when my brother is sick,” he said. “He’s sick three days a week. But today is fourth day and he’s sick again. So I’m playing alone.”

“Where is he sick?”

“Everywhere. He gets high temperature and sweats a lot. And weak, very weak. My mother takes care of him when he’s sick. I want to help but she says it’s dangerous.”

“Has he seen the doctor?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t go into the room and my parents came out looking very sad. I think that means we have to take care of him.” The boy looked down at his feet.

I felt sorry for the boy and his brother and their mother. Could I help the boy smile?

“Sounds like your brother could use some cheering up. I have extra money from work today. Can I buy candies for your brother?” I asked, putting my hand into my pocket and feeling a wallet.

The boy looked up, beaming. “He will like that! Thank you, mister!”

As the boy led me across the bustling street he explained that his brother loves candy but his parents never buy any because candies are bad for health but that he knew where they sell healthy candies. I saw a vendor selling oranges and apples and I bought 10 of each. The boy said thank you and while I was picking the fruits and paying for them he kept picking his pockets as if he wanted to pay himself. Then at the store the boy led me to I bought candies made purely from dried fruits and gave them to the boy to carry. I wanted him to be the one to give them to his brother. Toward the edge of the street I bought a box of juice and carried it on my shoulder.

Passing the bustling street the boy and I walked past the luxurious downtown buildings and went into a modest but beautiful and solid-looking house. Inside, a woman was sitting and looking down at a sickly baby boy, no more than 4, and wiping his forehead covered in sweat and looking deeply concerned. The sickly boy had his eyes closed and was breathing laboriously.

“Mom! Sayid! We have a guest! And we brought candies and fruits and juice!” When the boy saw his mother he shouted, smiling and holding up the candies.

The mother, startled, looked at us. She looked alarmed.

“Hi. I was just passing by and heard from Adnan that his brother is sick. I have a daughter his age and I wanted to bring him a gift to cheer him up,” I said.

The mother’s alarmed look lessened. “Thank you. But we don’t need any help. Thank you and sorry for your trouble.”

“I understand. Can you please give these to your boys?” I said as I put down the fruits and the juice on the floor.

“Mom, he’s nice. He’s okay,” the boy said.

The mother looked at each of us and sighed and said, “OK. Please come in. My husband will be home in a few minutes.”

The boy walked in hurriedly and motioned me to follow. I thanked the mother and followed in. Near the boy’s brother we sat down and I handed the fruits and the juice to the mother. She thanked me and after looking into the bag and seeing apples and oranges brought a knife from the kitchen and started peeling an apple. She seemed to want me to know she was holding a knife.

The boy looked concernedly at his brother and in his face was love. The boy’s brother looked up at the boy and smiled. He knew a stranger in strange clothes was sitting next to him but he did not care; his eyes fixated on his older brother and he knew the boy would protect him. The boy murmured something to the brother and took out the candies and opened the bag and started feeding him. The mother was about to stop the boy but seeing the candies were made from fruits, allowed him. One by one, slowly, the brother ate them, smiling. There were 8 candies inside and after the 7th one I wanted to tell the boy to eat the last one but without hesitating he fed it to his brother.

The mother handed us the apple, peeled and chopped, and as we ate it I asked what the boy’s brother was suffering from. The mother said it was a rare disease that cripples him several days a week and that it was becoming more frequent. Her husband was a farmer turned low-level banker, having moved to the city when climate change caused severe drought, and having insurance they knew they could afford a care but the cure would take years and her son would have pain for a long time. All they could do was buy medicine and hope he feels better. Then she told me that when students started protesting against their dictator, her husband joined to protest against bad economy. And since the government cracking down with tear gases, she has been afraid her husband would lose his job and the insurance and not be able to afford the medicine. She said she hasn’t slept for days. Her eyes welled up with tears and she hid them with her hand and then dried them with an apron. On her face was the constant worry that occupy most mothers, but too much. I wanted to help. Perhaps my brother could help. He’s a great doctor. Meanwhile the boy excused himself to throw away the empty candy bag and at where his brother could not see him he tilted his head back and put the empty bag over his mouth and ticked it repeatedly while inhaling deeply. Then he threw the bag into the trashcan and came back and looked inquiringly at the mother and me, who were smiling.

The boy’s brother, now smiling with curiosity, looked up at me and timidly opened his small lips and said, “Hi.”

I smiled and replied, “Hi, there. How are you feeling?”

The boy’s brother smiled with his big, bright but tired eyes and, looking a little more confident, said, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. Anytime, son.”

He hesitated for a moment, then pointing at a model airplane near bedside, said, softly, “I made it.” He reached for the airplane and grabbed it very carefully and placing it on his chest, he motioned me to take it.

I held up the airplane slowly, careful not to break any glued joints. It was beautiful. Its gray base color was amateurishly but carefully painted in blue and green on the wings and the top. A size of my thumb, it felt small in my hands yet filled my heart with its world-sized hope.

The boy’s brother seemed satisfied at my admiring face. Beaming, he opened his small lips and said, “I am going to be a pilo…”

Suddenly a very loud screeching sound was heard, followed by a chilly sound of a metal hitting cement. Immediately the window glasses shattered and extreme heat engulfed us as the walls and the ceiling broke into pieces, raining down broken bricks. The building next door had exploded.

We screamed and the boy lurched forward and covered his brother. Big pieces missed us but small ones hit everyone though I felt no pain. The mother, crying, embraced the two boys and shielded them with her back. The shaking continued for seconds that felt like minutes.

When the shaking and the brick falling stopped I could hear more explosion sounds farther away. I checked everyone to see if they were okay and they were except for minor injuries. The boy was bleeding on his forehead but not much, and the mother was bleeding on her arm. The boy’s brother was unscathed. I tried to tap One Ring to ask Seri what was going on, but nothing was on my fingers. Confused, I went outside to investigate.

The building next door was completely destroyed. Near the debris were body parts. In front of them some people were wailing, some were taking photos, and some were running away.

“Hey! What’s going on? What happened?” I asked one man who was running away, but he passed by me as if he did not see nor hear me. I yelled at other people running away but they all ignored me.

“Run! Run now! Save yourself!” One man screamed to nearby buildings as he ran.

Confused, I looked at the direction he came from. Dust from the explosion hid the view but soon I could hear marching steps. The people who had been wailing at the debris and at the victims ran toward me, their faces pale with fear. One pregnant woman almost reached me when a shot was heard and, holding her arm, she collapsed and fainted. Through the dust a group of men in army uniforms appeared.

“I’m unarmed,” I said, holding my hands up. No one looked at me.

Just then, through the broken window of the house top of the boy’s head was seen. He was peeking to see what was going on. One of the soldiers saw it.

“There! Kill everyone in the area! Find the damn rebel general and his family!” The soldier shouted and the other soldiers started for the house and nearby houses.

“No, wait! You got the wrong house! You got the wrong house!” I yelled. They ignored me and ran in.

As I was about to run after them, I saw through the side window of the house a rope sliding down. Then top half of the boy was seen protruding from the window. He kept looking back, crying violently, trying to go back in. He motioned as if to tell someone else to go first. Then, looking dejected, the boy started climbing down. When he reached the ground I could see him more clearly. His face was red and covered in tears and he did not look himself. He looked up at the mother, who waved to the boy to run and suddenly, looking alarmed, turned back into the house quickly. The boy looked around but did not see me. He ran. As he did my eyes caught a glimpse of his shoes and for some reason it stayed with me. They looked familiar.

I ran into the house. The soldiers were holding the mother’s arms and legs. Nobody seemed to notice me. They were asking her questions about the general. She said she doesn’t know any generals and that her husband is a banker. The soldiers talked and said it could be true but that the order from Assad was to kill everyone in this area, since the rebel general and his family were hiding somewhere nearby, and to kill them brutally to let everyone know what happens to those who oppose Assad.

“Please, let my son go. My husband is a banker. He doesn’t know anything about the military. I’m just a housewife. Please let me go. Please let my son go. Please, just him,” the mother begged, crying.

The soldiers exchanged looks. They smiled. I had never seen such devilish smiles. Then they took the mother to another room and she cried and begged them to stop. They continued. When the mother hit one of the soldiers when her left hand was freed, he grabbed her hair and spat on her face and smashed her head on the stone wall. She did not faint. Dazed and bloody, she continued crying and cursing and begging. They continued.

Throughout all this I was hitting them with all the force I could summon. I punched them, I kicked them, I bit them, I grabbed them, I cursed them, I yelled at them. But my fist and feet passed right through them. No one was hurt and no one responded. It was as if I was not here, only observing.

One soldier who was waiting his turn turned to the sickly boy, whose pale face was paler with fear and tears dried with confusion and his eyes distorted looking at his mother’s terrible suffering. The soldier picked him up with one hand by his head. He smiled that devilish smile. The mother in her suffering yelled and begged at the soldier to put her son down. The soldier smiled again. My gut wrenched. Still smiling, he threw the baby boy’s head forcibly against the stone wall. With the numbing sound of skull cracking, the baby boy died. I could not look at the mother. But I heard her. And I wish I was dead.

With no sense of myself nor of anything and with the terrible sound of the mother behind I tumbled to the window to look at the sky. I could not feel my heart. I could not feel anything but the ocean of tears welling up somewhere deeper than my heart. Maybe I was a ghost. Maybe I can fly away. Through the window I saw the pregnant lady shot in her arm awake. A group of soldiers were walking toward her. I looked up at the sky.

I wrapped my hands around my face. I wanted to escape. I so wanted to escape.

I awoke startled, sweating. Birds were still chirping and the tent application still filled my view with the night sky with its moon and the stars. But I felt different. Something had happened to me in the dream but I did not know what. I could not remember anything. I felt weak. I felt exhausted. I couldn’t even move my fingers.

I looked around and everyone were fast asleep. I whispered “time,” and One Ring showed in blue hologram that it was 2:15 a.m. Still long until dawn. The day will be hard with work. I need to sleep. I closed my eyes and let my exhaustion take over my troubled mind.

The sound of birds chirping slowly faded away.

Hearing sound of talking and running, I opened my eyes.

A huge crowd in a desert. All were running in one direction.

Ignoring the crowd, I looked down at my feet. I felt light. Too light. Maybe I can fly. I gently kicked the ground. I started floating. Nobody looked. I kept floating up. About 100 feet off the ground, I looked down. Thousands of people were running toward where 5 big trucks were stationed.

Floating still, I breathed in and out deeply again and again. Something unknown filled my heart heavy and immersed in fresh air I kept breathing deeply to flush it out. Then, toward the trucks, I thought of flying, and my body flew toward them. On the way I looked down to see the crowd. Young men running and shoving everyone on the way; pregnant women walking while embracing their stomachs with an inch gap to protect their babies; kids holding their parents’ hands and looking around with their eyes filled with confusion and fear; old couples locked in arms and walking at their own turtle pace, some carrying exhausted kids on their aged backs.

Above the trucks I saw some people in white uniforms handing out boxes from the trucks. “Please, one box per family! We don’t have enough!” One of the uniformed men shouted as he handed out a large box. Then he gave a smaller one to a man who seemed to be by himself.

I descended and sat on top of one of the trucks. Chaotic, but lifesaving. Knowing modern advances in operation, I wished the coordination was much better, but I still liked watching people get the boxes and smile the way only those who just came back from death can. Some tore the box open right away and fed their children water and granola bars. I liked watching the children eat. They ate the bars quickly and washed them down with water and then licked their fingers and the wraps for every little crumb and afterward smelled the wraps and let out deep, satisfied sighs that wished a little more but that said they were glad to be alive again.

Then, in the crowd, a boy trying to get through a wall of people in front of him grabbed my attention. He looked familiar. Suddenly a flood of memory that had been blocked surged into my head and my heart welled up in tears. It was the boy. His clothes were ragged, his hair messy, and his face dusty, exhausted, and hardened. He kept trying to get through, but the people did not budge. One man hurrying to the trucks pushed the boy to the ground and then looked at the boy with mouth slightly open and eyes blank as if he could not believe what he just did. But soon he turned and kept pushing toward the trucks. Holding his other hand was a little girl, as small and fragile as the boy.

The boy stood back up. His hardened face was unshaken. Folding his arms together into an arrow and shoving the edge into a small crack in the human wall the boy tried to pass through.

“That’s it! I’m sorry! We will be back in 2 days! More trucks are in the South from here, and if you have a car, you can get there in 5 hours! I’m sorry, but we have to go now!” One aid worker yelled. I looked around and saw no one with cars and I knew he knew it too. But perhaps telling people some chance is easier than telling them no chance at all. And easier still than giving them the chance.

From the top of the truck I could hear the aid workers talking. “Is it really going to take 2 days to stock up?” one worker asked.

“No money. The director said we received only 20% of the quota from the donations. Dividing it into 2 years for long-term survival means longer waiting time,” another answered.

“And there’s that whole another refugee crisis in Africa. I’m not even sure if I’ll still be employed,” someone else added.

“I don’t want to leave them here,” the worker said.

“We have to go back or we will be late. You know they can’t come to the base,” another said.

“I saw a pretty girl out there just now. Wonder what she will do for a ride,” someone said, looking around.

“Shut up, Harry. Just shut up. You are disgusting,” the worker said.

“Don’t ever say that again,” someone else added. “Or think.”

“Just kidding, guys. Just kidding,” someone who looked around said, hopping into the truck and looking around again.

The aid workers got into the trucks and one by one drove away, leaving behind several hundred people, many of them too young or too old or too weak. More than a thousand walked away with boxes. Some gave out what they could from the boxes to those who did not have any.

I yelled to see if I could be heard. No one reacted.

The boy was standing alone. Hidden by the human wall, he was unseen by those who gave out from their boxes and he seemed not to notice what was happening. He stood there, clenching his fist, his face hardened and unchanged, not even slightly, from the moment I saw him here. Soon both the people with boxes and the people without started walking away. Some glanced at the boy.

“Shouldn’t we take him?” one woman asked a man who seemed to be her husband.

“No. We can’t even feed ourselves. We don’t even know if we will survive. I know how you feel and I feel it too, but we will just be either killing any chance our children have or adding another corpse to our grave,” he answered.

Soon everyone was gone. The boy was still standing. Then, abruptly, he sat down. With his legs stretched and his left hand rested on his lap, he put his right hand into his pocket and took out a model airplane. My eyes opened wider. It was the one his brother had made. Its wings were broken. His brother must have given it to him before the boy escaped. The boy looked at the airplane for a good while. Then he stared at the sky, his gaze blank.

Softly, he yelled a yell that was too quiet to be a yell, then he yelled louder and louder until it became a roar. Then the boy grabbed his hair and twisted and pulled it crazily and kept on yelling. By the time the boy stopped yelling he had turned the yell into tears that filled his eyes full. Soon they trickled down and the boy sobbed bitterly.

I sat next to the boy. I could not do anything. I sat there staring at the sky and blamed it for showing the boy what made him cry.

Time passed. The boy had stopped crying and he and I were together staring at the sky. There were no clouds and only the endless blue which made me want to take the boy and go flying. I wondered what was at the end of that endless blue. But my arm around his shoulder went right through him and I knew there was nothing I could do to help the boy. Nothing.

I looked at the boy and wished hard I could talk to him. Just then, a small, echoing sound was heard.

Mom…

Bewildered, I looked around. No one was in sight. The boy’s lips were tightly closed. Then the sound came again.

Sayid…

I’m too tired…

Sayid was the name of the boy’s brother. It could be the boy’s mind speaking. I put my arm around the boy and seeing it go through him went back to staring at the sky.

Far away in the distance, a dot appeared that kept getting bigger. Soon it turned into a small black truck. It came near. In it were men with black clothes and hoodies covering their bodies and faces, some with assault rifles in their hands and backs. The truck came up to us and stopped.

“Boy, are you waiting for anyone?” one of the men asked from the truck. The boy looked at him and the other men. Sadness on the boy’s face disappeared and the hardened look that I had seen took over.

“Yes,” the boy answered. Slowly he curled his legs and shifted his body to one side, readying to lurch away.

The men exchanged glances and looked around, one with a telescope. Finding nothing in the horizon, they briefly talked among themselves and then looked at the boy.

“Do you want food?” a man with a black hoodie over his face asked.

The boy nodded.

The hooded man got out of the truck, opened its trunk and took out a large piece of bread and threw it to the boy.

The boy’s eyes on his hardened face widened and with a careful but determined look of a mouse approaching a trap, he reached out and grabbed the bread and looked at it for a moment. He then ate it, in three big bites, chewing carefully.

As the boy ate the hooded man came near him and looked at him intently. When the boy had finished eating the hooded man said, “Do you want to never starve again?”

The boy stared at the hooded man. He nodded.

“Come with me. I will give you the true life, the better life in the name of Islam. And if you do what you are told, you will never have to go hungry. Ever,” the man said, locking eyes with the boy and willfully growing in stature. “And you will be able to bring those who did this to you to justice.”

The boy stared. Long silence ensued. Then the boy nodded.

I knew what was happening and I had been shouting no, no, don’t listen to him. Of all the sins of the world that which perverted the sense of right and wrong was the worst and I even hit the hooded man in the face only to see my fist go right through him.

Suddenly, everything became darker until becoming completely dark. Then it started becoming lighter and as it did all that became visible faded toward me as if I was rapidly moving forward.

In that state of motionless moving I stayed until the fading stopped and everything became clear and solid and bright. Too bright. I closed my eyes and waited.

Opening my eyes I saw around me a large room rock-walled as if in a cave and brightly lit with many light bulbs on the walls. On one end were three people, hands and feet tied and head completely covered and top bare, which showed severe injuries with some streaming blood. Next to them was a large circular shooting target. On the other side were the hooded man I had seen in the desert and 10 young boys. Among them was the boy. He looked healthier but older, not in a natural way but as if nature perverted itself. His face looked still hardened but his cheeks were distorted and in that distorted hardness I felt divided soul tortured but determined to see an end, which would bring harmony to that torturous uncertainty. What that end was, I could not tell.

“You have been training to eliminate the enemies of IS,” the hooded man said loudly. “Today you get to fulfill the promise of all your trainings. First, last practice. Draw your guns and fire! You know the drill: if you miss the center twice you will be beaten with the whip twice.”

I watched in horror. The boys took up their assault rifles and aimed and took shots at the target next to the bound men. The soft echoing sound was again heard.

Die…

No lips were moving. The boy fixated on the target. He pulled the trigger repeatedly and when the shock bounced off his shoulder he did not flinch and calmly and surely kept on shooting at the center, not missing one. By the time he was out of rounds in his eyes was red, bloody fury mixed with deep sorrow. I could not tell whether the sorrow came from thinking of what Assad and his soldiers did or from his embrace of the fury that was so unlike what he used to embrace.

“Stop!” the hooded man yelled. No one missed the center. “Well done! Now you get to finally, finally glorify your god by doing his will. Those who want to be with 72 vir… those who want to see their parents again, their friends again, their brothers and sisters again, and be happy forever in heaven, shoot those sinful pigs!” the hooded man yelled, stumbling at one point. He must have meant to say those who wanted to be with 72 virgins in heaven but realized he was addressing adolescents.

My arms and legs still went through all they hit. The boys including the boy raised their guns. Aiming their guns, they hesitated, exchanging looks. Then, a shot was heard, and some with tears, some with furious eyebrows, and some screaming, they all fired.

The devils! They will bleed. And I will see you again! I will see you again…

A minute later the bullets were all out and the boys lowered their guns and in resigned and confused and shocked faces looked at their creation. In their confusion was read that something they had believed they were doing did not match what they were seeing. One boy started crying. The hooded man looked at him sharply. Some sobbed. Most looked down at their feet.

“Well done. That’s how justice looks. Gross, I know. But remember, our enemies can only be purified by becoming that,” the hooded man said.

The boys kept looking at their feet for another minute even after the hooded man repeatedly congratulated everyone and told them to go back to their rooms. Minutes later the hooded man started pushing several boys and when he took out his whip all the boys started for their rooms. I followed the boy.

In his small windowless room the boy sat down on a clunky bed. His hardened face looked such that even if I could be heard I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. I stood and waited.

A man who looked to be in his 40’s with many wrinkles on his face came in. He was holding a thick book. The boy looked at him and stared.

“I heard. Well done. You are now my brother,” the wrinkled man said. “Now it’s time for you to review our principles. You should know them so well until you can teach others like I am teaching you.”

The boy nodded.

The wrinkled man began, “All who oppose our own Jihadi-Salafism are sinners who must die. Christians, Muslims, it doesn’t matter. Everyone who opposes us is our enemy. We must…”

The wrinkled man talked for a full hour, listing the rules and beliefs his perverted organization held as true. At the end of his talk he asked, “Have you memorized all this?”

“Yes,” the boy answered.

“Good.” The wrinkled man smiled satisfactorily. “Rest now. Soon you will learn to torture. If you are like me, you will love it,” the wrinkled man said smiling.

He walked to the door and stopped. “Oh, right. After you kill our enemies and torture our prisoners, and after you deliver final justice by your sacrifice, you will see your family again. I promise.”

The wrinkled man went out. The boy stared at the door for a while and dropped his gaze and looked at his feet. He closed his eyes and remained still.

Time passed slowly and when someone yelled for every boy to come to the torture room the boy stood up and went. I followed.

On the way to the torture room a group of young men joined the boys and together they walked linearly. The young men were led by another hooded man who from the front repeated reasons for torturing, killing, and, this time, raping, though he called it “marrying them.”

The boy had been walking at the back of the line when his steps got mixed with one of the young men’s. The young man looked at the boy and asked, “You okay?”

“Yes,” the boy answered.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“I will be.”

“I have waited for this moment for months. I am so ready. I am so ready,” he said, smiling only with his lips and pumping his fists together with spring in each step.

The boy stared at the young man.

“Why do you want to do this so much?” the boy asked.

“It is the path to my redemption. Destiny. Finally I am achieving it. Well, learning to achieve it. I still have a long way to go. Becoming like Maliki is my dream,” the young man said, pointing at the hooded man at the beginning of the line. “Soon I will achieve as much as he has achieved and god will see to it that I be rewarded. Aren’t you excited?”

“About what?”

“That we are on the way to having everything we have ever wanted! Food, power, money, women, prestige, everything!”

The boy said nothing and turned and looked ahead.

“And for what!” the young man exclaimed. “Sacrificing our impurities. Sacrificing. Ha. Things we have to get rid of anyway. Get rid of everything we have known, everything impure, and replace it with everything that’s Jihadi-Salafism. It’s a requirement to go to heaven; we would have to do it anyway, and we are doing it in our own caliphate, with food, women, entertainment, everything we need. And now we are about to advance to a whole new level. I don’t know how you can keep a straight face.”

The boy kept on walking silently.

“In my village in Iraq we had nothing. No food, no money, no jobs. In our tiny, crumbling mud house my parents, my 5 siblings and I survived on nothing but grass soup. At nights I would sneak out, partly to escape my baby sister’s crying and my parents’ fighting, and go to town hall where they had one computer and internet. A bunch of people were always on it. And I would see over the shoulders all these beautiful houses, heaven-like foods, beaches, gorgeous women, beautiful cars they have in other countries. Mostly in America but around here too, before the war. And I’d wonder why they get to enjoy all those wonderful things while we have nothing. Not even a hope. And why they get to kill us and rape us and get away with it by saying collateral damage and still enjoy all those things. The world is messed up. Jihadi-Salafism is the answer. It is the only answer. I know it. Nothing else makes sense. Think about it. What other options did I have? No jobs, no opportunities in the village nor in the city. Constant bombings. Constant fear. That could not be my life. I am destined for something great. And what better destiny than to die for the true version of Islam? One day when I was browsing internet, Islamic State gave me a ray of light. It gave me food, women, everything I have ever wanted. And if I do well, I will get more. I will get to choose women I want. And I will be a part of this caliphate. Even if I die, I will be greeted by 72 virgins. 72. Heh. How can you not be excited?”

The boy, whose blank look was replaced by a more thoughtful look, kept on walking.

“Maybe it is because you have been here for, what, a year? Hang in there for another couple of years and you will see what I am talking about,” the young man said.

“Yeah. That must be it,” the boy said without turning.

For the rest of the way to the torture room the boy did not talk. The young man and the other young men chatted to confirm each other’s excitement and the hooded man encouraged them by reciting why they should be excited. He seemed to want the mood to rub off on the boys.

The stone-walled torture room was dimly lit and so large that a corner accommodated all of us. One side of the room was connected with another hallway, separated by multiple pillars. On the wall close to us letters written in blood read, “Non-Believer Purification Room.” The hooded man explained that here all those opposed to IS are purified through pain and that they should take the task with gratitude for being chosen as the pure ones.

Around the walls and scattered around the room on the tables were tools for torture. Knife, hammer, chains, hundreds of different tools were there and on some were dark dried blood. Next to them were about 20 dark metal chairs, on which people, some old, some men, some women, some boy, some girl, some white, one black, one Hispanic, and some Middle-eastern, with tapes on their mouths were looking at us with resigned terror.

“These impure pigs hold in their filthy brains information that we need. Your job is to crack them open and get that information. But first, we will show you how,” one of the hooded men said.

“Don’t worry if they look like Syrians or Iraqis,” another hooded man said. “And especially about the children. I promise you, they are all filthy pigs who are against our Jihadi-Salafism, and the only way to save them is to make them tell us what we need. And after that, the women and the girls will be given to those who succeed. We will take care of the others. But do not, do not show mercy because you want them to still look pretty.”

“OK, let’s see who will be the first,” one hooded man said and gathered together with the other hooded men to look over the files of the prisoners to see whom to torture for what.

Meanwhile a group of women and girls, their hands chained and mouths taped over, walked through the hallway, visible through the pillars. One hooded man led from the front and another guarded the rear. The women and girls looked in at us. A woman with deep dark circles beneath her tired, lifeless eyes and knife injury on her cheek stepped left and blocked the view of a girl, no more than 10 years old whose eyes were filling with fear looking into the room.

“See them? They will be our wives. The leaders will get their pick first, but the rest is ours,” the young man who had talked with the boy said. The boy did not reply.

“It’s time. Watch closely,” one hooded man said as he parted from the group of hooded men and walked toward a girl who seemed to be about 15 years old.

“This girl was one of our wives. Although she has no information we need…”

I covered my ears and turned around. I wanted to close my eyes and disappear. I turned to the boy and grabbed him, thinking I would perhaps be able to fly away with him. My hands went through the boy. I turned around and walked to the wall then I hit the wall hard. My fist did not go through and hitting the wall it made a sound but nobody looked. I hit it again and again, each time harder than the previous one, wishing the entire place to explode. Suddenly my fist went inside the wall. Surprised, I put my left hand into the wall and it went through. I walked forward. My feet went through and soon I was in the adjacent room.

The room was bright and had big comfortable-looking bed, sofa chairs, and a desk. On two of the chairs sat a wrinkly old man and a middle-aged man. The middle-aged man was talking passionately.

“3 is more than enough. The rest should be divided among all of us, with the top leaders including myself having the first picks. Grand Master, you must see the reason in this. How can we convince them to do more when we block them from having more?” the middle-aged man said.

The wrinkly old man listened in silence and seemed to be thinking. Then he said, “My dear brother, your point is well understood and I see much merit in it. But I must have 10. At least 10. I have prayed about this and I have searched the book carefully, not just recently but over many, many years. I speak not from myself but from god. It is god’s will.”

“But, please, Grand Master, help me understand why! You once said it was god’s will for you to have the best of the girls. And you said god wanted you to have as many as you needed to keep you in your best conditions. But you can have that with 2 or 3. 10 would exhaust any human being!” the middle-aged man said.

“I will tell you why,” the wrinkly old man said. “What I heard from god is that 10 is the number of the master. If I don’t keep the number of my wives at such an important number, our missions will not have the best impact that we hope for. The zeal of god will disappear from us. I am not doing this for myself, my dear brother. You know that. You know I will do anything for you. I am doing this for god and for our divine mission.”

As I stood and listened in horror and disbelief, a small faint voice, same as the wrinkly old man’s, echoed in my ears.

3 mature ones…

3 young ones…

3 very young ones…

1 foreign one…

Mix them and I can have… with infinite mixes… every day and every night…

I will be… he he he…

10… 10 is the number I need…

“OK, Grand Master. Please know that I had to protest but I will follow you. I would follow you to death. You know that. But please let me have the new girl. I hope you will grant me that,” the middle-aged man said.

An annoyed look appeared on the wrinkly old man’s face but was quickly replaced by a warm smile.

The pretty one…

She is perfect as one of my young ones…

“My dear brother,” the wrinkly old man said, “I am afraid that the moment I saw her god told me I must be the one. This is irrefutable. I am sure you understand, my brother. But you can have anyone else.”

Listening to their conversation was torture. But in the next room was just another evil. There was nowhere to go.

I closed my eyes hard. I wanted to help the girls and the women and the boys and the young men. But I knew I didn’t exist in this world and was useless. Blocking myself from the conversation that had now turned into details of their disgusting desires, I prayed for the boy’s future. Was there really no hope? Was there no one who would save the boy?

Suddenly I felt a jolt of movement on my feet. The room was turning upside-down, slowly. The wrinkly old man and the middle-aged man sat still, not noticing any difference. As the room turned the light dimmed and everything in the room including the men became fainter and at half-way disappeared completely. In its place a huge computer screen on one of the walls and a huge table in the center of the room, surrounded by men and women in suits and some in uniforms, came into view.

“You don’t understand. That simply is not on the table. If we attack now, we will only be raising public expectation! If we are going to attack at all, we have to, I repeat, have to attack multilaterally with all of our allies and that must wait until the Syrian government makes more leeway. Otherwise the public will expect us to do more. And when that happens, we will be forced to do more, which we absolutely do not want! If we get stuck there, our poll numbers will plummet in a few years! People want us to attack now, but if we do, they will hate us in a few years. No one is going to remember we did it for good. All they will see is a bunch of our troops in a faraway country. No, no, no. The Syrian government must make the leeway by itself so that the public will not blame us for not launching attacks! You know how important this is. I’m talking about all of our legacies, our power after office, which hangs entirely on our popularity. Why are you keep raising that stupid point?” a white-haired man with many dark spots on his face said, pounding on the table.

“Because those girls and boys are being raped and turned into killing machines even as we speak,” a blonde woman who looked to be in her early 60’s said. “Charles, what is wrong with you. Yes, holding back makes sense for our popularity, but you know this is clearly a time to act. One raid. It will achieve so much. You know Assad will only kill all of them, besides the fact that he is a war criminal! Most of the slaves and prisoners would still be left in other bases, and the public won’t notice the difference. It will make news but not a major one. It will be buried in 2 days, I guarantee you. Come on, Charles. It is the right time to act.”

The white-haired man groaned. “Well, why don’t you go and save 46 million human-trafficking victims that nobody wants to save? In India alone there are millions of them, getting raped right this second.” He scoffed. “Or millions of refugees and dying babies in Africa. Otherwise there is no coherent narrative here. Why save them in Syria when we are not saving any elsewhere?”

The blonde woman threw her hands in the air and grabbed her hair and turned around.

“I agree with her, Charles,” a middle-aged man with a deep voice said. “I know why you are so sensitive about intervening to save lives here. Once we do, the other party will immediately start condemning us for getting involved in a place where we have no national interest in. Their narrative would be simple and too powerful. Our poll numbers will drop in time. But this is just one raid. We can get out before the public starts to care, and when it makes news, it will get buried in a few days. You will end up with tens or hundreds of children whose lives you will have saved. I don’t think there is any downside here. If we were saving a lot of children, what you worry about will come true, but if we save just tens of children, the public won’t hate us as they won’t even notice.”

“Say we save the children. What are we going to do with them?” the white-haired man asked. “I’m sure you have thought this through?”

“First we try the camps,” a man with glasses said.

“Is there no country that will take them?” the blonde woman asked. “Refugee camps are known for abuse by men and even a few aid workers. Most camps don’t even have basic healthcare, not to mention mental healthcare. These kids have lived in terror for months and years. They will need a ton of mental health help to bring them back to themselves.”

“No. Camps is the only option,” the man with glasses said. “Maybe someday one of the developed countries will take them. Let’s see. Not our country, of course. Gosh, that would be terrible for our poll numbers.”

“…OK. I have made up my mind. And it is final,” the white-haired man said. “No raid.”

The blonde woman stood up with her hand on her forehead and went to the water cooler and sipped water and came back to the table and sat down with an expressionless face.

“Now… let’s talk about aid. Can we deliver aid to the Syrians? Aside from their having no food at all, a viral flesh-eating disease is spreading. They need food and medicine now,” the blonde woman said.

“Ha! Aid! Ha!” the white-haired man scoffed.

“Delivering aid,” the man in glasses said, “is extremely difficult right now. Let me correct myself. It is impossible. Assad is blocking the roads. Russians own the Syrian airspace. They won’t budge until we let Assad continue to rule. They might budge a little if we keep asking, but not much.”

“There must be something we can do,” the blonde woman said.

“Well, we might cooperate with the Russians to make Assad stop the bombings and open the road for aid to go through. But already hundreds of thousands have died and millions have fled. What’s the use?” the man in glasses said. “We should consider doing that later, though. It could help make us look good. We have to appease the aid community a little bit.”

“All right, next?” the white-haired man said.

“Assad is breaking the cessation of hostilities by bombing hospitals and schools and refugee camps. Many babies have died. Many people have had their limbs blown off. It made news. We should do something to give assurance to the public, to show we are doing something,” the man in glasses said.

“Or is that really the right course?” the white-haired man said. “If we don’t do anything, if we keep quiet about everything that’s happening there, then the public will forget about the news in a few days, because we weren’t involved in it. I know this. Winning elections is my specialty. I know people.”

“That could easily be true,” the man in glasses said.

“That is true, undoubtedly, as I know from my years in politics,” the middle-aged man said. “But shouldn’t we do something out of necessity? The Syrians are dying.”

“Well, what the heck do you want us to do?” the white-haired man asked with an annoyed look.

“We could strike Assad,” the middle-aged man said. “Take out his bombing capacity. Let him know we care whether he kills babies or not.”

The white-haired man, holding laugher, turned around. The man in glasses looked at the middle-aged man and said, “Look, I thought we had all agreed. Don’t even mention striking Assad. Do you want our opponents to link this thing to Iraq War? Do you want our post-office power to be zero, as it surely will be when our popularity hits rock bottom because people see our troops out there in Syria? You know that once we attack, a lot of people will hold us accountable to keep getting involved, and that will screw up our poll numbers. The public won’t care how different this thing is from Iraq War, that this time it’s for saving lives. All they will see is our troops in Syria. OK? Let’s stick to our carefully chosen narrative here.”

“But the Syrians!” the blonde woman said.

“Look, just remember what the Republicans did last time we talked about striking. They kept telling us we should strike, and when we handed them the decision, they said no! They only want to make us look bad. That’s their entire strategy. What do you think they will do if we strike now, especially after holding out for so long? No, I cannot recommend striking,” the man in glasses said.

The blonde woman said, “But they need…”

“Their necessity, not our necessity,” the man in glasses interrupted. “If the public really won’t care in a few days, I would strongly advise against doing anything. We have to lay low. We have to talk only about how to get out of Middle East, not getting into it. The only time we should talk about getting into Middle East is when talking about it would be helpful for our poll numbers. I will make sure to inform you all when that time comes as it has a few times in the past, especially on things related to terrorists and not Assad or refugees.”

“I agree,” the white-haired man said. “In the past year I have received only a few letters asking the government to do something to help. The polls show people really dislike any form of intervention. And even if they support it now, we all know that in a few years they won’t. Let’s stay in. The cries in Syria and elsewhere will eventually die out. We only have a lot to lose by going in to save them.”

“I guess,” the middle-aged man said, “setting up a safe haven for refugees to escape from Assad’s bombing, with us providing just air support and perhaps Turkey or Lebanon providing ground force, isn’t even near the table?”

The white-haired and and the man with glasses smiled and seeing their smiles the blonde woman got up and left the room.

“All right, good meeting, everybody. Let’s keep it up,” the white-haired man said standing up. “What’s next on my schedule?”

“A speech on moral leadership at a high school. On being the example for all children to follow.”

“OK, I will see you guys later!” The white-haired man left the room.

The rest kept on talking but their voices were suddenly muted. Then everything in the room started fading away, giving way to pitch darkness.

Faint echoes of birds chirping started filling the dark vacuum.

If you would like to see ch. 2, 3, 5 and epilogues, please see: http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1114698512