"Shaykhah," said a man's voice. "We are arrived. We are at Camp Mumeet. Please join us."

She sat up, her eyes fluttering open, suddenly aware of how utterly unfamiliar her surroundings were. Books. . . . Sharia. . . the Qur'an. . . men.

"The Director himself is waiting inside."

She stood, then, and moved towards the separating curtain, the men on the other side. With her fingers, she pushed it aside and stepped through, suddenly washed in harsh sunlight, blinking slowly as her eyes adjusted to the desert sun, a familiar friend. The men had changed, she noticed, from Western clothes to robes, some wearing turbans, and others the Saudi keffiyeh. They were waiting for her, standing some distance from where she stood, the door to the airplane open and five steps leading to the ground. Outside, the soil was hard packed and dry, cracks and fissures running every which way. Welcome to the desert. In the distance, mountains rose and fell, and Tahira Ali had the distinct feeling that they, too, were on some mountaintop plateau, and not at sea level.

The steps ended at the feet of a man and his wife, who was dressed conservatively in an abaya and niqab. They stood silently, waiting, expectant. Finally, Tahira Ali made her way to the door, descending the steps slowly, one by one, not knowing why she was here, or why she had not simply declined. First step, she yearned to meet this man, the Director, Usama. Second step, she wanted to run screaming back inside, take me home! Third step, she imagined she was a Catholic schoolgirl again, afraid of nuns with their rulers and the dark confessional with her sins waiting. Fourth step, she desperately needed to claim her wasted youth, but the past is done. It cannot be changed. Fifth step, her foot hovered over it before stepping down. She felt something stirring within her heart, an echo of a feeling that brought warmth, security, and something sad with it.

Last step. She moved lazily, first one foot and then the other stepping firmly onto the soil. It was over. She was here.

"Shaykhah," said the man at the bottom of the steps, now facing her. He placed his hand over his heart and inclined his head. "My name is Rahim."

The woman, his wife, the wife of Rahim, she stepped forward, embracing Tahira Ali in the Arab fashion, with a kiss on both cheeks. "My name is Aziza. Come with us, we will share our meal tonight."

She would not disrespect her hosts, and so Tahira Ali followed Rahim and Aziza, the men from the plane following after her. They hiked up the plateau area, sending small rocks tumbling down the side of the mountain. She never heard any of them land. They walked in silence, each footfall thunder in her ears. Rahim seemed to know where he was leading, so Tahira Ali did not concern herself with it.

After several minutes, they emerged to find a deserted village, the homes still standing, limp curtains fluttering in the wind, stone walls evidence of people. But there was no one to be seen. Rahim's face was impassive, the expression unreadable. Tahira Ali did not know what to think. Instead, she tried to focus on the few scraggly plants struggling to grow on the arid mountain. Brown and wilted, they were yet sturdy, resilient somehow, thriving against the harsh desert conditions. But her thoughts did not linger long on the desert flowers; soon they turned inward, to the sludgepile of memories she fought hard to suppress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"Shaykhah?" The voice was distant. Surreal. "Shaykhah?"

She turned her head, the movement dizzying, her vision blurred. She felt eternally slow.

The man's face came into focus. His eyes were dark with concern, one hand touching his beard. A black beard, with fine hairs, the face of a Pashtun mountain man. Rahim. His name came suddenly, and slowly, she nodded, testing the joints in her neck, only to find they functioned normally. The dizziness was gone. But the tiredness--that remained.

"Shaykhah," he said. "We are here."

They had been walking for several hours. The sun was nearly gone, its last few rays escaping from beyond the horizon, reaching in vain for the sojourners. Cold began to seep into the desert, announcing nightfall's arrival. Strange, thought Tahira Ali. Try as she might, she did not remember most of their hike.

They stood now before a terrifying rock face, another overhang of natural stone far above them, keeping them out of sight of helicopters or drones. Walking under the rocky orifices they found a deep crevice where Rahim pressed his hand to some hidden lever, a door sliding open. Tahira Ali started. A moment before, the door had seemed solid mountain. Behind it was a keypad and a square glowing pad. Rahim typed in a long password, and then pressed his hand to the other pad, which glowed green, a strange color Tahira Ali was unused to seeing.

Another door slid open. They stepped through, Rahim and Aziza first, then Tahira Ali, then the four men from the plane. She did not remember their names. Behind them, both doors slid shut with a final hiss, plunging them into darkness. Drip, drip, drip. That was all she heard. She did not move. Drip, drip drip. A moment later, lights flickered on, illuminating the inside of the cave with ghastly shadows, like jinn come in the night.

They were standing in a long corridor, carved directly into the mountain by thousands of years of water. Drip, drip, drip. She saw it, dripping slowly into pools dyed green with algae on the cave floor. It ran in rivulets against the walls, leaving the 'floor' damp and dank. Rahim started forward. She looked back, once, and then followed. The Director was waiting.