The Caliphate

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

As we approach the government-run shops, I begin to see other women, always led by an escort. It's difficult to identify which woman is who. We're forbidden to socialize, and the burqas cover everything, including our eyes, making it difficult to see. We can wear no colors or identifying jewelry, so we have to rely on other senses.

"Assalamu Alaikum!" I whisper softly as a trio of women pass.

"Inshallah," one whispers back.

That would be Sarah, judging by her escort, an angry-looking man with a bushy black beard. We treated her six months ago for internal injuries. She hurries away. I do not put her at risk for another beating by speaking to her further.

We pass several more groups of women, all of them laden down with supplies. Their escorts walk in front of them, empty-handed, greeting the other Ghuraba men. They stand like patient pack mules, waiting for the men to take them home.

Adnan greets the men, eager for attention. Two gun-toting Ghuraba tousle his hair and ask him about his Quran lessons. I stand behind him, trying my best to not be noticed while he chats excitedly about friends who became the latest martyrs. I don't dare remind him about the medicine. If he's perceived as weak, not only would that be bad for him, but even worse for me.

At last he breaks away.

"This way," he says.

He bolts toward the green, renamed Medina Park. I hurry after him, terrified I'll be left without an escort.

Built on top of the wreckage of the old Lincoln Memorial stands the stage where the Ghuraba hold their executions and pre-battle rallies. Every single day, people get executed here: heretics and apostates, rebel sympathizers, feminists and queers. There are always people gathered, but today there appears to be an extra-large crowd.

"Testing? Testing?"

A sound tech taps the microphone while the cameramen adjust the booms.

"A little more to the left!"

Two more Ghuraba walk across the stage, carefully marking each spot with a bright orange dot. The cameramen track them and display the shots on the two enormous video screens which flank the stage while a third video screen behind them displays special effects.

"Adnan!" I hiss. "We have to get the medicine."

"But the rebel executions are today!"

I grab his arm to tug him back to the street.

"I said we will watch!" he shouts.

Men wielding machine guns all look in our direction. One of them starts walking over. Oh drat! Oh drat! I put my head down and feign obsequiousness, slumping my shoulders so I appear no larger than a child.

"Is there a problem?" The Gharib walks around me, sizing up my burqa.

Adnan waits until he sees me tremble before he lets me off the hook.

"No. It's fine."

The Gharib walks away, his M-16 slung casually in his arms. I keep my mouth shut, rather than upbraid my brother. When he was younger he would listen to reason. But now, he thinks it's all a game.

An Imam takes to the stage and begins a sing-song dua'a of vengeance. It's a song we all know well. Loudspeakers amplify the hymn as the spectators sing along. They press against me, thousands of bloodthirsty men. I cling to Adnan, praying we don't get separated.

The dua'a grows louder as eleven prisoners are led out, dressed in orange, each escorted by a Gharib wearing a black shemagh which covers their face except for their eyes. Unlike the Ghuraba, the prisoners are all clean-shaven. It's odd to see grown men without a beard. The executioners force the prisoners to kneel on the orange dots.

These are our enemies…

Enemies of Allah…

The crowd cheers as a red-bearded man walks onto the stage, General Muhammad bin-Rasulullah, carrying a green plastic garbage bag. He wears a former U.S. military uniform, enhanced with studs and extra weapons. On his chest glisten five crooked stars which mark him as the Mahdi. The crowd cheers in a joyful zhagareet as he flexes his shoulders, and then holds up one arm in a victory 'V'.

"This morning we intercepted a plot to free these prisoners." He leans forward. "I wouldn't want to deprive you of Allah's judgment, now would I?"

The crowd shouts: "No!"

"If you want something done right, you should always do it yourself." He reaches into the bag. "You have my word there will be no more attempts at escape."

He holds up a severed head.

The cameras zoom in, capturing the dead man's expression. They project it onto the two video screens, as well as broadcast it live to the propaganda stations around the world.

The crowd cheers.

"Allahu-Akhbar!"

I cling to Adnan. Please! Let's just get out of here?

He cheers along with them.

Rasulullah throws the head out into the crowd. The men kick it. They pass it back and forth like a soccer ball.

Adnan chases after it. The head comes to rest at my feet.

My Lord! My Lord!

My stomach clenches. I clamp my hand over my mouth to prevent myself from vomiting. The dead man stares up at me, his mouth frozen in a silent scream.

"Eisa! Kick it to me!" Adnan laughs.

A Gharib intercepts it and kicks it towards him.

On the stage, General Rasulullah shakes his fist into the cameras, his every action broadcast larger-than-life on the video screens which flank the stage.

"Did you really think you could beat me, Colonel Everhart?" he screams. He points to his five crooked stars. "You forget, I learned military tactics from the Gatekeeper!"

At the edge of the stage, a tall man appears surrounded by bodyguards. The crowd goes quiet. All three television cameras pan to film the man ascending the steps.

He's a tall man, the Abu al-Ghuraba, even taller than his sister, mid-60's, with a black robe to hide a heavyset figure. On his head he wears an enormous black turban, the one he wears in all the propaganda posters. He has stern features, a bushy grey beard, and intense, black eyes that look as though they might steal my soul.

Even General Rasulullah bows to the Abu al-Ghuraba. He bows his head reverently.

"Peace be upon you, Father of Strangers."

The Abu al-Ghuraba places his hand on Rasulullah's head.

"May Allah bless you for bringing His enemies to justice."

"I am Allah's most loyal servant," Rasulullah murmurs.

The crowd grows silent as the Abu al-Ghuraba turns to address us. He peers from one row of faces to another, and then he looks into the cameras.

"Today is a joyous day in paradise, for Allah's Mahdi found the place where the infidels took shelter!"

He gestures to the prisoners, almost forgotten.

"We have brought you their highest-ranking leaders so you may witness them stand judgment for their crimes."

A prisoner shouts: "You didn't get the Colonel!"

The crowd mutters as the Abu al-Ghuraba moves to stand in front of the man. Tall, clean-shaven and blonde. The kind of man that used to grace the pages of superhero comics before the Ghuraba burned them. He puts his finger beneath the prisoner's chin.

"But I have his son. Did you think we wouldn’t find out who you are, Lionel Everhart?"

He grabs the prisoner by the hair and yanks his head towards the cameras.

"Now he shall watch you die!"

I feel a familiar chill as the Abu al-Ghuraba gestures to the black-hooded men who stand behind each prisoner. In well-rehearsed coordination, all eleven pull their curved khanjar knives out of their belts and hold the knives up to the cameras.

"Allahu-Akhbar!" they shout.

The crowd cheers as General Rasulullah steps behind the brazen prisoner and takes the knife from the executioner who guards him.

"Now I shall take vengeance on the last man alive to betray me!"

He presses the knife against the prisoner's throat.

The prisoner makes eye contact with me. The only woman in the crowd.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," his words vibrate through me, "I will fear no evil…"

His fellow prisoners pick up the Christian prayer as the Abu al-Ghuraba holds up his arm.

"…for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies…"

I grip my prayer beads.

No. No. No. No. No.

"May your souls forever burn in hell!"

The Abu al-Ghuraba brings down his arm.

The executioners begin sawing through the prisoner's necks.

I clamp my hands over my ears, sobbing, as the prisoners scream.

It goes on and on and on. Just like outside the window this morning, the man whose severed head lays somewhere, forgotten, now a soccer ball. Their agony tears into my gut as their screams turn into gurgles.

I turn away.

"Sister!" Adnan grabs my arm. "Don't you shame me!"

"I can't watch!" I cry out.

"Only the unfaithful look away!"

The cameras zoom in as the executioners prolong the prisoner's agony for as long as they can. The crowd grows wild with a banshee-like zhagareet. I can feel their bloodlust. Smell it. Taste it. It vibrates through my soul like a wild, hungry animal. I can feel the power the Ghuraba devour every time they kill.

At last the screaming stops. I force myself to look at the eleven decapitated bodies.

I touch my prayer beads and say a dua'a for their spirits. I meet General Rasulullah's gaze. I say the words openly, but softly.

"May Allah have mercy on their souls."

I grab Adnan's arm.

"Come. Mama will be angry we didn't get the medicine."

"But…"

I break away from him and push my way through the crowd.

He calls after me, "Eisa! Eisa!"

I have to get away from him! This brother, who enjoys watching men commit evil.

The crowd begins to thin. I break into a run towards the street at the edge of the green. A tall, black shape materializes in front of me and grabs my arm.

"I can see your eyes."

Fear clenches in my gut as Taqiyah al-Ghuraba and her al-Khansaa brigade block my escape. They run in packs of six, just like hyenas. Six pants-wearing women who wear combat fatigues and whips beneath their niqabs and chadors.

I immediately lower my gaze.

"I wear two black veils beneath my burqa, Sayidati," I say aloud.

Taqiyah unfurls her whip.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, Ma'am. Perhaps it's a trick of the sunlight?"

My entire body shakes as Taqiyah grabs my wrist and pushes back the sleeve of my burqa.

"I can see your skin." She grabs hold of the beads wrapped around my wrist. "And you're wearing jewelry?"

It feels like something sacred is being violated as she touches my prayer beads, worn smooth by the touch of countless prayers.

Don't touch them, you b***h! I have to fight the urge to say it or strike back at her.

"These are my misbaha, Ma'am," I say meekly instead.

The crowd parts. General Rasulullah strolls towards us, still wielding his beheading knife.

"What appears to be the problem, Sayidati Taqiyah?" he grins.

"This woman dares come to the execution awrah!"

I tremble uncontrollably as Rasulullah grabs my wrist.

"Prayer beads are an innovation. Yes?"

He touches the simple, black beads, the same way that Taqiyah did, only his fingers linger on my bare skin. His green eyes bore into my face-veil.

"M-m-my father said such beads were worn by blessed Khadija, may peace be upon her," I stutter.

Rasulullah gives me a cruel grin as he slides my glove down to expose my entire wrist. A crowd begins to gather. Men. Curious about whatever woman fell amok of the al-Khansaa's purity rules. They enjoy watching us get whipped. Especially when Taqiyah tears our clothing off our backs to expose our skin, leaving us naked except for our anonymous faces.

"Do you know what happens to a woman who exposes her skin?" Rasulullah slides one hand up to touch my breast.

"Hey! Unhand my sister!"

Like a prayer, my brother finally appears.

Rasulullah turns to Taqiyah.

"Leave us. I shall exact the punishment myself."

"You'll do no such thing!" Adnan rips my wrist out of General Rasulullah's hand. "I'm the man of the family. It is my job to beat her. Not yours!"

"You won't be a man for two more weeks." Rasulullah's voice gains a dangerous undercurrent. "You are only twelve."

Adnan sticks his chin up, the same haughty expression he wore at lunch.

"She is the Gatekeepers' daughter," he says. "If you want her, you can pay her bride price and marry her. But I will kill her myself before I let you take her in-hand!"

For a moment it looks as though Rasulullah will kill him, but then he laughs. He tussles Adnan's hair with his bloody fingers.

"Ahh, this is your sister, eh?" His smile looks like a wolf baring its fangs. "I should expect no less from the Gatekeeper's son, should I!"

He and Taqiyah laugh, as though this is an inside joke.

"Very well, then," he says. "Beat her yourself. But come by to see me later tonight? We shall discuss how much it will cost to make you my brother-in-law?"

Adnan grins like an i***t.

"Sir! It would be an honor."

He grabs my arm and drags me away from the al-Khansaa brigade before I can do something stupid, like tell Rasulullah I'd rather be dead.

"You are not marrying me off to that butcher!"

"I can and I will!" Adnan says. "You are well past the age when you should have taken a husband!"

"Mama needs me. She is training me to be a doctor."

Adnan whirls to face me, his expression hateful.

"I am tired of being embarrassed by Mama's heresy! All of my friends say she is a djinn!"

We cross the street to avoid walking in front of the enormous concrete block building that makes even him tremble. The Citadel. Home of the Ghuraba's secret police. Across the lintel, the name, J. Edgar Hoover Building, still bears witness it was once a hall of justice. Now, few people who go in ever come out alive.

We reach the apothecary. We step inside to buy the medicine.