By Michael Gryboski

It was late, very late. The crescent moon hung above the village, recently added electric lighting providing dots of luminance amidst an otherwise gray and black eventide. Surrounding the village, as well as many others like it for miles was a rocky light brown desert. Sparse flora poked from the barren womb, creating little oases amongst the inorganic. Trees had some number there, their branches moving up and down to the demands of winds. A few were dead, leaves absent, bark stiffened. Under one of these stood a man whose visage was mostly covered by a kaffiyeh. Hands in pockets, he paced some under the expired canopy, a covered smile as he saw a pair of lights off in the distance, enlarging in the vesper hour.

Kafir al-Shahid heard the engine’s moan, its droning noise reminding him of his own mechanical transportation. It was a jeep, he could tell as the machine got closer, moving along the crooked unpaved dirt-path that led to the collection of houses where nearly all were asleep. Kafir al-Shahid had arrived earlier than his counterpart, having also driven a jeep, painted in crimson, white, green, and sable. He stole it when he was younger. The theft was part of his long drawn out war against the side coming in a jeep camouflaged in desert hues. They had bigger guns, but al-Shahid had more determination and the intelligence to realize attacking such a well-armed military was futile. Rather, he went after the most vulnerable, with bombs blowing up in marketplaces, missiles launched into crowded buildings, and teams of truly committed men strapping explosives to their chest and blowing themselves up, taking as many as they could with them.

The situation was a complex political one, where ethnic tensions had created demands for autonomy from a small collection of provinces in the democratic republic. There were efforts at negotiation, possibly brokering a deal for semi-autonomy, an end to the violence, and cooperation among the races. Al-Shahid remembered those days, watching the television every time the president, the prime minister, and some representative for his people got together on a beautiful sunny day, a podium with three microphones, and a meaningless corpus of papers signed under false pretenses. The man standing by the withering arboreal corpse could claim to have destroyed most if not all those treaties and ceasefires. For al-Shahid it became almost a hobby, his finger often the one pushing the button launching the rocket into still another civilian area.

For Sharif al-Omar, it was always serious. He had served in the military for many years and yet was still young. When the rebellions began they were conventional in nature, as waves of machinegun totting guerillas attacked the men and tanks sent from the government. Those were simpler times. As a married man with two children, Sharif al-Omar mentally lived in two worlds. There was the fighting in the rebellious provinces and there was life at home. Distinction between these two lives disappeared when al-Shahid gained influence. The battlefields went from empty plains to crowded cities. Enemy combatants walled themselves in with women and children, fired from buildings into city streets, killed neighbors and friends, all of whom were unarmed. Now al-Omar had nightmares, dreading the sound of recently installed sirens, noting every newsreel, and even from time to time sweating whenever the phone would ring at an unusual hour.

He drove along, his lights flashing upon a blackened tree and a man who stood next to it. Faced covered by the kaffiyeh, al-Omar was not totally certain it was he, the man responsible for so much destruction and divisiveness. Al-Omar lived in a minority community in one of the loyal provinces, but even there the passionate feelings of ethnocentrism that al-Shahid had created left many sympathizers, even supporters. In short, al-Shahid had turned their country into a mess, with the growth of ethnic divide and the tearing apart of a once perfect union. As the jeep slowed down to the destination, the lights were affixed forward, revealing no visible weapons or entourage as previously agreed.

In the tan passenger seat there was a manila envelope, long and thin, containing the central purpose of the meeting. The military commander grabbed the envelope after the keys were turned, lights disappearing into the night. Al-Omar’s arrival was not as covert as al-Shahid and the light and noise awoke the suspicions of a couple people, some young villagers. Engine asleep, door opening and shutting, commander al-Omar walked towards the barren tree and its grim company. With a proper posture al-Omar was taller than the kaffiyeh-wearing man, who removed part of it to make his whole face visible. With that, the envelope carrying commander confirmed his counterpart’s identity. After a brief silence al-Shahid simply spoke “Follow me.”

Al-Omar obliged as the two left the dead tree, going down a small hill into the main street of the oblivious inhabitance. The road was paved, a light gray as yellowy light struck from above. Al-Shahid stopped to place himself under one of these poles, placing within its luminescence commander al-Omar. With the lucid air the commander could see the white lines of old scars on the rebel’s unholy countenance; he was a man brought up in violence. Every physical scar was matched by a mental one, trauma that forced him to take medicines to sleep and compelled him to indulge in various intoxicating and forbidden fermented drinks in order to prevail. Kafir hid these things from his supporters, his people, and his enemies. Still, even then he had a puerile disposition, beholding the manila envelope held by the gloved hand of Sharif as though it were a birthday present.

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Kafir with a smile.
“When they gave me this assignment, I felt sick because I knew what it would involve,” said Sharif, looking forward towards al-Shahid. “I was so sick, so nauseous that I haven’t eaten all day.”
“But I thought Ramadan was over,” replied Kafir with a laugh. “So it is what I thought it was, just as well.”
“Years of fighting, the media watching every gunshot, and it ends here, in the middle of evening with no one around but the two of us,” said Sharif as a pair of eyes looked at the uniformed soldier down the street. He was young, with a three day beard, and wearing a red and white checkered kaffiyeh. His eyes widened as he realized what he was seeing. Without sound, silent as the eventide, he gestured to his companion. Clean-shaven, also wearing a kaffiyeh, and bigger in height and width, he comprehended what his friend wanted him to do and went away to a nearby house.
“It was a hard fought victory, my words were of great service to the cause of independence,” said Kafir, who was reminiscing aloud. “I recall my best slogans: ‘Victory or to the last!’ ‘Death to the collaborator!’ ‘Autonomy for all, without exceptions!’ ‘A man who negotiates with the enemy is a traitor! No compromise, no backing away!’”
“You must be proud of yourself, all the evils you committed. How do you sleep at night?” asked Sharif with a touch of disgust.
“How do I? How do you? Look at how your friends, your comrades in arms, your brothers of a different color treated us. We wanted self-determination, we wanted independence, we wanted a simple secession. Your government deprived us of these things. Don’t act as though you haven’t been marginalized as well.”
“Do not try to play the game of moral equivalency with me, Shahid. You are a terrorist, a murderer.”
“And you men are so righteous, your military bombed cities, killed hundreds of civilians and you lecture me on human rights abuses?” replied Kafir, his smile still present on his face even in his faint annoyance. All the while the friend returned, some materials in a bag carefully carried to where the bearded one was still watching the two men at the light pole. With a tap on the shoulder, both knew the others’ whereabouts and they tacitly cautiously walked along a back-road.
“We always went after your weaponry and personnel. Yet you always placed them, the missile launchers, the supply depots, and the guerillas within the cities and towns. What kind of person are you, knowing that we would strike back with full force to defend our people still placed all the military installations amongst civilians. You wanted them to die.”
“Of course,” said al-Shahid. “The more corpses the worse the press was for your side. Logistically, you were always winning, but psychologically we were always winning. Every camera shot was like a bullet entering your body and having a few in my system I know how much that hurts.”
“It wasn’t just that,” said Sharif as he looked down at the paved road. “It was your perversions. The faked footage, the inflated numbers, and above all doing it in the name of our religion,” he said unaware of unfolding events. The younger smaller one watched the conversation, not being in good proximity to hear what they were saying. All the while the companion was at the jeep, placing himself halfway underneath the vehicle, a flashlight in hand to better see what he was doing.
“So you want to talk theology, now?”
“Islam says that nationalism is anathema. Tribalism is incompatible with the teachings of the Prophet, peace be upon him. You glossed over that so pitifully that I wonder if you are not an apostate.”
“And by associating with Christians and Jews, another anathematic deed, I wonder whether you have not apostatized with me,” he replied, growing impatient as his eyes continually tilted towards the envelope. “Now give me what is mine, I grow weary in this late hour of our conversations.”

With anger and hesitation, gloom and despair, Sharif al-Omar took the manila envelope into both gloved hands, opened up the top and carefully removed two documents, one the agreement and the other a copy. Both had already been signed by the prime minister and president, their cursive in black ink over their printed appellations. Al-Shahid’s smile loosened as he read the fine print, caressing the paper as he held it, focusing on each sentence lest some trick of semantics be used by his enemies. It was not without historical precedent. His smile grew as he concluded reading; all was in good order, full autonomy for the rebellious provinces. The two villagers departed from the jeep.

“Do you have a pen?” asked Kafir, with Sharif angrily giving him one, wondering if he did not intentionally forget to add further insult to the defeated. Signing both copies as requested by the commander, al-Shahid gave one of them back to al-Omar, their transaction now concluded and peace now official. “And now it is signed. Fear not, comrade in race, for I hear the cries your community makes. The cries of oppression, the demand for liberation. Soon enough, your people, our people, will be free and in full control of the land that is rightfully ours. They won’t last my wrath.”

“Salaam, Shahid,” said Sharif al-Omar, turning away before his counterpart could respond. He walked away demoralized, going to his vehicle, pushing the keys in the ignition, turning them, and with lights on backing up and then going forward away.

Kafir kept hugging his copy of the treaty. The document was so beautiful, like a child finally delivered into the world. He was laughing, too. It might have even been sincere joy he felt as his enemy went away, an enemy he would never see alive again. Placing the work in the passenger seat, looking at the dead tree once more, Kafir got out his keys and put them in the ignition. As he was turning the keys to activate the motor a great explosion ripped through the jeep, brightening the village as though it were day and awakening the slumbering population. Pieces of metal, rubber, and leather flew in every direction, with the most basic frame of the vehicle mere blackened ruin. Not even the trademark kaffiyeh prevailed, as it was immediately incinerated by the blast, an explosion that did what years of covert and overt operations failed to do: Kafir al-Shahid was dead.

As people woke up, guerillas began to arm themselves, and the military was being called to mobilize for yet another minor skirmish, the two young men left the sight by the hills under cover of darkness. Once safely away, they talked with one another, being quite proud at what they had accomplished.

“That was excellent. Good job, bro.”
“Thanks buddy. It was kinda hard to see who it was, but that’s no big. We know it was some guy who deserved it.”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“True. Whoever it was got what he deserved for betraying us. As Kafir al-Shahid always says, ‘Death to collaborators, a man who negotiates with the enemy is a traitor.’”
“Yeah man, Shahid would be really proud of us for what we did. Because we did exactly what he would do in that situation.”
“Definitely.”