All the Young Warriors

ELEVEN

Jibriil. An officer. A leader. Only a few weeks in country. But after losing their commander the night before and somehow making it back from a raid that should have left them dead, Jibriil was promoted.

Madness. Utter madness.

Adem didn't even know why they'd been to Ethiopia. There was a lot more to the war than he originally understood. They were supposed to be defending Islam against a corrupt government who squashed religious expression and lived like kings while hundreds of thousands starved. Instead, he hadn't seen much sign of government outside of his own army. The soldiers and leaders were brutal to anyone who colored outside of their very narrow lines. They took what they needed in spite of how that would disrupt the lives of everyday Somalis, who were fleeing the city, the country even, as if it was a giant sinkhole, falling away at their heels.

Why Ethiopia? Because Ethiopians had invaded Somalia, occupied it, and killed indiscriminately. And they were Christian. Now they'd been chased back, but still attacked whenever they felt like it. Same with the Somalis, tit for tat. Mutual hatred. Nothing better to do.

They'd made it back in the early morning hours, bodies aching from the fight, the bumpy ride, the fear. Boys gathered around while Garaad regaled them with the story, told all the young warriors how Jibriil had picked up the mantle when their leader fell in the ambush. Everything was going wrong. They'd been sold out!

"But," Garaad said, his timing perfect. Could've been an actor. "While we struggled to find God's will in this, Jibriil knew. He gathered us together, an unstoppable force, and led us across the town. Devils, hiding their true selves behind shepherd's clothing, firing at us. But onward we swept, picking up our brothers as we fought."

He left out the part about running ahead of everyone else.

But he wasn't going to bring it up because Jibriil wasn't. In fact, whenever the boys would look back at Jibriil, who was resting against the truck tire, to confirm some wild sounding part of Garaad's story, he would shrug it off, say, "We all did our parts. Especially you. You saved my life."

That sort of leader. Yeah. How the hell did that happen? In less than a week, Jibriil had grown from a boy with ADD to a respected man above men right in front of Adem's eyes. No one event or moment. The entire experience seemed to lift him. He was made for this.

Adem sure as hell wasn't. He had to get out of there.

Especially because when Garaad turned the story to the mysterious rat, the soldiers grew quiet, some flicking their eyes towards Adem. The outcast. He must be the one, then. Garaad didn't exactly say that Adem must be the rat, but he did warn the boys that a traitor was among them, watching their every move. "Who knows? Maybe he'll get you next as you pray."

Jibriil broke in, reassured the crowd that the rat most likely stayed behind, played dead, so he could give the enemy intelligence. "He would be crazy to come back here now. Absolutely crazy."

But that didn't stop them from glaring at Adem, whispering when he was near. Half a day of this as he tried to find a place to escape the baking sun, the sand, the smell of goat over the fire for lunch. It usually made him hungry, but today his stomach lurched. Mainly, he wanted to be alone. That was the hardest thing to find here-solitude. There was always someone… judging him all the time. Making sure he played by the rules. An entire army built on that. He'd heard that in the American military, despite the cause or the goal of whatever combat they engaged in, the soldiers fought on for each other. Bringing their brothers in arms back home alive was what drove them. Here, among these soldiers for God, the cause outweighed the individual. There was always someone to take the place of the fallen, who had gone on to whatever afterlife they deserved.

He found a scant patch of shade under a Qudhac tree not far from the mess tents. He had to huddle tight beneath the low branches, nearly made him invisible. He watched the women preparing lunch, tried to pick out the one with the brave eyes who had poured his camel's milk. But the flurry of colorful dresses made it impossible to tell who was who. After a while, as soldiers passed by without a glance, Adem began to think he was perfectly camouflaged. He wouldn't mind sitting out the rest of his stay like this. There's a question he hadn't bothered to ask Jibriil lately. Before they left the States, he'd told Adem that it would probably be a month or two. That people were coming and going all the time. But since then he'd heard stories of deserters being flogged, beheaded, and dragged through the streets. No one got out early unless God willed it to be so-by death.

"Adem?"

He looked up. Jibriil stood above him, face obscured by the limbs. He turned his head back towards the mess tents. "It's nice under here."

"Mind if I join you?"

Adem shrugged. No camouflage. He was unimportant, until it came time to pin the blame on their mysterious rat.

Jibriil put his rifle down, crawled under the branches and sat beside Adem against the trunk. Quiet for a few moments, listening to the calamity in the tents, clanging and arguing, sizzling and shouting.

"You okay?"

Sigh. "You know I'm not a rat."

"Don't worry about that. Not a problem."

"This isn't working out for me. I shouldn't have come."

Jibriil rocked into his friend's shoulder. "Man, come on. You're doing great, I'm telling you. The fear will fade. Would you ever have been in a firefight like last night back home?"

Adem looked down at his filthy shirt, still reeking of donkey dung. All he remembered about the night before was darkness, the corpse of Abdi Erasto, and a tent full of frightened but defiant women and children.

"Hey, you were under some serious fire last night and held it together. That's good soldiering. I need men like you who can keep their shit. Not like Garaad over there. Him coming back? I'll bet he was more worried about his head than about us."

Despite the heat, Adem shivered. "So close. Those grenades."

Jibriil eased up on his cheer. Hummed part of an old riff from a song Adem didn't recognize. "I promise, it's only going to get better. Today, they promote me. I'm in charge now. All you have to do is keep proving yourself worthy and I can help you climb out of this. Imagine, you and me commanding thousands of soldiers."

"I can't imagine that." Adem picked at the cuticle of his thumb. It started bleeding. "That's your dream. I wanted, I don't know, to understand what it's all about. Being Somali, right? Instead of just feeling Minnesotan. But I don't think this is the same thing."

"It's not. It's Islam. It's the Truth. That's more important."

"Than what?"

Shrug. "Than anything." Jibriil rose onto one knee, pushed himself against the tree trunk. "Come on, let's eat. We can talk about a plan for you."

"I'm not hungry. I like it here."

"Seriously." He reached down for Adem's arm, lifted. Adem kept it stiff. Jibriil was really trying, too. It started to hurt.

Adem said, "Please, leave me alone. For a little while. Please, man."

Jibriil let go, but he looked worried, glanced around. He said, "Okay, but not too long. I'll save you some."

He climbed out from under the branches, picked up his rifle. Shuffled, turning his head left and right. Twitchy. Then, without looking at Adem, said, "Stay where I can see you, though. Can you do me that favor? Don't go wandering off. I mean it."

Adem wished he was part of the tree. He'd seen a movie last year about a cursed pirate who became a part of the ship as he grew older, eventually unable to act on his own. A living slab of wood, watching but silent. That would be perfect. Because Jibriil had told him without telling him that the others were after him. Garaad must've been working overtime to convince the soldiers that Adem was the spy. And spies lost more than a hand or foot.

*

He found another shirt-dark green fatigues, not his, a bit big-and wrapped his head in a red and white-striped scarf to blend in with the many other soldiers whose faces he had never seen, names he had never known. Didn't matter how hot it was. He had to brave through it and start walking. Move and not look back. Hold his rifle like he'd shoot anyone he pleased until he found someone who could help.

He passed loitering groups of boys standing around, laughing, hanging off the sides of trucks, caressing their rifles the way Americans might their IPhones or exotic bottles of spring water. No one paid him any mind.

The scarf cut off some of his peripheral vision, and it made him feel like he was breathing in a steam room-heavy, humid air. It stank of him, the dung, the dead. He turned down another street, found three poles shoved into the ground, a bloated, picked-apart man's head on each one. He winced. These were not traitors. He'd heard about what happened from Abdi Erasto-a father and his two sons helped their young sisters, ages eleven and thirteen, escape because several soldiers demanded that the father hand over the girls for marriage.

The girls made it out, so he'd heard. Adem wished he could ask those men how they did it so he could, too.

He kept on. Abandoned streets. Occasional trios or quartets of soldiers. Occasional businessmen standing outside their shops, looking numb. Stunned to still be in business, maybe. A cell phone rang and he watched a businessman pull it from his pocket. Lots of phones in the city, Adem saw. Flew thousands of miles, and still people needed their cell phones. Except him. His had been taken as soon as he got to camp. He imagined the bill waiting for him back home.

More businesses, more people in the streets pretending to live normal lives amidst the end of their world. They had been doing it for years, skirting the harsh brand of Sharia law pushed by this crazy bunch of boys trying to run the country.

Adem was fine to leave them to it. Whatever was left of Somali culture sure as hell wasn't here. He looked back at the man on the phone, who was staring at Adem as he talked. They had a reason to be afraid. Didn't even matter if you were a strict Muslim who prayed five times a day and followed the diet and dress code. If the boys wanted you dead, you were going to die.

Adem turned back to the road ahead, kept on. He didn't have that much time. Jibriil would notice he was gone. Better him than one of the others. But even then, it wasn't good. Jibriil would never let him out of his sight again. The longer he walked, the more likely this wasn't going to work.

Where were the aid trucks? The only people stupid enough to keep driving in, getting hijacked almost every time unless the UN blue hats felt like fighting, which they didn't most of the time. He'd been told that some trucks carrying water had been jacked only a few days before he had arrived, and that it was time to send it back, empty, along with a couple of the aid workers. They'd been beaten, robbed, and threatened, of course. Sport for the soldiers. But now they had to go.

He took a few more blocks, then made his way down a narrow street, mostly rubble, some smoke here and there from fires, people trying to cook a goat, it smelled like. All of them gave him looks as if he were a strange creature, walking alone amongst them. Not backed by a gang. Just a man with a gun and a covered face.

He glanced down a side street and caught a glimpse. A white truck, maybe. He went back. It was two blocks over, definitely white but filthy. Mud and dust. He tracked down the street, one where the shadows kept everything cool, dark. He passed what he thought was a sleeping man. But then the smell hit him, the buzzing of flies. Didn't even want to take another look, but saw part of his leg. The man's skin looked like tight paper that had been ripped by a knife. Discolored, lighter than it should be. Not any of his business. He held his breath until the next block.

This was it. Had to be. The directions he'd been given were sketchy but got him here, barely. He stepped out onto the street. Two of them, flatbeds with large cabs, old but workable. Some flag draped across the front, nearly falling off. Letters in Arabic-something about peaceful and legal. Bored soldiers, most dressed more like him than the usual mix and match of street clothes and military fatigues, stood around, hands hanging off the weapons strapped around their necks. A Somali man in a black but faded Jay-Z concert t-shirt stood in front of one of the trucks. He was with a white woman, wearing a hijab but also short sleeves, capri pants. Another man with them, half-Chinese at first glance, had a bandage across the top of his head and another wrapped around his left forearm. He was lucky to still have both hands. He wondered if the woman had been beaten.

He stepped up to another soldier. "They're the ones? They're leaving?"

"Not fast enough. They're waiting for a friend. He's late."

"Why's he late?"

The soldier shook his head. "He's not coming, really. But they don't know that. He's dead."

Anywhere else, this would be a big problem. The soldier sounded like he was amused by it.

"Something he ate. He shat himself dead. But we're not telling them."

"They're going to wait?"

"If they don't leave soon, we'll start making noise. They'll get moving."

"I want to talk to them."

"No."

"For a moment. My captain wants me to question the girl."

The soldier pulled his scarf down so his whole face showed. Looked at Adem for a long moment. "She is shameful. She is of no use."

"But it's important."

"Then tell your captain to come speak with her himself."

Adem had had enough. No more time. He grabbed the solider's shirt and twisted, pulled him closer. "You think you're superior to my captain? Would you tell yours the same thing? You ass!"

Shoved him. The soldier held his ground. Eyes burning. Breathing hard through his nose. This was a guy who could crush Adem. Easily.

"Yes?"

The soldier finally nodded. "Go on."

Adem hid the relief. Waited until he was walking towards the trio of aid workers before letting out a deep, aching breath. As he approached, the woman of the group stepped out to meet him, speaking exaggerated, slow English with a German accent.

"Our friend, is he coming? Do you know…" She pointed to her temple. "About our…um…" She pointed at the other two. "Friend? Another man? Do you know?"

Adem thought she should be careful. Almost like she was asking if the soldiers were planning to shoot her companions in the head. He pretended to not understand her, took her by the arm and led her back to the other two. She tried to pull away, but not so hard. Like Adem, ready to go home. Let God forsake the whole country, which He seemed intent on doing anyway.

Huddled with the others, he pulled his scarf from his nose and mouth. Dripping sweat. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. "You all speak English, right?"

The Chinese man blinked, looked around. Adem thought, No, don't make it look any more suspicious than it already is. The aid worker said, "You're American?"

Not only that, but his accent was as American as all the TV shows Adem was missing. "Yes, yes, I am. You are?"

They shook hands. "Wayne. I'm from Oregon, man. What the hell are you doing here?"

"I made a mistake. I need a ride out of here. You're heading home, right?"

"Once they bring our friend back, we're gone. I had no idea it was this bad, man. This is hell."

"You're lucky they're letting you go at all. But we've got to hurry."

The German girl said, "But what about Jeff? We have to wait."

Adem shook his head, pulled his scarf back into place. "When I tell you this, don't look shocked. Don't cry. Don't faint. Please. Get in the truck and go."

The Somali man screwed up his face. "No, it can't be. No."

"What? Isaac, tell me." The woman, looking from face to face. "What is this?"

"He's not coming. Jeff's dead."

Her eyes went big. The Somali man put his hands on her arms, pulled her closer. "No, Greta, don't. Cry later. Now, let's go. Come on."

She swallowed hard. Isaac helped her into the cab of the first truck from the driver's side. He climbed in behind her. As Adem and Wayne walked back to the other truck, the first one's engine came to life. Rattled and grumbled as Adem turned in a slow circle, rifle ready, to check on the soldiers. They were watching closely, but not moving to stop the trucks. About ten of them, Adem counted. All of their faces were covered, obscured, turned-couldn't tell if he knew any of them.

Wayne opened the door of the truck. "How many Americans are over here? Are you, like, a CIA guy?"

"Hurry, get in. I'll tell you on the way." Adem kept his eyes on the soldiers. Once he climbed into the truck on the other side, what would they think? What would they do? His heart was thumping so hard in his chest that he worried it might spring a leak. A few blocks behind them, one of the troop transport pickup trucks turned onto their street, coming their way.

God, no.

"Get in! Get in!" Adem pushed Wayne into the driver's seat. Closed the door. The first aid truck lurched ahead, eased up to speed. Soldiers got out of the way, let it drive past. Score one point. Adem breathed a sigh of relief. But the other truck, soldiers dangling off the sides, packed like sardines, guns at the ready, was gaining fast. Spewing dust behind it. As it got closer, he heard a voice over the engine.

" Stop him! Stop him! Don't let him get away! "

The soldiers on the ground hopped into action. Rushing towards Adem. He ran around to the passenger door, yanked it open and climbed in.

"Hurry! Fuck, hurry!"

Wayne was cranking it, but the truck wouldn't turn over. That terrible noise, Ru-ru-ru-ru-ru. Almost, almost, almost.

Soldiers now at both doors, pointing guns, slapping the metal. The pickup truck had skidded to a stop. More soldiers jumped off and joined the mob.

"Now! Go!"

Wayne cranked harder, stomped the gas pedal. "I'm fucking doing it! Damnit! I'm doing it! It's flooded!"

More slapping. Gun barrels now clinking against the windows.

Ru-ru-ru-ru-ru…

The butt of a rifle slammed into the driver's window. Glass exploded, pebbles all over. Wayne scooted in Adem's direction. A hand scrabbled in, cleared off remaining glass, unlocked the door. More hands grabbed at Wayne's legs, began pulling him out.

"Shit! No, no, no, I'm going home! I didn't do anything!" Crying, too. Kicking at the hands. Kicking. He was sliding.

One shot. Pistol. Wayne screamed, reached for his foot. It was shredded, bleeding. More hands. Wayne slid from the truck, banged his head against the frame on the way down to the street.

Adem launched for the driver's side. Tried the key again. Nothing but clicking. Soldiers now grabbed for his arm. Adem brought the rifle around in his right hand, turned it. Squeezed the trigger.

Loud like lots of little bombs. Ringing ears. Spent jackets burned his face as they were ejected. Someone outside grabbed the barrel and gave it a hard tug. Adem let it go, too disoriented to stop them.

And he was next, thrown to the ground. He saw legs and dust and the shape of a man who might have been Wayne, middle of the street, surrounded by soldiers. Screams.

A boot at his face. Cracked Adem's nose. Another shot followed it. Then another. More boots, all over his body. Balls, back, knees, chest, fingers. One kick after another. Cries of "Rat!" and "Deserter!" and "Traitor!" and "American Bastard!"

Adem couldn't answer. His lip had been split, mouth full of blood he kept spitting. He shook badly. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to be sent home or allowed to die.

Two soldiers grabbed Adem under his armpits, pulled him to his knees. Everything was pain. Waves of it. He tried to think about Lake Superior, the waves rolling in. But they turned to storm waves, angry and dark. He felt one crash against him. Opened his eyes. Still in Somalia. A solider had thrown water on his face, now reached down and rubbed the dirt and blood away. It was the one Adem had grabbed by the shirt. Looked at his filthy hand and gave it a shake. Mud and water flung back onto Adem's face. The soldiers holding him dragged him to the circle of soldiers, let him through. Someone was going on and on, reading from the Quran. Loud and on edge. Wayne was on his knees, being held in place. Several younger soldiers stood behind him. They faced a boy with a handheld video camera.

Adem was too weak to put up a fight. More waves of shocking pain. One eye swollen shut. A hand slapped his cheek. "Stay awake. Watch what happens because of you."

The boy reading from the Quran kept on. Another solider pulled a knife from his belt, wiped it on his pants. He took over from the one holding Wayne. Grabbed him by the hair and forced him to his stomach. Wayne fought and kicked. Shouting for help. A soldier stepped forward, grabbed his legs. The boy with the knife knelt on Wayne's shoulder blades.

Adem tried to turn away. He knew what was next. He was slapped again, then his face pushed until he had no choice but to look. Tried to close his good eye. His minder forced it open with two fingers.

By then, Wayne's shouting had stopped. They'd already started on him, sliced right through his throat. Geysers of blood when he hit the arteries. Wayne's face like a Halloween mask. The boy with the knife kept sawing. The knife tore through gristle, hit bone. More sawing as the boy sliced around the entire neck. He stepped back. Another solider grabbed Wayne's head two-handed, lifted it easy, like a melon. Blood dripped from the neck. Oozed from the body, the hard ground soaking it up.

They brought the head to Adem, who was gagging, trying not to throw up. They held Wayne's head in front of his face. "This is what you did. And Allah will have your head next. You're next."

Wayne's face. It was like Wayne was saying it. Eyes closed, lips tight, but Wayne's voice: "Look at what you did."

"No, God, no, I want to go home. I just want to go home."

A hard blow to the back of his skull. The two men holding him let him go. He flopped to the ground face first. Still heard the reading of the Quran, like background noise. Another voice on top of it: "This is what happens to traitors and deserters. Adem came telling us he was a brother, one of us. He spoke with the Devil's tongue. All lies. This is what happens to liars!"

He was on his way to oblivion and sweet dreams of home as someone grabbed his hair and lifted his face. Lake Superior. He'd gone there one or two summers, once with the high school chorus. He could stare at the Lake forever. Something magical about it. Too cold to swim in, full of stories of lost lives, lost ships. But maybe the most peaceful place Adem had ever been.

His own voice echoed in his head: You won't feel a thing. Not one thing.