Fatal Convictions

39

fifteen years earlier beirut, lebanon

Fifteen-year-old Nara Mobassar was helping her mother in the kitchen of their small Lebanese house when the knock on the door came. As usual, Nara had been going about her chores in virtual silence, her sulking manner a teenager’s protest against the stifling rules that applied to Muslim girls. Beirut was straddling two worlds-the secularized culture of the West and the traditional Islamic way of life. For Nara, who had discovered her flirtatious power over the boys at her Muslim school, the standards of the Mobassar household were suffocating.

Her older brother, Omar, whom she idolized, was already helping Hezbollah with their humanitarian efforts in the Palestinian refugee camps. Her younger brother, and Nara’s full-time nemesis, was fourteen-year-old Ahmed. Ahmed was determined to be a warrior and spoke with a stridency that pleased his mother but worried Nara’s more conciliatory father.

Nara was the rebellious one. Ahmed could fight for Islam, but Nara wanted to fight for her own independence and the ability to think freely. As a token of that quest, she waged a silent protest each night, working beside her mother in absolute silence as they prepared the food for the all-important men of the house.

When the knock came, her mother turned from the stove and told Nara to watch the chickpeas as they boiled, while keeping one eye on the fried pita bread and lamb.

Standing over the chickpeas and absorbing the steaming odor, Nara heard hushed conversation at the front door. Curious, she walked quietly across the kitchen and stood next to the doorway. Her mother’s voice grew husky, as if she couldn’t accept what was being said. The visitor spoke softly for a few more seconds, until she was interrupted by the insistent voice of Nara’s mother.

“No! Not Omar!” Nara’s mother was backing away from the visitor, holding out her hand as if pushing the bad news away, shaking her head. “Not my Omar. Not my son.”

Nara was drawn into the hallway, her own heart in her throat as she watched her mother edge backward. Without warning, her mother’s knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor. Nara rushed to her aid and, along with the visitor from the mosque, helped her mother into a sitting position.

The three women sat on the floor, Ghaniyah looking at Nara in stunned silence. Her next words were a whisper. “The Jews killed him, Nara. Rocket strikes in the Palestinian camps. Omar was collateral damage.”

The scene was so surreal, the news so shocking, that Nara couldn’t process the words. She stared at her mother and felt waves of grief sweep over her, like somebody had ripped her heart from her chest.

But within seconds, her mother seemed to find some hidden strength. She composed herself, sat up straight, and looked past her daughter. “Allah’s will be done,” Ghaniyah said. She shook off the help of her friend and rose to her feet. She began a chant. Loud. Insistent. Praising Allah for taking her son to paradise. Over and over and over. The high-pitched chanting of praise that Nara had heard so many times as a call to prayer.

Soon, her mother’s friend had joined in, praising Allah, oblivious to Nara, who sat on the floor in utter shock and disbelief. How can they praise Allah when he has allowed such pain?

As the chant continued, Nara’s shock turned to anger, and she rushed from the hallway. She ran outside and down the sidewalk, sprinting without looking back until she thought she might collapse. She slowed to a walk, sobbing and out of breath, dizzy with sorrow. She thought about the sweet spirit of Omar, the way he had always been her protector. She cried uncontrollably, fighting to catch her breath, her grief not allayed one second by the thought of Omar in paradise. She wanted him here! He was too young to die! What kind of God would allow such a thing?

Later that night, after the purification and shrouding of Omar’s body, her father taught about paradise from the holy Qur’an. It was just the four immediate family members gathered in the kitchen.

Nara chose that moment to voice her pain. “Why would Allah let this happen?” Her lips trembled from both sadness and anger. “If Allah is so great, how can he allow the Israelis to kill someone as pure-hearted as Omar?”

The words had barely escaped her lips when the slap came-Ghaniyah’s open hand hard across Nara’s face. “How dare you insult Allah!” Ghaniyah demanded. “No child of mine speaks that way!”

The slap stunned Nara into a seething silence. Her mother had never hit Nara before. It made her want to scream curses at Allah. She wanted to spit at her mother and tell her how stupid she was. But her father’s reassuring voice broke in before Nara had time to do any of those things.

“We all feel pain and anger,” he said. He placed a hand on Ghaniyah’s arm to calm her down. He looked compassionately at Nara, who clenched her teeth in rage. “But Allah should not be the target of our anger. Allah has prepared paradise for your brother. Allah did not send the bombs that killed Omar-that is the work of the Jews and the Christians. Allah, praise his name, will bring justice in his time. At this moment our family must come together.”

Nara’s father had always understood her, and she knew he could read her eyes right now. She was not buying any of this. Later, she and her father would talk-heart to heart, without her mother’s disapproving presence. Nara’s father welcomed her tough questions about the faith. Nara’s mother was afraid of those same questions.

Standing silently in the corner, Ahmed’s face proclaimed his own anger that night. His narrow eyes filled with rage against the Jews who had killed his only brother. His look reflected Nara’s own raw pain. And for the first time in her life, she was proud to have a brother who believed in conquering evil by force.