All the Young Warriors

SEVEN

It wasn't until he had been assigned the task that Adem began noticing other soldiers around the camp with one hand. He'd been told punishments such as these were supposed to be deterrents, used sparingly. But he counted four one-handed men before breakfast.

He grew tired of searching, but couldn't help himself. Turned his attention to finding the girl who had poured his milk yesterday. The way she'd looked at him. He wanted her to do it again. If he got another chance to look into her eyes, he would gladly drink a gallon of camel milk.

Ate what he could-more laxoox, the flatbread, with honey, and a strong tea. More to settle his growling stomach than because he was hungry. Throwing up something would be better than dry heaving. Jibriil was nowhere to be found, so Adem ate alone. Didn't look up from his plate. Acid in his throat.

If Jibriil began keeping his distance, Adem's days were numbered. All that talk about country and Allah, all of it sounding big and important until they were on the ground, and it seemed to Adem like a big high school clique. A gang like the one his dad had led, except with more prayer and no alcohol. Had to face it: he'd come along with Jibriil thinking they would be welcomed with open arms. He had hoped to reconnect with all of the culture Jibriil had told him they had both lost. That they had been lied to by their parents, their aunts and uncles, their older brothers and sisters. Brainwashed by Americans. Especially Adem, off in college. Jibriil telling him, "Son, you've changed. Like I don't even know you anymore."

Adem could've said the same thing, but when he looked around his small campus, out on the prairie, sitting next to farm kids who barely knew their own language while Adem already had three under his belt, and yet they looked at him when he spoke as if he was mentally challenged. It wasn't exactly like he'd hoped. His dad was dead set on him getting a degree, maybe even going to grad school. His dad, who used to run with the baddest gang on the streets, now, what, a wage slave?

While his family hadn't been the most fervent Muslims, Adem had steered even further away from faith until arriving on campus and realizing how little the white farm kids knew about Islam, and all the awful assumptions they made to fill the holes. Berated him for his treatment of women. What? "Not me," he would say. "Never." Or he'd get the talk radio Republicans-boys who got their politics from their dad and glorified DJs-wanting to debate him on terrorism, then not believe him when he told them he agreed with them. Then they would say "Islam is a religion of death. It's right there in the Quran. You can't deny it." But he would try, half-heartedly, to save face. Told them they hadn't read the Quran, and probably hadn't read the entire Bible they kept quoting either. Truth was that neither had Adem. As a child, sure, memorizing verses, all that. These days, he had the general gist of the story. Enough to get by on.

So when Jibriil told him about this trip-this crusade -he asked more questions. Kept getting deeper. At the very least, he thought the trip would set him straight about the importance of keeping his faith alive. But so far everything he'd seen in country had smashed what little was left into shards.

Adem heard his name being called. He looked up from his breakfast. Garaad was coming towards him, face not as wrapped as the day before. Crisscrossed with several nearly white scars on his lips and chin. He waved.

Adem stood. His stomach wasn't ready.

Garaad was talking and walking. "Come now. Let's get this over with."

Adem followed Garaad out of the tent and towards a crowd in an open area that used to be a town square, he'd been told, but was now barren, all the decoration removed by the soliders. Adem thought about the football field, the pitch overgrown with shrubs. Here, not one plant or tree. Only the crowd, a couple of goats, and a loud dog. Stone and dirt.

He asked, "Does this make sense to you? Losing a hand over, what, a little bread?"

Garaad, with his devil's smile, lifted his chin like You've got to be kidding me. "Tell me, in America. Someone who steals, say, a car? He goes to jail?"

"If he's caught, sure."

"And in jail, the prisoners tell him how to steal the next car without getting caught. And also, they take his manhood, make him a faggot. He starts on drugs. Maybe sells them when he gets out. His life is ruined."

"But not always. He has a chance to make himself better. He wouldn't want to go back again, right?"

"They do, though. Over and over. In jail, out, and in again." Garaad sniffed. "I'd rather lose a hand. Look at a stump every day and thank Allah for it."

"Okay."

"You?"

A minute ago it had been no contest. At least in America, losing your hand wasn't an option. "I don't know." Surprised to say it, but he really didn't. He wouldn't want either fate, but with a possible felony murder charge hanging over him in New Pheasant Run, prison was becoming a real possibility.

Even Sharia didn't whack off a hand for murder. They went straight to "Eye for an eye". Dead for dead. No appeals.

He and Garaad made their way through the crowd, weaving through unwashed soldiers, sweating townspeople, children. It was the hottest morning Adem had ever felt. Even a family vacation to the Badlands when he was younger, middle of a heat wave in South Dakota, hundred and ten by noon, easy. That was nothing compared to nine-thirty in Mogadishu.

The air was so hot it stung his nostrils. Squinted until his brow hurt. Several high-ranking men-two in combat uniforms, clean and pressed. The others in Somali robes, brightly colored, heavy, wearing white taqiyat -prayer hats. One of them, an old man with a white beard, held a machete. As Adem approached, the man with the machete presented it to him, a hand under the handle and the blade.

The man was praying. A chant. Adem didn't know if he should bow his head or close his eyes or put his hand over his heart. Still no sign of Jibriil, which was starting to freak him out. It was Jibriil's fault he was doing this. Were they going to give him a lesson in hand chopping? Was he expected to put on a show? The solemn faces of the leaders suggested not. He was to act as God's agent of Justice. He was to be blessed for it.

Crowd noise behind him. Adem turned to see the people make a path for the accused, looking shocked but not frantic. Almost like he'd been drugged. Leading him by his arm into the center of the square was Jibriil.

Following him were two men, one carrying a metal table like you'd find in a hospital. The other, a chair. In Jibriil's free hand, a plastic shopping bag. The men set up the table, the chair, and Jibriil led the convicted man over so he could sit down. Speaking softly in his ear, to which the man nodded, did as he was told. Adem could imagine what Jibriil was telling him: It's alright. You'll be punished, won't feel a thing, then forgiven so you can get on with God's work. What else could you tell a man about to lose his hand over a few extra pieces of bread?

As the guilty man was prepared, the holy man who had handed the machete to Adem placed his hand on his back, led him in slow steps to the table and chair. The crowd closed in, shrinking the circle. Jibriil backed away, revealing the thief's arm being tied off with a tourniquet. His hand rested palmside up on the table. One of the men assisting Jibriil took the bag from him, pulled a syringe from it, and held it up to the sun. Tapped his finger against the side, plunged just so a drop bubbled out and ran down the needle.

He wiped a cloth across the man's arm. The alcohol smell hit Adem's nose. The needle slipped into the man's arm near his wrist. He flexed his fingers. Small sounds coming from him, not quite crying, not quite whimpering. Pathetic. Much calmer than Adem would be if they switched places.

Time passed. No one in the crowd said a word. A surprise. Adem expected shouts, jeers, but it was much the same as the stoning. Silence. Respect. Then why did they bother to watch? It was a horror show. They claimed to be the more civilized religion, right? Not even the American devils used public punishment as a spectacle anymore. That had faded away at some point in the twentieth century. Prisoners had the right to accept their time behind thick walls, no prying eyes, or in antiseptic execution rooms with only a select few on the other side of the glass.

Here? Why did they flock to see this behanding instead of going to work, taking care of their homes, playing football, cooking, laughing, praying? Like an American car wreck. In spite of the suffering out in the open, it was hard not to watch.

Adem didn't understand the injection at first. What was the point? But as the men poked at the hand, testing for a response, he realized that they didn't want screams and blood. They didn't want carnage. They wanted to please Allah. So they found the least painful way they could to do this while still making sure the message got through. Never take bread without asking.

Jibriil held the man's numb right hand high, made sure all of the crowd got a good look, before he set it down again gently on the table.

Adem wasn't even going to get a practice swing.

Another of the clerics spoke into Adem's ear. "They will mark the best place to strike. You bring it up over your head, keep your eye on the mark, not the blade. Let it fall heavy with a little force behind it. Don't think too much. It has been sharpened so fine that a child could do this."

"But what if it doesn't come off?"

"Do what I said, and you won't have to worry. It's been taken care of."

Adem stepped up to the table. Glanced at Jibriil, who winked at him. Glanced at the convicted man. Head turned the other way. Eyes tight. Waiting.

Adem took a deep breath. Cleared his throat, gagged, placed his free hand over his mouth. Easy, easy. Just do it. Nothing to fear.

Once lifted, there was no turning back.

Adem arced the machete over his head. Held it a moment too long. Knew as he was coming down with it that he was off, pushing too hard. Flinched his shoulders. The blade landed with a clang, shaking the table. Adem had closed his eyes without realizing. He looked down.

Three fingertips, two on the table and the other on the ground flecked with sand.

The guilty man began breathing fast, heavy, wheezing. He'd looked too.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Adem lifted the blade again. Slung blood over his head. Came down again. A better blow, but only half a cut. The man tried to lift his hand. It wobbled, dangled. Adem grabbed his arm, pushed it back against the table, fit his blade against the remaining attached skin and muscle, and sawed his way through. The guilty man screaming the whole time. Shrill and painful.

Jibriil held the man in the chair by his shoulders. Leaned down and whispered in his ear some more. Whatever he said calmed the man immediately. Adem stepped back as the two attendants came forward and began bandaging the stump. Another look at the severed hand-a ragged cut, too much loose skin left over. Too much blood.

The clerics and military men turned back and forth between the guilty man and Adem. Animated talking. Shocked eyes. Then the man with the white beard raised his hand chin high, spoke loudly and got the others' attentions.

"He did as we asked. He did the best he could. No one can fault him." Turned to Adem, reached out.

Adem walked to him, dropped the blade along the way. The cleric took both of Adem's hands in his own, never mind the blood. Kissed him on each cheek.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Adem bowed his head to the holy man.

"No, no. It is I who am sorry. You did the right thing. Blessings on you, son."

Another embrace, Adem staining the man's robes with the blood.

The murmuring of the crowd raised in volume as they dispersed. They said things like, "Awful. Just awful" and "It's bad enough to take his hand, but to humiliate him like that…" and "Imagine if that had been someone's neck."

As the clerics took their leave, Adem turned to the men working with the convicted. The blood had flowed more, with a pool of it now on the table, spilling over into the dirt. Jibriil stood back, arms crossed. Adem walked over, stood at his side.

"What's wrong?"

Jibriil shrugged. "Maybe the heat. Maybe he's a hemophiliac. I don't know. But they can't stop him bleeding."

The men shouted, frantically waved at soldiers who were standing around like Adem and Jibriil. Finally, a truck rushed down the road towards them, parted the remaining crowd and screeched to a stop. The attendants grabbed a cot from the back, laid it on the ground, then forced the man out of the chair. He refused to lie down. He held his stump as the men fought to control the bleeding, making a bigger mess. They finally got him to stumble towards the back of the truck. Helped him into the bed. He started out by sitting up, but then slipped out of sight as if he'd fainted. The truck sped off, kicked up dirt clouds. Left Adem and Jibriil staring at the blood-covered chair and table, both of which had been knocked over, turning the dirt dark.

Jibriil clapped Adem on the shoulder. "Still, all in all it was a good job. You did what you needed to do."

"Is he going to die?"

A grin. "Some things are out of our hands. All we can do is-"

"Yeah, I know. God's plan, God's will, all that."

"Hey, it got us this far."

Adem wiped his hands on his pants. What had he done? How did he know this guy didn't have AIDS or Hep or worse? Like Ebola, all those crazy jungle bugs. Wiped some more. Seeping into his pores now. "Water. I need to wash the blood off."

"Okay, yeah. That's good. Let's do that."

They headed off. Adem wasn't certain, but it seemed as if the soldiers weren't laughing at him quite as much. At least today.

Jibriil said, "Good news. Thanks to that, you're coming along with me tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow? Where are we going?"

A smile. "You'll see. Try to get some time in on the gun today."

The gun. His AK. Struggled to keep the bullets from spraying like a crazy fountain at the water parks in the Dells. Jibriil telling him he needed it. Shit, he was heading into combat.

"What's it like?"

Jibriil stopped, glanced around. Then, "I can't tell you. Everyone feels it differently. I should have been afraid. Like, shit my pants afraid, right? But I wasn't. Not at all. It felt like the thing I was best in the world at."

Adem didn't say anything more as they made their way to a spigot on the side of what used to be a school. Until this week, he would have guessed the thing Jibriil was best at was singing. But he was sure singing wouldn't have gotten him so bloody.