Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

12

225 SOMERSET AVENUE,

WASHINGTON, DC

Tuesday, 11 July 2006. 11:29 a.m.

The taller of the two men was also the younger, so he was always the one who fetched the coffee and the food, as a sign of respect. His name was Nazim and he was nineteen years old. He had been in Kharouf’s group for fifteen months and he was happy, for finally his life had found meaning, a path.

Nazim idolised Kharouf. They had met at the mosque in Clive Cove, New Jersey. It was a place full of ‘westerniseds’ as Kharouf called them. Nazim enjoyed playing basketball near the mosque, which was where he had got to know his new friend, who was twenty years older than him. Nazim had been flattered that someone so mature, and a college graduate besides, would speak to him.

Now he opened the car door and struggled into the passenger seat, which is not easy when you are six foot two inches tall.

‘I only found a burger bar. I got salads and hamburgers.’ He gave the bag to Kharouf, who smiled.

‘Thanks, Nazim. But I must tell you something, and I don’t want you to become angry.’

‘What?’

Kharouf took the hamburgers out of their boxes and threw them out of the window.

‘Those burger bars add lecithin to their hamburgers and there’s a chance they could contain pork. That’s not halal,’ he said, referring to the Islamic restriction on pork. ‘I’m sorry. But the salads are fine.’

Nazim was disappointed but at the same time he felt reassured. Kharouf was his mentor. Whenever Nazim made a mistake, Kharouf corrected him respectfully and with a smile, which was the complete opposite to the way Nazim’s parents had treated him over the past few months, constantly yelling at him ever since he’d met Kharouf and started attending another mosque that was smaller and more ‘committed’.

In the new mosque the imam not only read from the sacred Koran in Arabic, but also preached in that tongue. Despite the fact that Nazim had been born in New Jersey, he read and wrote the prophet’s language perfectly. His family was from Egypt. Through the hypnotic preaching of the imam, Nazim began to see the light. He broke away from the life he had been leading. He got good grades and could have begun studying engineering that year, but instead Kharouf found him a job in an accounting firm run by a believer.

His parents disagreed with his decision. They also didn’t understand why he locked himself in the bathroom to pray. But as painful as these changes were, they slowly accepted them. Until the incident with Hana.

Nazim’s remarks were becoming increasingly aggressive. One evening his sister Hana, who was two years older than him, came in at two in the morning after having drinks with her friends. Nazim was waiting for her and scolded her about the way she was dressed and for being a little drunk. The insults went back and forth. Finally their father stepped in and Nazim pointed his finger at him.

‘You’re weak. You don’t know how to control your women. You let your daughter work. You let her drive and you don’t insist that she wear a veil. Her place is in the home until she has a husband.’

Hana started to protest and Nazim slapped her. That was the last straw.

‘I may be weak, but at least I am master of this house. Get out! I don’t know you. Leave!’

Nazim went to Kharouf’s with only the clothes on his back. That night he cried a little, but the tears didn’t last. Now he had a new family. Kharouf was both his father and his older brother. Nazim admired him a great deal because Kharouf, who was thirty-nine, was a real jihadist and had been in training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He shared his knowledge with only a handful of young men who, like Nazim, had suffered countless insults. In school, even on the street, people mistrusted him the instant they saw his olive skin and hooked nose and realized he was an Arab. Kharouf told him it was because they feared him, because Christians knew that the Islamic faithful were stronger and more numerous. Nazim liked that. It was time that he commanded proper respect.

Kharouf raised the window on the driver’s side.

‘Six minutes and then we’ll go.’

Nazim gave him a worried look. His friend noticed that something wasn’t right.

‘What’s the matter, Nazim?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s never nothing. Come on, you can tell me.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Is it fear? Are you afraid?’

‘No. I’m a soldier of Allah!’

‘Soldiers of Allah are allowed to be afraid, Nazim.’

‘Well, I’m not.’

‘Is it firing the gun?’

‘No!’

‘Come on, you’ve had forty hours of practice at my cousin’s slaughterhouse. You must have shot more than a thousand cows.’

Kharouf had also been one of Nazim’s shooting instructors and one of the exercises had been firing at live cattle. On other occasions the cows were already dead, but he’d wanted Nazim to get used to firearms and to see what bullets did to flesh.

‘No, the practice sessions were good. I’m not afraid of firing at people. I mean, they’re not really people.’

Kharouf didn’t answer. He leaned on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead and waiting. He knew that the best way to get Nazim to speak up was to allow a few moments of uncomfortable silence. The kid always ended up spilling out whatever was bothering him.

‘It’s just… well, I feel bad about not saying goodbye to my parents,’ he said finally.

‘I see. You still blame yourself for what happened?’

‘A little. Am I wrong?’

Kharouf smiled and placed a hand on Nazim’s shoulder.

‘No. You’re a sensitive and loving young man. Allah gave you those qualities, blessed be his name.’

‘Blessed be his name,’ Nazim repeated.

‘He also gave you the strength to overcome them when you need to. Now take Allah’s sword and do his will. Rejoice, Nazim.’

The young man attempted to smile, but the result was more of a grimace. Kharouf increased the pressure on Nazim’s shoulder. His voice sounded warm, loving.

‘Relax, Nazim. Today Allah is not asking for our blood. He is asking for that of others. But even if something were to happen, you’ve video-taped a message to your family, haven’t you?’

Nazim nodded.

‘Then there’s nothing to worry about. It could be that your parents have become slightly westernised, but deep in their souls they are good Muslims. They know the reward for a martyr. And when you reach the Next Life, Allah will allow you to intercede for them. Just think how they’ll feel.’

Nazim imagined his parents and his sister kneeling in front of him, thanking him for their salvation, begging him to forgive them for being wrong. In the gauzy mist of his fantasy, this was the most beautiful aspect of the next life. He finally managed to smile.

‘That’s the way, Nazim. Your face has the bassamat al-farah, the smile of a martyr. It’s part of our promise. Part of our reward.’

Nazim slipped a hand into his jacket and gripped the handle of the gun.

Calmly he and Kharouf got out of the car.