top.
“Dawud, come with me,” his father said, and led him to the front door.
Father and son walked in silence until they passed the town-limit sign, “Banquet, Population 723.” Only then, surrounded by fields, flat and empty after the corn harvest, did his father speak.
“When I was a young man, a few years younger than you are now, I lived with your grandparents in Sidon, in South Lebanon. One night a terrible noise and shaking woke me. The small dresser where I kept my clothes jumped from the ground, crashed to the floor, and splintered to matchwood.” Eyes closed, face screwed into a grimace, his father relived the moment.
“Was it the war, Baba ?”
His father stopped walking and faced his son, but his gaze was far away. “I pulled on my pants and ran outside. Streaks of light blazed through the sky, so bright it became like day. Planes flew so low I thought they would crash. They roared overhead with the sound of a thousand thunderclaps. Come. Walk.”
His father waved him on as though David were the one who had stopped.
“I felt a searing pain in my arm, like being stabbed with a hot poker. My feet left the ground, and I flew through the air and landed, hard. When I next opened my eyes, it was light. I lay on top of a car. I knew I must be on our street. But it was unknown to me.”
“Were you concussed?”
A hand wave dismissed David’s suggestion. “The houses were all gone. The mosque was a shell of three walls. Tiles from its golden dome were scattered like garbage. Everywhere was fire and smoke. The air stunk of burning rubber. I slid off the car, and my arm dangled by my side; it would not move when I asked.” His father flexed his left arm. He had never been able to fully straighten the limb.
“I looked for a marker, something to lead me home through the dust and stone and rubble. Then, near the top of a pile of rocks, like a beacon, my mother’s orange and black headscarf flapped in the breeze. She always wore the same colors . . . orange and black.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together, feeling the cloth.
“Many stones lay atop the material. I dragged at them with my one arm and threw them down. When her scarf came free I held it to my face and breathed in her scent. I shouted for them, ‘ Mama . Baba ’.”
His father stopped walking and bent over as though he might throw up. He snatched an inhaler from his pocket and took two rasping puffs.
David had never seen his father so weak, so sad. He didn’t know how to react. Tears welled in his eyes.
When the old man recovered, he stared into the distance. “All day I dragged at rocks. No one could help. Out of six hundred Muslims in our village, twenty survived. Weeks later, men came with machines. They dug pits and pushed the rubble in. I never saw their bodies.”
“ Baba , why have you never spoken of this?”
He paused, then sighed. “It is not a memory I wish to recall.” After a long silence, he turned back to David, straightened his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. “But, Dawud, you are soon to be a Haji. Understand, when you complete the fifth pillar, when you finish your Hajj, Allah will expect you to shoulder your responsibility. I am from their seed and you from mine. Their deaths are yours to avenge.”
His father’s face was stone gray, his small fists balled. “My son, here in America we are shielded from the war against Islam. Imam Ali is near the battle. Listen to what he says. Only if each Muslim does his duty can the war be won. Each of us has a part to play. Allah guided me, and I brought you to America. I am old. Now my son must take up the fight. Go to Imam Ali. Trust in his wisdom. He will help you understand how your piece should be placed in Allah’s divine puzzle.”
Three weeks later, an Asian woman approached David as he left the Akron-Canton Airport express security gate, which was reserved for passengers on private planes. Her almond eyes were warm, and her black hair,
“Dawud, come with me,” his father said, and led him to the front door.
Father and son walked in silence until they passed the town-limit sign, “Banquet, Population 723.” Only then, surrounded by fields, flat and empty after the corn harvest, did his father speak.
“When I was a young man, a few years younger than you are now, I lived with your grandparents in Sidon, in South Lebanon. One night a terrible noise and shaking woke me. The small dresser where I kept my clothes jumped from the ground, crashed to the floor, and splintered to matchwood.” Eyes closed, face screwed into a grimace, his father relived the moment.
“Was it the war, Baba ?”
His father stopped walking and faced his son, but his gaze was far away. “I pulled on my pants and ran outside. Streaks of light blazed through the sky, so bright it became like day. Planes flew so low I thought they would crash. They roared overhead with the sound of a thousand thunderclaps. Come. Walk.”
His father waved him on as though David were the one who had stopped.
“I felt a searing pain in my arm, like being stabbed with a hot poker. My feet left the ground, and I flew through the air and landed, hard. When I next opened my eyes, it was light. I lay on top of a car. I knew I must be on our street. But it was unknown to me.”
“Were you concussed?”
A hand wave dismissed David’s suggestion. “The houses were all gone. The mosque was a shell of three walls. Tiles from its golden dome were scattered like garbage. Everywhere was fire and smoke. The air stunk of burning rubber. I slid off the car, and my arm dangled by my side; it would not move when I asked.” His father flexed his left arm. He had never been able to fully straighten the limb.
“I looked for a marker, something to lead me home through the dust and stone and rubble. Then, near the top of a pile of rocks, like a beacon, my mother’s orange and black headscarf flapped in the breeze. She always wore the same colors . . . orange and black.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together, feeling the cloth.
“Many stones lay atop the material. I dragged at them with my one arm and threw them down. When her scarf came free I held it to my face and breathed in her scent. I shouted for them, ‘ Mama . Baba ’.”
His father stopped walking and bent over as though he might throw up. He snatched an inhaler from his pocket and took two rasping puffs.
David had never seen his father so weak, so sad. He didn’t know how to react. Tears welled in his eyes.
When the old man recovered, he stared into the distance. “All day I dragged at rocks. No one could help. Out of six hundred Muslims in our village, twenty survived. Weeks later, men came with machines. They dug pits and pushed the rubble in. I never saw their bodies.”
“ Baba , why have you never spoken of this?”
He paused, then sighed. “It is not a memory I wish to recall.” After a long silence, he turned back to David, straightened his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. “But, Dawud, you are soon to be a Haji. Understand, when you complete the fifth pillar, when you finish your Hajj, Allah will expect you to shoulder your responsibility. I am from their seed and you from mine. Their deaths are yours to avenge.”
His father’s face was stone gray, his small fists balled. “My son, here in America we are shielded from the war against Islam. Imam Ali is near the battle. Listen to what he says. Only if each Muslim does his duty can the war be won. Each of us has a part to play. Allah guided me, and I brought you to America. I am old. Now my son must take up the fight. Go to Imam Ali. Trust in his wisdom. He will help you understand how your piece should be placed in Allah’s divine puzzle.”
Three weeks later, an Asian woman approached David as he left the Akron-Canton Airport express security gate, which was reserved for passengers on private planes. Her almond eyes were warm, and her black hair,
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