himself riding in the gun truck, or âtechnical truck,â as the men called it. As always, the Sheikh and Abdullahi rode in the cab, and the young soldiers of God occupied the back. The pickup bed offered even less room than usual for Hussein and the five other boys. Next to the Kord machine gun, a heavy green box rattled with every rut and hole in the unpaved road. About five feet long and several inches thick, the box looked like a case for some special weapon. Metal latches held the plastic box closed.
âDo not sit on it,â the Sheikh had ordered. âDo not open it. Do not touch it.â
The boys had received no instructions to man the gun or to stay alert. We control this part of the country, Hussein guessed, though the older men never told him such things.
Hussein had no idea where he was. He could no longer see the ocean; the truck had driven inland. Coastal sand dunes gave way to choking dust, and scrubby vegetation clung to life in the dry soil. The truck rolled past a few cultivated fields. Some farmer had tilled the soil with a hoe to prepare for seed, just the way Husseinâs father used to do. But no one worked the fields today.
Women were not supposed to be in the fields on any day. The Sheikh and other men had taught Hussein that women should not show themselves outside the home. Violations would be punished: anything from flogging to amputation to stoning, depending on what the woman was doing outside.
But it seemed strange to see no men, either. Yes, Hussein thought, al-Shabaab does control this area. The sinful fear us, as they should. These farmers must have sinned.
The truck bounced through a deep gulley, and each sway of the suspension deepened the pangs in Husseinâs stomach. Each boy had received an orange that morning before setting out on the journey. Hussein had already eaten the juicy sections of fruit, but the peels remained in his pocket, saved for later.
He decided he could no longer wait. Hussein shifted his AK-47 from his right hand to his left and dug into his trouser pocket. He pulled out a handful of orange peels.
The pickup hit another rut, and the impact knocked two pieces from his hand. The other boys lunged for the peels. Husseinâs instincts took over.
âThatâs mine!â Hussein shouted.
He grabbed at the nearest boy whoâd snatched a fragment of rind. All of Husseinâs orange peels went flying, and the other boys fought for them. Fists and elbows flew. Hussein punched a boy in the face. Blood spurted from the boyâs nose. The boy raised his rifle with both hands as if to smash Hussein with the stock.
The Sheikh stuck his head out of the window and shouted, âSilence! Or I will have Abdullahi flog you all.â
The fight ended immediately. The boys settled back into their places. Hussein found himself with only one piece of rind no bigger than a ten-
senti
coin. Dirt from the pickup bed covered the rind, but he popped it into his mouth anyway. Felt the grit grinding in his teeth as he chewed.
He turned his face into the rushing wind as the truck raced along. Hussein hoped the air would dry the water welling in his eyes. He would not let the other boys see him cry. He was just as strong as they were. He was a soldier of God.
Hussein swallowed the dirty remnant of his orange. One boy smirked at him, but the gloating went no further. At one point or another, they had all felt the back of Abdullahiâs hand or the sting of his lash. The older men must be obeyed, for they were the leaders of the soldiers of God.
âThey are taking us for training,â one of the boys supposed.
Orange peels forgotten now, everyoneâs attention returned to the box and whatever it contained.
Training
could mean anything.
Training could mean target practice. Several times since the older men had found Hussein hungry in the streets of Mogadishu, they had let him shoot his beloved AK, his symbol of manhood. The first time, a
âDo not sit on it,â the Sheikh had ordered. âDo not open it. Do not touch it.â
The boys had received no instructions to man the gun or to stay alert. We control this part of the country, Hussein guessed, though the older men never told him such things.
Hussein had no idea where he was. He could no longer see the ocean; the truck had driven inland. Coastal sand dunes gave way to choking dust, and scrubby vegetation clung to life in the dry soil. The truck rolled past a few cultivated fields. Some farmer had tilled the soil with a hoe to prepare for seed, just the way Husseinâs father used to do. But no one worked the fields today.
Women were not supposed to be in the fields on any day. The Sheikh and other men had taught Hussein that women should not show themselves outside the home. Violations would be punished: anything from flogging to amputation to stoning, depending on what the woman was doing outside.
But it seemed strange to see no men, either. Yes, Hussein thought, al-Shabaab does control this area. The sinful fear us, as they should. These farmers must have sinned.
The truck bounced through a deep gulley, and each sway of the suspension deepened the pangs in Husseinâs stomach. Each boy had received an orange that morning before setting out on the journey. Hussein had already eaten the juicy sections of fruit, but the peels remained in his pocket, saved for later.
He decided he could no longer wait. Hussein shifted his AK-47 from his right hand to his left and dug into his trouser pocket. He pulled out a handful of orange peels.
The pickup hit another rut, and the impact knocked two pieces from his hand. The other boys lunged for the peels. Husseinâs instincts took over.
âThatâs mine!â Hussein shouted.
He grabbed at the nearest boy whoâd snatched a fragment of rind. All of Husseinâs orange peels went flying, and the other boys fought for them. Fists and elbows flew. Hussein punched a boy in the face. Blood spurted from the boyâs nose. The boy raised his rifle with both hands as if to smash Hussein with the stock.
The Sheikh stuck his head out of the window and shouted, âSilence! Or I will have Abdullahi flog you all.â
The fight ended immediately. The boys settled back into their places. Hussein found himself with only one piece of rind no bigger than a ten-
senti
coin. Dirt from the pickup bed covered the rind, but he popped it into his mouth anyway. Felt the grit grinding in his teeth as he chewed.
He turned his face into the rushing wind as the truck raced along. Hussein hoped the air would dry the water welling in his eyes. He would not let the other boys see him cry. He was just as strong as they were. He was a soldier of God.
Hussein swallowed the dirty remnant of his orange. One boy smirked at him, but the gloating went no further. At one point or another, they had all felt the back of Abdullahiâs hand or the sting of his lash. The older men must be obeyed, for they were the leaders of the soldiers of God.
âThey are taking us for training,â one of the boys supposed.
Orange peels forgotten now, everyoneâs attention returned to the box and whatever it contained.
Training
could mean anything.
Training could mean target practice. Several times since the older men had found Hussein hungry in the streets of Mogadishu, they had let him shoot his beloved AK, his symbol of manhood. The first time, a