The Insurrectionist Read Online Free PDF Page A

spire of the mosque followed by painful screams. Everyone jumped to attention, screaming for their family members. Kamiila bolted from her chair and counted heads: Mikail, Lulii, and Eliiza. “Deni!” she screamed frantic.
                As people fled but Kamiila, panic-stricken, searched the crowd for her son. It didn’t take much. Deni found her skirt hem and clung to it tightly. She lifted him in her arms and scolded, “I’m not ever going to die from a bomb; you’re going to make me die of heart failure!”
                Deni’s mother and his older brother herded the family back to their apartment, while Bashir, went off to help rescue victims and recover the bodies of those less fortunate.
                As a former Soviet soldier with medical training, it was Bashir’s duty to serve not just his country but the people. The irony for Bashir was that he saw much more bloodshed as a civilian than he ever did as a soldier. Previous threats of war in the 1980s were with the United States. Nuclear deterrence did much to keep both posturing nations at bay, but small civil skirmishes were hell. Many around the world did not see the atrocities and nor did they want to.
                Back home, Kamiila tried to keep calm as the family took cover in their apartment. She tried to keep her hands from shaking as she made some tea. She gave the kids cookies as a distraction, but it didn’t work. They kept staring out the window, intent on the shelling and mortar fire as the initial blast now turned into a full-scale battle in the streets.
                She noticed twelve-year-old Mikail watching out the window and Deni on the tips of his toes trying to see over the window ledge. “Boys, away from the window!” she scolded.
                “I should be out helping pop,” Mikail said.
                “You’re too young,” replied Kamiila. Mikail resisted her command and remained by the window. “Get away from the window, now!” She walked over and lifted Deni off the floor and carried him away.
                Deni sat on the floor and quietly played with a toy truck. He was too young to understand the significance of all the fighting. As long as his parents reassured him that everything was fine, he believed them. It wasn’t the sound of warfare, bombs, gunfire and shelling that upset Deni, it was everyone’s response. He felt the terror and anxiety even if he couldn’t see the damage. His youthful separation from the violence taught him the keen lessons of empathy and compassion without even being touched by it.
                Mikail was greatly affected simply because he was old enough to see and understand. He read about the conflict in the papers. He asked his parents and teachers questions. “Why do people kill? What do people hate?” The answers were hard to explain to a twelve year old.
                “Because people are not taught how to love,” was always Kamiila’s response.
                It seemed easy enough, just love, but how can you love with so much hate? How can you love when people are filled with so much hate and intent on hurting others? Nothing seemed to help Mikail’s angst. He tore himself away from the window and shrugged his shoulders defiantly and slumped on the couch next to his sisters. “I’m old enough. I can help!”
                “You can help us,” said Kamiila. “Your family needs you. You are the man now.”
                “Will pop be all right?” asked Lulii.
                “He’ll be fine,” assured Kamiila feeling doubtful.
                Later that night, a loud thud drove Deni out of his bed and into bed with Mikail. He snuggled close to his older brother, pulling the blanket over his head.
                Mikail wrapped his arms around Deni’s body. “Are you scared?”
                “No,”