Final Winter

Amil looked around the crowded streets again, looking vainly for a street sign or any other symbol that would help him reach his destination. He sighed, shifted his weight, winced again at the pain in his left foot. He had gotten up this morning before sunrise in his small village, about fifty kilometers to the east of Lahore. With other day workers there, he had scrambled aboard a wheezing bus that rode the bumpy Route A-2 that led into Lahore, and he had stood for most of the trip, taking in the kilometers after kilometers of crowded shacks and buildings that had been erected up against the old walls of the city. All along the way to the city, he had murmured to himself, repeating the holy prayers that he had memorized in the few short years he had spent in the local madrassa, asking for God’s help and God’s strength to do what had to be done.

The ride had been uneventful, except for one brief moment, along a place called Killorney Boulevard, when he had spotted a small fortress of a building, flying that hated red-white-blue flag, and he had stared at it with such contempt for a moment, until he’d remembered his instructions. Be quiet, do not bring notice to yourself, just do what you’ve been told to do.

God be praised.

But now, he was lost.

In Amil’s hand was a dirty piece of lined schoolbook paper, with instructions and directions carefully written out in his scrawl that he was ashamed to show his sister, for her writing was much better than his. It was not fair, for his schooling had been the memorization and the glorification of the word of God, while their mother had insisted that his sister take part in some education and work program, administered by a women’s council (as if such a thing could be believed!) that was getting money from some infidel bank from Europe. He had complained bitterly to his mother about the influence this was passing on to his younger sister, and she had snapped at him one night that with his empty head and God’s words and a clubfoot, if he wished to do better, then by all means do better.

Amil looked up again and around, desperately seeking a sign. The instructions that had been dictated to him had been clear — he had been forced to read them back twice to the stranger who had first met him at the village mosque -and only then had he received the money.

The stranger — a tall Sudanese man — had said as they sat on a stone bench near the center of the village, under a willow tree, ‘I am looking for a pious young man, a man who wants to perform jihad. Are you that man, Amil?’

And he had replied, his hands trembling with excitement, yes, yes I am.

‘You’ve wanted to perform jihad for some time now, haven’t you.’

Yes, that I have, sir, he had said.

‘You’ve wanted to take up weapons against God’s enemies, to go to distant lands, but this has not occurred. Why?’

Amil had looked down at his feet in shame and sorrow, not able to answer.

The Sudanese had nodded. ‘But your crippled foot… it has prevented you from traveling to Afghanistan or Yemen or Iraq, am I right? You cannot walk for long distances. So you have stayed here, in your home, with your mother and your sister. Instead of being a warrior for God.’

Amil had almost whispered, it is God’s will. What else can I do?

The Sudanese had leaned in, his tobacco breath near Amil’s ear, and said, ‘There are other weapons to use against the Jews and the infidels, other ways to perform jihad without traveling too far or carrying a weapon. Are you interested?’

And Amil had said, his voice now strong, I am at your command.

The older man had smiled. ‘You are at God’s command, this is true. And this is what you shall do.’

And so Amil had learned and had written down the directions and the orders, and so it came to pass that he was now here, near where he had to go to do his jihad, to perform his holy struggle, and—

Lost!

The utter shame.

Two men made their way through the crowds and now eyed Amil, and he shivered. They wore uniforms of some sort, some type of policeman with large, fierce mustaches, and they carried long wooden staves in their weathered hands, and Amil started walking again, passing them, knowing instinctively that to stay in one place was to invite questions, and that was one thing that the Sudanese had taught him, over and over again, not to invite questions.

He walked up the street and thought for a moment, and then came back. Vendors and shopkeepers and buyers moved around in a chattering, bright flood, but he ignored the directions now for a moment, recalled what he was looking for, the bright sign the Sudanese said would be out there. The street sign was missing…how and where it went missing was not his worry. But the other sign that he sought… well, it must be someplace near. He could ask directions from one of the vendors, but no, with God’s will and God’s help, he would find it by himself.

And he did!