The Other Half of My Soul (3 page)

three

Everything on this earth has a purpose, every disease has an herb to cure it, and every person has a mission. This is the Indian theory of existence.

—Mourning Dove (Christine Quintasket)

Rami boarded the British Airways wide-bodied jet to London. After a brief layover at Heathrow Airport, he embarked on the final leg of his journey. From the window seat, he looked out on scattered patches of white, pillowy clouds and the vast Atlantic below. A blinding sun glared in the surrounding blue sky. Daylight was constant as the plane flew west, gaining time. Rami pulled down the shade to block out the light and slept on and off during the remainder of the flight.

* * *

Approaching Washington, the plane circled overhead, waiting for clearance. Bleary-eyed, Rami raised the window cover and peered down on the city. Soon, the jet landed at Dulles International Airport and taxied to a stop. Passengers unbuckled their seatbelts. Some rose and stretched. Others reached into the overheads. Patiently, Rami waited for an opening to step out from his seat. He grabbed his carry-on from above and followed the crowd onto the large jitney that would transport them to the terminal.

* * *

Checking through customs without incident, Rami emerged from the international zone and looked for Omar. He saw no police, no military, and no security. He observed people of all ages moving about freely. From behind, a hand on his back startled him. Spinning around, Rami came face-to-face with his closest friend. “Omar! How good it is to see you.
As-salaam alaykum
.”

“
Wa-alaykum as-salaam
.” The two friends embraced.

Rami held up his carry-on and smiled, “This is filled with Syrian pastries from my mother and your mother. I guarded it with my life.”

“Do I dare ask how it got through customs?”

“You do not want to know,” Rami laughed. “But a few
ka’ak
and
samboosak
are missing.”

* * *

In the car, Rami was full of questions. “What is it like living in America? Do you miss your family? And school? What is that like?”

Smiling, Omar steered the black Camry off the Dulles Toll Road and onto the Washington Beltway. “America first. It is a pill-popping society. Whatever the problem, Americans have a pill to fix it. Drugs, legal and illegal, are abused and overused. Consuming large quantities of alcohol is part of American culture. At school, there are always parties on Saturday nights. Some drink themselves into a stupor. How they can function is . . . well . . . anyone’s guess. In this country, it is easy to buy and own guns. Not like in Syria. Here, there is lots of crime . . . much of it violent. Oh, and sex . . . Americans have a bizarre obsession with it. You should see the skimpy clothes the girls wear. So much skin exposed. It will shock you. This is not Syria. Welcome to America.”

Omar’s account of America was strangely similar to Salha’s description, which added to Rami’s already uneasy feeling. Still, he urged Omar to tell him more.

“Life in America . . . you are free, like the wind. It is good to have you here.” A long pause followed as Omar concentrated on the road.

“What else, Omar?”

“America does have its good side. You can buy just about everything imaginable, as long as you have the money to pay for it. People are materialistic. Most everyone over eighteen has a car, or hopes to get one. No American can survive without a telephone. And you are free to live and say and do most anything, within limits, of course. No government is watching over your shoulder . . . Rami, are you okay?”

“I am fine.” Rami masked his sick feeling. “The long trip and being away from . . .”

“From family, yes? I miss my family very much. My absence has been difficult for them. I worry about my parents.”

“I saw your family last week. They are fine, except they do miss you a lot. I have letters for you from all of them.” Reaching into his overnight bag, Rami retrieved a cheese-filled pastry and handed it to Omar.

Biting into the Middle Eastern appetizer, pleasure girdled Omar’s face. “Mmmmm. This one is from my imee. I know her baking anywhere. Rami, I am so happy you are here.”

Rami focused on the surroundings. No horns were honking. No motorists were yelling. No traffic police were shouting. In fact, Rami saw no traffic police anywhere. The heavy congestion of vehicles on the Washington Beltway edged slowly across the Potomac River. Rami noted a sign that read
Welcome to Maryland
.

“We just crossed the Cabin John Bridge. The state of Virginia is behind us.”

* * *

Parking the car in an underground garage of the high-rise building, Omar popped the trunk and grabbed Rami’s carry-on bag from the back seat. Rami lifted out the large duffel bag filled with his life’s belongings. Together, they took the elevator to the top floor.

“Wow! Is this where we will live while we are in school?” Never had Rami envisioned such luxury. The living room had hardwood floors accented by a Persian rug of muted colors. A brown leather sofa and two matching chairs added to the furnishings. On a desk against the far wall sat a computer and printer. Sliding glass doors opened onto a small balcony. Inside a closet off the eat-in kitchen were a washer and dryer. Wide-slatted blinds covered the windows. A dresser, a nightstand, and a matching bed outfitted Rami’s bedroom. Rami’s eyes could hardly grasp it all.

“And, look,” Omar pointed out enthusiastically, “your very own bathroom. You do not have to share it with anyone. Not even me.”

A reality check caused Rami to pause.
This is too good to be true
. “Nobody would give us all this without something in exchange. Who is it, Omar? What do they want?”

Omar appeared uncomfortable. “Rami. It has been a long trip for you. Let us go out and get something to eat. When we come back, you can unpack and get a good night’s sleep. Perhaps tomorrow you will see things differently.” Omar placed his left index finger to his lips and shook his head, signaling for Rami to say no more. He mouthed, “Later, we will talk.”

Rami wanted to call his father. He needed to hear Ibrahim’s insightful assurance. But Rami’s family had no phone. In Syria, only the privileged few had access to telephone service.

four

I have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times, in life after life, in age after age, forever.

—Rabindranath Tagore

The smell of fresh coffee awakened Rami. His first full day in America, and he was not sure whether to be exuberant or cautious. He pulled on his jeans and went into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Rami. I did not have the heart to wake you.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty. Come eat breakfast. We have a busy day ahead. First, to the mosque for
juma
. Then a meeting with the imam. And you need to register for classes and buy your books. After that, I want to show you around campus. No more sleeping late after today.”

“What do you mean
a meeting with the imam
? What imam? For us, there are only twelve imams . . . the descendants of our Prophet. The twelve imams designated by Allah. That is the Shi’ite way. What imam are you referring to, Omar? A Sunni cleric?”

“Yes, Rami. An imam from the Sunni mosque. It is where . . .”

“Why would a Sunni imam want to meet with us? With Shi’ites? I do not like this.”

Omar kicked Rami under the table, shook his head, and again put his finger to his lips.

By now, Rami suspected someone was listening in on everything they said. Quietly, he drank the mug of coffee and ate warm Syrian bread with melted cheese. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“Do not get too comfortable with it. From now on, we are responsible for our own meals. Sometimes we will eat together. Sometimes we will eat alone. Depending on our schedules. We will share chores and clean up after ourselves. I will show you how to use the machines to wash and dry your clothes.” Omar’s tone had changed. From across the kitchen table, he leaned in close to Rami, “Be attentive to your schoolwork, maintain good grades, and do what you are told. Follow the rules.”

Rami wrote on the napkin:
I do not like this
.

Omar looked at the napkin, then pushed it aside. “Hurry. You still need to shower and we must get going.”

* * *

Arriving at the mosque in time for Friday’s noon congregational prayers, the two friends slipped off their shoes and joined the large group of men who were now standing side by side in straight rows facing the
mihrab
, the niche in the wall indicating east toward Mecca. The worshippers raised their hands proclaiming that God is most great, “
Allahu akbar
.” While chanting excerpts from the Quran, they fulfilled the ritual movements of standing, bowing, kneeling, and touching the ground with their foreheads. They then sat upright on the floor and listened to the imam’s sermon.

Afterward, the cleric approached Rami and Omar, welcoming them. “There is someone I’d like you to meet. Come into my office.” He introduced them to Abdallah, a stocky and intimidating Arab with light-brown skin, an oily pockmarked complexion, and thick black hair that looked like it was matted down with Vaseline. The imam motioned for them to sit at the small conference table.

In a gruff voice, Abdallah acknowledged the two friends, “So, tell me, how do you like your apartment?”

“Fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Fine, sir, thank you? Omar, you can do better than that. We set you up in a beautiful place. Show some appreciation. I expect you both to do what you’re told. Be attentive in school. Study hard. Get good grades. No parties. No girls. Stay out of trouble. We don’t want negative attention focused on us in this foreign land. Do you both understand?” Not waiting for a response, Abdallah pulled out a video from his briefcase and inserted it into the VCR.

Rami already decided that he did not like this man named Abdallah. He did not like being in a Sunni mosque. He did not like the Sunni imam.

The video took only ten minutes. The final message on the screen was clear.

We must shrink to nothing those areas where people move freely. We must tear away at the fabric that holds societies together. We must remain focused on our mission until Allah’s decree is done. In time, nowhere will be safe until all the world turns to Islam.

The screen went blank. From his chair, Abdallah scrutinized the two students, then abruptly stood. “Salaam.” A sneer tugged wickedly at his lips. He turned and left.

The imam escorted the two friends to the door. “I am here whenever you need to talk.”

Silently, Rami and Omar walked out to the car. Omar started the engine. Rami’s anger was about to erupt. Omar put up his hand to quiet him, opened the compartment between the two front seats, and took out a pen and small pad. On the paper, he wrote:
I am sure our apartment is bugged. I think this car is also bugged. Write what you want to say.

* * *

Walking across campus toward the Student Union Building, Omar said, “This was done on purpose. They will be watching to see how we react. The best we can do is
not
react. Be careful what you say in the apartment, in the car, or to anyone.”

“Just how long have you known about this, Omar? When were you planning to tell me? Or were you leaving me to find out on my own?”

“Do not be unreasonable, Rami. You have barely been here twenty-four hours . . . and I never saw that tape before. For months I knew nothing. Guessing conjured up my worst images, so I tried not to think. It was only a few days ago that I found out about al-Shahid. We will owe our blood to them, if we do not already.”

“Al-Shahid! The martyrs! Those militants! Those lunatics! Is that who is sponsoring our education? Are we doomed to become one of them? If they think I am going to . . .”

“Lower your voice, Rami.”

“And the imam? What is his role? I do not trust that man.”

“They own him. He gets money to run the mosque. The imam is a good man, but they have his life dangling. He has a wife and seven children, and is trying to lead the community the best he can under the situation he has been put into. Do you not see, Rami? The imam has no choice. And we have no choice either.”

“So when you said yesterday that in America one is as free as the wind, I take it you did not mean us?”

Omar’s eye contact with Rami drifted.

“I will talk with the imam,” Rami volunteered.

“You will do no such thing. Only a fool who wants to get killed opens his mouth.”

* * *

After eating lunch at the university’s food court, Omar led Rami to the big gymnasium where class registration was being held. Stepping into one of the many lines, the two waited their turn. Rami scanned the room, first to the left, then to the right. When he turned around to survey the space behind, the most beautiful female he could ever have imagined stood directly in front of him. A flame ignited and a glorious stream of energy rushed through his blood. Rayna’s huge, exotic hazel eyes captured him. He wanted to touch the silky, soft black hair that hung loosely on her shoulders. He wanted to feel the softness of her flawless golden skin. He wanted to kiss her perfectly sensuous mouth. Rayna’s sundress, brushed with pink and violet, enhanced her dark beauty and accentuated her small breasts and tiny waist. Never had Rami known his senses to be so aroused. A wordless communication surged between them when she met his gaze.

Omar grabbed Rami’s arm and yanked him from the line. “Are you crazy?” he admonished in Syrian. “Get hold of yourself. You have been warned about girls, especially pretty American girls. They are evil temptations. Go to the restroom and cool off. Splash cold water on your face. I will wait for you in another line. Come back and find me.”

* * *

In bed that night, Rami could not sleep. The young woman had awakened every feeling in his body, every thought in his head. Rami was determined to find her. Wrapping himself around the king-size pillow, he let his fantasies run wild.