The Other Half of My Soul (6 page)

* * *

Eating salads and veggie melts, both tried to focus on the assignment, engaging in a long exchange over the oil-devouring bacteria. Rayna took notes and Rami agreed to type the report.

“I have a three o’clock class,” she said as the time grew closer.

“When can I see you again?”

“Thursday in philosophy.”

“You are seeing Jonathan tonight?”

“Rami, you’re a Muslim, yes?”

He nodded, “A Shi’ite Muslim.”

“A terrorist? A militant?” she teased.

“No,” he grinned. “I am neither. I hope you do not think all Muslims are that way.”

“I don’t.” She paused, trying to figure out how best to explain so Rami could understand. “I come from a very religious family. I eat salad and veggie sandwiches for lunch because I keep kosher. It’s part of my being Jewish. I don’t eat pork or shellfish or meat from any animal unless it has been slaughtered in a certain ritualistic way. We must take care that the animal is healthy and feels no pain when it is killed. The jugular is severed, spilling the blood, and the animal dies instantly. Only then is the meat certified kosher for us to eat.”

“I also come from a religious family. Islamic law is similar, but we do not call it kosher. We call it halal. We, also, are not allowed pork, and the only meat we can eat follows the same ritual slaughter you just described.” Rami was finding it difficult to comprehend why Muslims had such a profound hatred for Jews. He recalled his layover at Heathrow Airport, when another Muslim traveling alone befriended him. In the course of their conversation, the stranger told Rami that if he could not find halal food in the United States, then he should look for kosher food. At the time, Rami did not understand the meaning. “What does your telling me about kosher food have to do with your seeing Jonathan at six o’clock tonight?”

“On campus, there’s a Jewish Student Center, a Hillel. Jonathan lives in the same dorm as I do and we eat our kosher meals at Hillel. Jonathan and I, and some other Jewish students in the dorm, we walk over together for dinner. I only just met Jonathan a couple of weeks ago and discovered that he lives near me in Brooklyn. He’s been kind enough to offer me rides home. That’s all.”

“Can I see you over the weekend? A movie? Dinner somewhere?”

“I’d like to say yes, but I’m going home for Yom Kippur. It’s our holiest day of the year. From sunset to sunset, we fast, we pray, and we make peace with God and with our fellow man. It is our day of repentance. On Rosh Hashanah, the fate of each man for the coming year is written. And on Yom Kippur, it is sealed. I’m leaving this Friday afternoon and won’t be back until Tuesday morning, but I’ll see you in class on Thursday and we can have lunch afterward.”

“I would like that.” What Rami did not like was Rayna traveling alone with Jonathan. “What about the following weekend? Are you going home again?”

“No . . . yes . . . I mean yes, we can go out then.”

Leaving the Student Union, Rami carried Rayna’s books and walked her to class. “One of our holy times is Laylat al-Baraa, Night of Repentance. Forgiveness is granted to those who repent. Allah sets the course for each of us for the coming year. Something like Yom Kippur.”

“I’d like to learn more about Islam.”

“I will teach you. And Judaism . . . will you teach me?”

“We have a deal,” she smiled. They approached the journalism building. Rayna took her books from Rami. “Thank you. See you on Thursday.” She started for the entranceway.

“Wait!”

Rayna turned back.

“I need your trust. I have no one else in America. When you return, I will explain everything. For now, please accept what I ask. Do not call me. I think my apartment and phone are bugged. It is something I have to deal with. I need a cell phone. Will you help me get one?”

Rayna started to ask a question, then stopped. “When I get back next week, we’ll make time. We can take the metro and go shopping.”

Rami took her hand and clasped it firmly in his. He felt her pulse quicken and her hand tremble. Looking into her remarkable face, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm.

“I really have to go, Rami.” She eased her hand from his grip and hurried into the building.

* * *

In the classroom, Rayna plopped down in a vacant seat. Her pulse beat rapidly and she felt her head spinning. An unexplainable force was thrusting her toward him.
My destiny is bolted shut
, she was convinced.
There is no way to get free of him
. Rayna prayed to God to give her the strength to fight this predetermined path befalling her.

* * *

For the next two days, she struggled in vain to keep Rami out of her thoughts. On Thursday, she tried to avoid him and left early from Spanish class, but Rami caught up with her. In philosophy, Rami surprised her by apologizing to the group for his behavior, which made him more endearing.

* * *

After class, Rami and Rayna got their usual from the coffee bar and sat out in the grass with their lunch. “Do you wear mascara?” she chuckled.

“
Mas-ca-ra
?” he sounded out the word. “What is that?” When Rayna amused him with a detailed description of the cosmetic, he asked, “Do you really see mascara on my lashes?”

“Yes,” she giggled. “I see mascara.”

“No. No mascara.”

“No one could possibly have such long, curly black lashes without mascara,” she teased.

“It is my natural beauty,” he bantered, bringing a burst of laughter from both of them. “Now, let me look at your lashes.” He moved his face close to hers. “Mmm-hmm.”

“What? What do you see?”

He took her hands. “I see the two most captivating eyes on this planet . . . and mascara is on your lashes.” He wanted to kiss her. “One day, I will marry you.”

“No!” she shouted, then lowered her voice. “Muslims and Jews don’t . . .”

“Do not what, Rayna?”

“Just do not. That’s all. I can’t . . . my family.”

“I am sorry there is no peace between Muslims and Jews. Can we just not get caught up in all that ugliness?” This time, when Rami leaned in to kiss her, she did not resist. The delicate smell of her warm breath sent a current of energy through his body. Rami wanted more. “Have you ever been intimate with someone?” he asked clumsily.

“You mean sex . . . with a man?” she blushed.

“Yes,” he bumbled over the word.

“Of course not. My parents would kill me. Not until I’m married.”

“Good,” he smiled.

“Have you?”

“No, I never have. Until now, there was no one I wished to be . . . you know . . .”

* * *

Over the next several weeks, the bond between them deepened. Every night before sleeping, Rami called Rayna on his new cell phone. Extra cautious, he spoke in whispers.

Rayna tutored Rami in Spanish. He helped Rayna with her algebra. She learned about al-Shahid. He discovered Hillel and the Jewish sabbath. With an outpouring of tolerance and acceptance, they explored each other’s faiths. On weekends, they took the metro into Washington. The Woodley Park Zoo became a favorite place for them to marvel at the animals. When Rami got his license, he and Rayna often drove to Brookside Gardens, a treasured place where they strolled hand-in-hand, shared long, soul-searching talks, and trusted one another with their deepest thoughts, feelings, and fears. Never at a loss for words, they learned from one another, growing both in wisdom and in spirit.

* * *

Rami and Omar had no choice but to continue their mandatory, weekly indoctrination meetings with Abdallah and the imam. However, Rami’s inner strength persevered and he would not allow his mind to be manipulated by abhorrent ideas. In contrast, Omar was fearful and obedient. Mistrust and alienation cast a dark shadow on their friendship.

* * *

By December, students were busy preparing for final exams and term papers, and making plans for the month-long winter break. Rami and Omar would be returning together to Syria. Rayna was going home to Brooklyn.

seven

A warrior never betrays weakness in the face of adversity.

—A Samurai saying

Ten days before Rami’s departure to Syria, Abdallah had left for a meeting at al-Shahid headquarters in Lebanon’s agriculture heartland, the Bekaa Valley. The ringleaders in al-Shahid had joined forces with two other militant organizations and had begun to infiltrate a region in South America known as the Triple Frontier, a place notorious for its lawlessness and for being a haven for terrorists and drug lords.

* * *

On a blustery December morning, Rayna tossed her jacket and tote on top of the pile of books and clothes in the back seat of the car. Easing herself into the front passenger side, she glanced at Jonathan and sighed, “Whew! I thought we’d never make it.”

Jonathan smiled, started the engine, turned on the heater, and steered the white Legacy off campus. From a distance, Rami watched them drive away.

Slipping off her shoes, Rayna drew up her feet and crossed them over one another into the lotus position that so often brought her comfort. She chatted about taking extra classes in order to graduate early and about going on to Columbia’s School of Journalism for advanced degrees. Jonathan expressed hopes of getting accepted into Columbia also, but in the College of Physicians and Surgeons. His family expected him to go into practice with his father, a renowned surgeon. “Jonathan, that’s wonderful. You’ll make a terrific doctor.” Rayna gave him an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. Expecting the conversation to continue in a light vein, she was taken aback by Jonathan’s question.

“What’s going on between you and Rami?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Rayna, we’re not stupid. We all see it.”

“Who is we?”

“Me, the rabbi, our whole group of friends . . .”

“Is it that obvious?” Rayna was feeling alarmed.

“Yes, it’s that obvious.” With his eyes on the road, Jonathan proceeded to give Rayna stern warnings about the inherent hatred that Muslims have for Jews. “Did you ever read the Quran? Its violent passages read more like a war manual than a religious text. It depicts Jews as being sub-human . . . monkeys . . . pigs. From the little I know, Muhammad had a vision. He went to the Jews of Medina wanting them to accept him as one of their prophets. When the Jews refused, Muhammad turned on them. His fury shows up all through the Quran. Jews are slime and Muslims must rid the earth of us all.”

“Oh really? Didn’t something like that happen when Jews refused to accept Jesus? Christians tried to annihilate us, and almost succeeded. Let’s not forget the Crusades, the Inquisition, the Holocaust, and every atrocity in between. Yet, amazingly, today, there are Jews and Christians who befriend one another, conduct business together, and even intermarry. Tell me Jonathan, how do you explain that?”

“Have you slept with him?”

“What! That’s none of your business.”

“Wrong. Your involvement with that Muslim will devastate your family. Especially your parents. Or don’t you care about anyone but yourself?”

“Rami is a good person. He doesn’t hate Jews. Not every Muslim hates . . .”

“So . . . have you slept with him?”

“No, I have
not
slept with him.” She pulled out a CD of Elton John and shoved it into the player in the dashboard.

Brusquely, Jonathan ejected it. “Rayna, be careful. You may want to believe that Rami is a good person, but he’s still a Muslim. In the real world, Jews and Muslims don’t mix and I don’t want to see you get hurt.” Purposefully, Jonathan put on his flashers and eased the car onto the shoulder, bringing it safely to a stop. He unbuckled his seat belt, leaned over, and forced an impetuous kiss on Rayna’s lips. Startled, she pushed him off.

* * *

Settling into their seats for the flight back to Syria, the conversation between Rami and Omar was strained and surrounded by long periods of silence. “Four months ago, I was excited for you to arrive. Now, we are like strangers.” Omar waited for a response. Rami withdrew more into himself. An hour into the flight, Omar tried again in a voice barely above a whisper. “Abdallah knows of your friendship with Rayna.”

“So?”

“I assured him that Rayna is of Syrian blood.”

“Oh? And what else have you assured Abdallah of?”

“Rami, they know you have a cell phone. Be careful.”

Omar knows more about me than I care for him to know.
Rami was grateful that Rayna had put the cell phone in her name and that she had insisted on keeping it while he was in Syria. Hoping to block out Omar, he closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted to Rayna, and a heaviness overshadowed his spirit. Watching her drive off with Jonathan had refueled his jealousy. He ached to be with her. With every part of his being, Rami craved Rayna.

* * *

Inside Damascus International Airport, Ibrahim waited for Rami and Omar to arrive. He spotted them approaching and rushed toward them, first embracing his son, then Omar. With luggage in hand, the three started out to the car. The cold misty air and dark clouds hanging overhead fanned Rami’s melancholy. Ibrahim drove the old Mercedes north on Highway 5 toward Aleppo. Two hours later, he stopped the car near Omar’s modest dwelling. From inside the courtyard, Omar’s mother rushed out. She had prepared a big lunch and invited them all inside. Graciously, Rami refused. He wanted to get home to see his own mother.

* * *

Salha stood outside in the cold, crying with joy at the sight of her son. “This is my happiest day . . . to have you home. We missed you. Your sisters are anxious to return from school and welcome you. They have been counting the days.”

Inside the meager home, Salha served lunch—rice with onions and lentils, and a yogurt sauce with cucumbers and mint. Rami and his parents talked non-stop, catching up on the past four months. Afterward, Salha cleaned the dishes, then apologized for having to leave. “Abu and Zakieh are helping out at the souq so we could spend some time with you. Your eby and I must go and relieve them. But we will not be home late. We will close the stand early. When your sisters come from school, they will prepare a special meal to celebrate your return. But now, my son, you must rest after such a long trip.” Lovingly, Salha looked at Rami.

“Tomorrow night, we have a special treat. A party at the Grand House restaurant,” Ibrahim announced.

His parents left, and Rami found solace in the quiet of the afternoon. Tired from the long voyage, he unpacked and then lay down on the cot that used to be his bed. He tried to sleep, but his mind was active with thoughts of Rayna.

* * *

Inside the large heated tent at the Grand House, Rami was surrounded by family and friends, and his favorite Syrian foods. He carried fond memories of the many gatherings at this restaurant. Steady dialogue, hearty laughter, and a barrage of questions about the United States saturated the table. Rami’s spirits soon lifted. Ibrahim and Salha announced Ayisha’s upcoming marriage and introduced her future husband. Like most Syrian unions, the match had been arranged with the blessings of both sets of parents. The nuptials were to take place before the month of Ramadan.

She is so young. Just fifteen
. Rami found it hard to fathom his sister being intimate with a man at her delicate age, especially a man eleven years her senior. Speculating on how Ayisha could possibly know about love, Rami’s mind wandered back to Rayna. He reflected on one of their long walks at Brookside Gardens, recalling their pledge of love. They had agreed that sex would be a cherished destination to come only within their marriage.

* * *

On Friday, Salha stayed home to work on Ayisha’s wedding preparations. Rami and his father attended the mosque for noon prayers, then went to the souq. While waiting on a customer, Rami caught sight of a man in military garb lingering nearby. Instantly, he recognized the long jagged scar etched into the officer’s left cheek.
If I did not know better, I would thank him, Rami mused. If it were not for him sending me to the University of Maryland, I might never have known Rayna
.

Rami nodded, acknowledging the man. Yousef gestured to him. Rami finished with the shopper and approached Yousef, who told him to prepare for a four-day conference in the Bekaa Valley. “On Monday morning at nine, a car will meet you and Omar on the south side of the Citadel. Be there. And Rami, just so you know, Abdallah and the imam take their orders from me. So do you and Omar.” Yousef turned and left.

* * *

In a drizzling rain, with the Citadel’s tower and moat directly behind, Rami and Omar waited in silence. Rami pulled up his hood to stave off the dampness. He glanced over at Omar, remembering when, as young boys, the two had played at this fortress. A black limousine pulled up. The driver rolled down the window and motioned to them. Rami rushed ahead and took the front passenger seat. Omar was left to sit in the back.

The vehicle weaved in and out between the contrasting old narrow streets and new wide roads. An hour into the trip, they passed through the city of Hims. From there, the driver followed signs to al Biqa, curving around the statuesque Anti-Lebanon Mountains that form the boundary between Syria and Lebanon. Looking up at the snow-capped peaks, Rami recalled them well. With a softened heart, he turned around, “Omar, remember when we used to ski here?”

Omar smiled, “Yes, I remember. In these mountains, we thought we could conquer the world.” Pointing to the red tile-roofed houses clinging precariously to the mountainside, the two reminisced about their fantasies of some day living in one of those dwellings.

Skirting around the Litani River, the chauffeur veered off toward the Lebanese town of Zahle, famous for its good restaurants and wonderful shopping. After passing through Zahle, the automobile snaked in and out of several back streets until reaching a long, winding dirt road. At the end of the path, they reached a heavily fortified complex. Men with assault rifles signaled for the car to stop. “Salaam,” said one of the officers, ducking his head into the open window. He scrutinized Rami, then Omar. He ordered the two to step out. Guards frisked them. Satisfied about finding nothing, the officer waved them back into the automobile.

* * *

Inside a two-story edifice constructed from Jerusalem stone, Rami and Omar were led into a large meeting room filled with men seated around a long cedar conference table.
“Fahdal,”
Abdallah welcomed them, pointing to two empty seats.

Yousef’s dominant figure stood at the front for all to see. “Anyone opposing Allah’s will shall be dealt with accordingly. That includes both infidels as well as disloyal Muslims.” An authoritarian figure in his military uniform, Yousef spoke in Arabic, emphasizing the major themes of spreading Islam throughout the world, infiltrating Western culture to stop its filthy cancer, and purging the earth of Israel and the Jews. “This is our jihad dictated by Allah. Every Muslim must attack these issues through whatever means necessary.”

Rami felt sick to his stomach and feared he would vomit. Staring down at the wood parquet floor, he struggled to balance himself.

* * *

During the ensuing days, Yousef informed the group of their assignments in the Triple Frontier, where counterfeiting, bribery, murder, illegal immigration, and trading arms for drugs were the norm. He laid out the logic of suicide terrorism, highlighting the best places to target. “Public transportation. Airplanes. Buses. Trains. Also office buildings, shopping areas, schools, restaurants, and places of worship. Strikes are to be carried out anywhere substantial numbers of people gather and move freely. Breaking down the social structure of a society is the ultimate bomb. It is uncomplicated, inexpensive, and guarantees media coverage. It works. Little by little, we shall change the face of the world. Muslims are a patient people, not like impetuous Westerners.” Yousef paused, keeping his listeners waiting. Satisfied with how his lecture was progressing, he continued. “Let’s not forget the water supplies, food supplies, and nuclear facilities. These strikes are part of our final plan. Like a Spanish bullfight, taunting and weakening the bull before the final slaughter . . . nothing shall interfere with Muhammad’s teachings and Allah’s will.”

Scrolling down a large map hanging on the wall, Yousef highlighted the territory where Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay meet. “Fifty thousand Muslims inhabit this region known as the Triple Frontier, and our numbers are growing. We conduct business in Cuidad del Este in eastern Paraguay. Some of our people live in Foz do Iguaçu on the Brazilian side. Some live in Puerto Iguazú on the Argentine side. Linking these three cities is the Paraná River, which is harrowing to cross.” Stopping, Yousef calculated his next move. “From here, we can easily launch terrorist activities on the Americas, negotiate lucrative drug deals with Colombians, and raise money for our cause. The authorities can easily be bribed to look the other way and provide us with protection.” Yousef approached Rami. Addressing him personally, he stressed the importance for Rami to master the Spanish language. “You will do whatever you must to make this happen. Eventually, your position with al-Shahid will surface in the Triple Frontier.” When Yousef instructed Rami to take another class with Professor Nolan and to befriend the teacher, Rami was aghast.

* * *

“Tell me, Rami, you’re smart. Why do you think we need Doctor Nolan?”

All at once, Rami understood. Blood drained from his head and his face lost its color. The room began to spin.
Get hold of yourself. Do not let Yousef see weakness.
“I do not know. You tell me.”

Yousef’s face stiffened and his voice turned sharp. “Do not challenge me, Rami. Those who do meet unfortunate outcomes. Now, tell the group what you know.”

Rami looked defiantly into Yousef’s eyes. He searched the faces of the others in the room. Next to him, his gaze fell upon Omar. Omar looked away. Standing alone with all eyes on him, Rami felt like a meal for a group of vultures about to swoop down on him. Several times, he cleared his throat. He gulped once, then again more strongly, before proceeding. Providing an account of Professor Nolan’s very first lecture on the oil-eating bacteria, Rami was careful about not revealing Rayna’s name.