samir stood at the mosque’s entrance, gazing over the floods of men who milled about after prayers, talking in low tones and nodding in agreement. Sheik Abu Ali al-Asamm stood near the front, discussing matters with several lesser Shia leaders here in Dhahran. Soon the sheik’s day would pass, and one of the lessers would rise up to be the voice of the Saudi Shia. And what would be the word of that leader? Would it be a word of love and peace or a word of the sword?
Two weeks had passed since the failed coup attempt. Samir could not have imagined such soul-searching as had plagued him in these last fourteen days.
A lump rose to his throat. He had not discerned the sum of the matter yet, but he was confident the answers would not elude him for long—God would never indefinitely withhold the truth from any diligent seeker. In the meantime, several observations had presented themselves to him, none of them particularly welcome.
The least welcome of these was that he had lost Miriam’s love forever. She had been and still was the only woman he ever loved, and he’d sacrificed her for a misguided ideal.
“Forgive me, dear Miriam,” he mumbled. He turned from the entrance and walked down the steps to the street.
How could a good Muslim reconcile the militants’ ideals for Islam with true love? How could a good Christian kill Muslims in the name of love?
How could he have turned Miriam over to a beast like Omar?
Samir held no ill feelings toward the American, Seth. In a strange way he was thankful that a man of such obvious character had taken her into a new life. How many men would have risked what Seth risked to rescue Miriam?
The American wasn’t Saudi, of course. Nor Muslim. The pair would endure a host of cultural challenges if they were to wed, but in the end, Miriam would be happy with Seth. If there was anything Samir could do for Miriam now, he could wish her happiness.
“Afternoon, Samir.”
Samir turned to the voice. It was Hassan, a fifteen-year-old son of the sheik.
“Afternoon, Hassan.”
“God is great.”
“God is indeed great.”
The boy smiled and hurried off.
Yes, God was great, but those who swung the sword on his behalf were not, Samir thought.
Omar was dead, killed trying to escape the day after the coup. Killed by the sheik’s men, no less. A kind of poetic justice. Khalid still hid somewhere out of the country. As long as the House of Saud remained in power, Khalid would be on the run. Ostracized, but not powerless. Others expelled from the kingdom had wreaked havoc throughout the world. Samir expected no less of Khalid.
The sheik had not only been spared but commended for his reversal of loyalty in the eleventh hour. Though he’d been one of the plotters, he was still more valuable to the king as a friend than as an enemy. It was the way of the desert.
The world’s religions had engaged themselves in a great struggle. A struggle between those who wanted to fix the world with the sword and those who wanted to fix it with love. One day all Muslims and all Christians and everyone else would understand that the world was tired of the sword.
Like many of his countrymen, deep in his heart, Samir was a lover, not a fighter. One day, if he would be so fortunate, he would find another woman to love. This time he would love her as he only wished he could love Miriam now, with all of his gifts and all of his gratitude. She would be free, and if she was not, he would set her free. Like a bird.
“Fly, my dear. Fly free, dear Miriam.”
Samir walked down the street, vaguely comforted.