We carried you through the streets of our youth in an open pine box. Buried among piles of concrete, I found a peach-colored plastic doll, limbless, its stumps singed. It reminded me of the one your sister used to play with. Remember, Brother, how when we were younger, she would stand under the shade of a balcony and talk to her doll, while we smoked cigarettes and kicked a ball back and forth. Those were glorious days of freedom. Then the Americans came—and left. Now they have come again, but you are gone. Under the cover of a moonless night, we honored you with many volleys and sang songs in memory of your martyrdom. Your father sobbed, repeating, “O, Lord, you may accept him.” I wonder if the Lord will forgive me my sins. Brother, tell me, has He forgiven you yours?
Back before the Americans bombed Baghdad, I told you we should embrace them, extend an olive branch, a peaceful revolution. Or was it the other way around? We were still in university then. I was studying poetry, you engineering. At nights, your mother would serve us chai steeped in sugar, the two of us at the dinner table still hungry for debate. Your father would tease me about my love for verse. He kept telling me that I should follow the divine path instead. He wanted us to become praiseworthy men, men whom people would listen to and respect. War has made it so.
When this new, blessed battle began—before our own people began to fight alongside the Americans—we huddled in my flat and, again, sipped chai for comfort. Your sister made it the same as your mother had, a black and bitter sea resting on a thick bed of sugar. That was the last time we all were together, Brother; our two tribes once one. You, me, your sister, Saja—now my wife—and our daughter, Sakhira.
The soft, golden glow of the minaret was seeping through the sitting room, the wall facing the street long ago scraped off from the shelling. A few blocks away, a loudspeaker from the army of unbelievers blared, “The salvation hour is near. Come toward your true brothers, your armed forces, and you will find the proper care: food, medicine, clean water.” As if in response, sporadic gunfire had sputtered. A waste, for we do not have vision in the dark as the Americans do. They are like bats.
You warned us that we should seek safety.
“And flee from our homes like cowards?” I said, vowing to fight.
When the earth began to shake, you said, “But, Brother, the building feels like it’s going to fall.”
“It is safer here than out in the streets.”
“Please, Brother,” you said. “Let me at least take the girls to my parents. The fighting isn’t too bad there.”
As a compromise, Saja and I took our daughter to the back bedroom to hide in the closet. Saja gave Sakhira a doll—an old favorite from her childhood—and told her how she should keep it company because it was scared. Sakhira hugged the doll and smiled. I put my finger to my lips and closed the closet door. Upon hearing Sakhira whispering to the doll, Saja and I turned to each other and smiled, enjoying the beauty that we had brought to the world.
But then the hand of Allah struck from above and snatched back our blessings. Every corner of my flat is now filled with blood and memories. On our kitchen table, Saja’s mug remains covered in dust. To this day, when I wrap my hands around it, I swear, Brother, it still feels warm. It has been months since I sent her to Syria for safety.
I had thought the images of that day would shake the core of the world. But they did not back in the first war, and they do not now. Everybody still watches what happens, yet remains as silent as the burial ground where my sweet Sakhira still sleeps. When this war is over, and the Americans slaughtered in shame, I will again make love to Saja, Insha’Allah, and our daughter will be reborn as a son, a true martyr to be proud of—just as you and I had once vowed.
Dawn is beautiful, Brother. A new day has come, and with it, my spirit feels renewed. The melodious morning call to prayer stretches from the mosque across the street and into my flat.
“Come to prayer,” the muezzin’s voice sings to me. “Come to success.”
I stand and close my eyes, touch my hands to my ears, and then fold my arms across my chest and begin to pray. “Allah is the greatest, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. Master of the Day of Judgment, You alone we worship, and You alone we ask for help.” I kneel and press my forehead against the prayer rug, submitting myself fully to Allah. “Guide us to the Straight Way. The way of those on whom You have bestowed Your grace. Not the way of those who earned Your anger. Nor of those who went astray. Ameen.”
By the time I conclude my prayers, the warmth of the sun feels like Allah’s fingers prodding me to go forth and unleash His will to the people. I sit back on my bare feet, look over my shoulder, and hope to see you, Brother, still faithfully by my side. Instead, I see Ahmed standing guard over his cousin, Samir, who remains blindfolded and on his knees.
Recently, the Americans have sown seeds of doubt in our soil, taking advantage of those whose spirits are strained. They pit brother against brother, and then wait and watch as we kill each other. It is the American way, the cowards. Through this, Ahmed has remained my most faithful follower. His cousin, however, I do not know.
I motion for Ahmed to remove the blindfold. Samir squints up at me. He is the latest in a line of boys eager to do violence, excited by tales of the Butcher. Ahmed was once the same way. But in battle he has proven himself a patient warrior. The other week, while others rushed the Americans on a rooftop, he stood in a tub for an hour, the barrel of his rifle poking out of a hole in the tile. His cheek was married to the wood stock, his eye lined up behind the sights. As soon as an infidel’s head popped up, Ahmed struck the soldier down. It was glorious, praise be to Allah.
“Forgive this spectacle,” I say to Samir. “But after what happened with our beloved Brother, one cannot be too safe.”
“So, it’s true then?” Samir says. “He was betrayed by one of our own brothers?”
Ahmed spits on the floor. “They are not our brothers. I wipe my shoe on their faces.”
“Your cousin is right,” I say. “They are no longer our brothers. They are traitors—to themselves, to us, but most importantly, to their faith. These unbelievers are worse than the infidels.”
Samir cocks his head back, trying to follow my every move. “I have seen more of them in my neighborhood, with their shiny yellow belts and weapons. My neighbor, a former soldier, has even joined their ranks.”
“The Americans are arrogant,” I say. “They think they can give away these belts to everyone, and trick us into believing that our own people are turning against us. They do not know the true strength of our struggle.”
“I am ready to help, Brother,” Samir says.
“And what are you willing to do for your faith?”
“I will strap on a vest and walk into the den of traitors.”
I wave away his offering. “I can convince any poor boy to blow himself up.”
Samir looks at his cousin in disappointment.
“What I really need,” I say, “is men who will fight in this world with their faith still strong. Men like Ibrahim, who was ready to sacrifice his own blood rather than betray his beliefs. Men like your cousin.”
“Go ahead, tell him,” Ahmed says to Samir. “It’s OK.”
“Tell me what?” I say.
“I can give you everything on the traitors,” Samir says. “Who they are, where they live—even their family.”
Ahmed turns to me and says, “We can hunt them down and hang them by their belts for all to see.”
I gesture for Samir to stand. “And how do you know all of this?”
“My uncle,” he says, dusting off the dirt from his knees. “He’s the security minister.”
I look at Ahmed, who nods and smiles, confirming that what his cousin said is true.
“That means,” Ahmed adds, “that he can also warn us about any raids, Brother.”
“Yes, yes,” I say, and walk to the edge of my flat and stare down at the street, at the tangle of wires strung from one bombed-out building to another, as if begging for bodies to be hung on them. Soon, a surge of savagery will cleanse this land of all its filth.
“Or lead them right to us,” I say.
I wave for Samir to follow me, leading him down the dark hallway. I point ahead at the last room on the left—my daughter’s old bedroom. “In there,” I say. “It is time for you to prove your fidelity to your faith.”
Samir presses softly on the door. It opens with a slow creak. Like a baby’s cry. The room is dark, save for the sunlight spilling through a hole in the roof. It takes Samir a second to see the girl sleeping in the corner. He steps back, bumping into me.
“You are afraid of such a tiny thing?” I say, pushing him forward. “Come—she will not bite.”
I slam the door behind us, startling the girl awake. As I approach her, she scuttles back and shields her face. As if I have ever done anything to warrant such fright in her. Until now, I have fed her, kept her from the others, protected her in ways I never could my own daughter. I lift her head by the chin, wipe her wet cheek with my hand, and then stuff a sock in her mouth to silence any screaming.
I look back at Samir and notice he seems scared.
“You want to kill infidels, yes?” I say.
He nods.
“Well, here one is waiting for you.”
“But, Brother, she’s just a little girl.”
“You think too simple, Samir.”
I hand him a knife.
He holds it in his hands and hesitates. Many people come to me professing their faith, but few are willing to live with what is necessary to prove it.
“Brother, forgive me,” he says. “This wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“What? She is too pretty for you? You can fuck her first, if you like.”
He shakes his head, as if ashamed by the suggestion.
I laugh. “Do not tell me you are a virgin? You two have something in common then.”
Samir studies the knife, and then swipes his thumb across the blade. Drawing blood, he drops the knife and sucks his thumb.
“Did you expect it to be dull?” I say. “We are not monsters, Samir.”
I pick up the knife and try to hand it to him, but he jerks his head toward the shattered window on the far side of the room.
“Do you hear that?” he says.
He must think I am stupid not to see he is stalling.
But then I hear it, too. The deep, rough rattle of a military vehicle. It stops underneath the broken bedroom window, its engine idling.
We both crouch behind the bed. The anxiety starts to stir within me—same as when I made love to Saja for the first time, same as when I killed for the last. I glance at Samir, who appears calm. It is then that I realize the bastard has betrayed us.
“Stay here,” I say, wanting to warn Ahmed.
I run out of the room and turn into the hallway but am too late. A single shot from Ahmed’s rifle rings out from the restroom; the battle has begun. I continue to the kitchen, grab the rocket launcher, and walk up to the exposed wall. With the cold tube pressed to my cheek, I lean out the open space and take aim at the truck with the largest gun. A blast of heat singes the air behind me, and I watch as the round veers across the street and destroys an empty falafel stand instead. You were always the steady shot, Brother.
The turret on the truck swivels, its large gun strafing the building from the back bedroom to the sitting room. I crawl back to the hall for cover, and then drag myself into the bathroom, where Ahmed has taken up his position.
During a brief break in the fighting, the Americans trying to figure out their next move, we hear shouting from the back room.
“My cousin,” Ahmed says.
“Leave him,” I say. “It is too dangerous.”
“I can’t—he’s family.”
I want to tell him about his cousin’s betrayal, but some secrets you should figure out for yourself. And Ahmed is smart; soon enough he will start to wonder why the Americans found us so quickly.
“I’m sorry, Brother,” he says, and bolts out of the bathroom.
The shooting starts again—and then the shouting.
I step out and see Ahmed stumbling down the hall, his arms wrapped around his cousin’s shoulders for support.
“Help,” Samir says. “He’s hurt.”
Together, we stumble down the stairs.
As we wind our way to the first floor, a loud explosion from above covers us in a cloud of dust and debris. I reach for the rail, look up through the motes of dust hanging in the air like a soft veil, and listen to the faint, familiar screams of the young girl.
Ahmed turns to his cousin. “You told me you killed her.”
Samir stares at me in silence.
“Enough,” I say. “Her fate is in Allah’s hands now, not ours. We must hurry and get your cousin to a doctor.”
In a basement flat in an old abandoned building, a fat man with a stubby beard clears the dining table. We slide Ahmed across the operating table, and then watch as the doctor works on him. He cuts through Ahmed’s bloodstained jeans, empties a bottle of water on his bloodied flesh, and begins to pick at the shrapnel stuck in his skin.
“Can you get that stuff out with a magnet?” Samir says.
The doctor glances back. “It’s made of aluminum.”
I stare at the doctor, who shakes his head slightly. I tell Samir to shut up with such nonsense and let the doctor work. When the doctor lifts Ahmed’s leg, Ahmed balls up his fist and clenches his teeth.
“All tendons are torn,” the doctor says. “He will need rest. A few months, at least.”
“It’s a shame, cousin,” Samir says. “You can’t play football anymore.”
Ahmed tries to smile through the pain. “There is still coaching.”
I push past Samir and squeeze Ahmed’s shoulder. “No, Brother, you belong here on the field.”
Ahmed slams his head against the table, his eyes beginning to flutter like a moth’s wings in the light of a lamp. He cries out, “Allah, I want to become a martyr.”
The doctor rushes back and rolls Ahmed on his side. He splits his shirt down the spine to search for more wounds, but finds none.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “There must be something inside I can’t see. There’s nothing else I can do.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“I don’t have the proper equipment.”
The doctor walks to the stove, strikes a wooden match against the counter, and clicks on the gas. “You can stay here for the night.” The flame catches and begins to burn blue. He puts on a pot of water and adds, “Tea?”
I grasp Ahmed’s hand and kiss him on the forehead. “Be proud of what happened, Brother. Be proud of the sacrifice.”
“It’s for Allah,” he repeats, each breath softer than the last. “It’s for Allah, it’s for . . .” He reaches out with his hand, as if realizing his dream is slipping away. I see it slipping too. I hold out hope, but when I let go of his hand, it falls and hangs over the edge of the dinner table. All I can do now is plea to Allah for patience and pray that more martyrs like Ahmed will be resurrected, for we need more men like him to spurn Paradise in hopes of dignity ten times over.
Outside, I find Samir around the corner, smoking a cigarette. He avoids my eyes, as he has my edict, knowing full well his weakness. It is a shame how this war has worn us thin. He reminds me of you, Brother, toward the end—spirit hollow, shoulders heavy.
I gesture for the cigarette. “May I?”
Samir seems skeptical, but then hands it over. I stare at the small, orange ember pulsing in my palm. In the days of my youth, before I found my faith, I loved the way the smoke would fill my chest. A burning yet soothing sensation. It is how I imagine the breath of Allah. Tempted, I toss the cigarette into the street and stamp it out.
“What are you doing?” Samir says. “That was my last one.”
“I am sorry about your cousin, Samir. I know it is easy to give in. But we must not let the blood of the martyrs be spilled in vain. It is up to us, the devout, to continue to carry within ourselves the burden of belief.”
“Screw you,” Samir says. “You talk of burdens, as if it’s you, and not everyone else, who suffers. You’re the reason my cousin is dead. Brother Ibrahim too.”
I grab the knife hidden behind my back. “Be careful with your words, Samir. You do not want to say something you will come to regret.”
“What are you going to do?” Samir says. “Kill me?”
He lifts his head back, his throat practically bulging for the blade.
“Well,” he says, “what are you waiting for?”
“You are not useful to me dead.”
“See, you can’t do murder,” he says. “No, you leave that to everyone else. My uncle was right—you hide behind Allah like a coward.”
“It is disappointing how people always think they can see in others what they often overlook in themselves. You can be angry at me all you want, Samir. But it is you who are responsible for your cousin’s death.”
“Me?” Samir snickers. “You’re crazy.”
“Laugh if you want, but I told Ahmed to leave you. I told him that you had betrayed us, that you were the one who led the soldiers to us.”
“You lie.”
“He did not want to believe me either. Which is why, when he heard your cowardly cries, he went back for you. So you see, Samir, his blood is on your hands, not mine.”
For the first time, I see the potential in his angry eyes.
I grip my knife and glance down at the blade. It catches the light just right. I close my eyes and suddenly see you, Brother, before me again, the sun shining off of your reflective belt piercing my eyes, the knowledge of your apostasy, my belief. It was foolish of you to believe that the bright belt of the infidels would protect you. From them, maybe. But for those of us still true to the faith, the reflective belts only made it easier to see who among us had been led astray.
I had raised my rifle and taken aim. “He who kills his own people is a traitor.”
You laid down your rifle and walked toward me. Most people have something inside of them, a threshold of fear. But on that fateful day, Brother, I could not find yours.
I slung my rifle over my shoulder. “Ibrahim, why?”
“Look around, Brother. No food, no water—only ammunition and death.”
It was true; homes had become graves and the remains of shops had spilled onto the sidewalks. But it is as the infidels say: To rebuild, you must first destroy.
“This is only temporary,” I said. “What we are fighting for is eternal Paradise.”
“The Americans promise our people peace—and now.”
“That is your problem, Ibrahim. You always put too much faith in people, when it is Allah you should serve.”
“Do not do this.”
You left me no choice, Brother, but to draw my knife and drag the blade across your blasphemous throat. As I watched your fall from grace, I marveled at how quickly the faith faded from your face. I only wish now that there was somebody here who understood, somebody trusted I could confide in and ask for forgiveness, someone to help put me at peace. But Allah is all I have left. 
Ramiro Hinojosa is a veteran of the Iraq War. He has since earned an MFA from Texas State University, and is the recipient of an NEA-funded fellowship for veterans from the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. His fiction has appeared in War, Literature & the Arts, Salamander, and Huizache, while his nonfiction has been published by Tin House’s The Open Bar, Guernica Daily, and the Texas Observer, among others.
