including staying away from alcohol and his old gang. Praise Allah. But the sight of the bags and the smell of the malt liquor on the breath of the others revived old memories, and he watched the others drink while licking his lips.
The first time the bottle came his way, he held up his hand and said his new faith didn't allow it. Then someone offered a joint of marijuana. He suspected that Jabbar would frown on it, too, but he knew that some Muslims in the Middle East smoked hashish, and he didn't see the harm in taking a puff or two. Or three, so that when his friends pressed the bottle of malt liquor on him again, he let himself be talked into taking a sip "for old times' sake."
Three hours later, he'd shown up drunk for evening prayers at the mosque. He wouldn't have gone, except that they were supposed to meet afterward to discuss Phase Two of their training.
The imam listened to his slurred excuses and looked into his bloodshot eyes, then declared that he was no longer mujahideen. "You have disgraced yourself, Jamal," he said scornfully. "And this mission is too important to trust to someone who cannot resist the temptation of alcohol. I need men whose minds and souls are clean for the task ahead."
Khalifa begged to be forgiven. "Give me one more chance," he pleaded. "I'm ready to die for Allah!"
"Then rededicate yourself to your prayers and ask that there will be another time," the imam rebuked him. "The Sheik has sent instructions that I am to select only the most trusted men ... those who can resist all temptation and put away all Earthly vices."
Ashamed and despondent, Khalifa stopped at the liquor store on the way home, where he purchased four more forties. Back at his apartment, he guzzled two of them, and when Miriam complained, he beat her until their son begged him to leave her alone.
The next morning, he woke up with his head pounding from the aftershock of the alcohol. He yelled for his wife, but she didn't answer and wasn't in the apartment. Nor could he find her at the mosque. Finally, he called his fatherin-law, who admitted that she was there—with their son—and she would also remain there. "And if you come here," Mr. Juma spat, "I will cut you open and gut you like I used to gut fish. What kind of a man would beat a woman when she was only trying to save you from yourself? You are not Muslim, you are nobody."
The man hung up without waiting for Khalifa's response. The word "nobody" stung and left him speechless. He spent the day sitting in the dark, alternately crying and throwing their few possessions around, until the neighbor below pounded on the ceiling and threatened to call the police. That night he faced east and said his prayers alone, too ashamed to go to the mosque. He would be nothing more than the drunken mujahideen, too drunk to be trusted with an important mission—a laughingstock, a nobody, as his fatherin-law had reminded him.
His life had tumbled downhill ever since. He no longer had his job with the imam, and he'd had to sell almost everything he and Miriam had bought together just to pay rent in the crummy little flat he'd moved to. He had a mattress on the floor, a lamp, and a framed photograph of his wife and son. If not for food stamps, he wouldn't have had anything to eat. He kept an old video camera they'd bought to record Abdullah's progress, but that was only so that he could watch the tapes and remember when he had been a father.
He was lying on the floor of his bedroom crying again when he noticed the martyr's vest lying beneath a pile of clothes. "You will feel no pain," Ajmaani had assured them. "One moment, you are looking into the terrified eyes of your enemies when they realize what is about to happen, and the next moment, you awake in Paradise."
As he picked up the vest, he heard another voice. Not Ajmaani. Not his own. He didn't know where it came from. But he was sure it was the voice of God, and it was telling him how he would earn his place in Paradise.
The first time the bottle came his way, he held up his hand and said his new faith didn't allow it. Then someone offered a joint of marijuana. He suspected that Jabbar would frown on it, too, but he knew that some Muslims in the Middle East smoked hashish, and he didn't see the harm in taking a puff or two. Or three, so that when his friends pressed the bottle of malt liquor on him again, he let himself be talked into taking a sip "for old times' sake."
Three hours later, he'd shown up drunk for evening prayers at the mosque. He wouldn't have gone, except that they were supposed to meet afterward to discuss Phase Two of their training.
The imam listened to his slurred excuses and looked into his bloodshot eyes, then declared that he was no longer mujahideen. "You have disgraced yourself, Jamal," he said scornfully. "And this mission is too important to trust to someone who cannot resist the temptation of alcohol. I need men whose minds and souls are clean for the task ahead."
Khalifa begged to be forgiven. "Give me one more chance," he pleaded. "I'm ready to die for Allah!"
"Then rededicate yourself to your prayers and ask that there will be another time," the imam rebuked him. "The Sheik has sent instructions that I am to select only the most trusted men ... those who can resist all temptation and put away all Earthly vices."
Ashamed and despondent, Khalifa stopped at the liquor store on the way home, where he purchased four more forties. Back at his apartment, he guzzled two of them, and when Miriam complained, he beat her until their son begged him to leave her alone.
The next morning, he woke up with his head pounding from the aftershock of the alcohol. He yelled for his wife, but she didn't answer and wasn't in the apartment. Nor could he find her at the mosque. Finally, he called his fatherin-law, who admitted that she was there—with their son—and she would also remain there. "And if you come here," Mr. Juma spat, "I will cut you open and gut you like I used to gut fish. What kind of a man would beat a woman when she was only trying to save you from yourself? You are not Muslim, you are nobody."
The man hung up without waiting for Khalifa's response. The word "nobody" stung and left him speechless. He spent the day sitting in the dark, alternately crying and throwing their few possessions around, until the neighbor below pounded on the ceiling and threatened to call the police. That night he faced east and said his prayers alone, too ashamed to go to the mosque. He would be nothing more than the drunken mujahideen, too drunk to be trusted with an important mission—a laughingstock, a nobody, as his fatherin-law had reminded him.
His life had tumbled downhill ever since. He no longer had his job with the imam, and he'd had to sell almost everything he and Miriam had bought together just to pay rent in the crummy little flat he'd moved to. He had a mattress on the floor, a lamp, and a framed photograph of his wife and son. If not for food stamps, he wouldn't have had anything to eat. He kept an old video camera they'd bought to record Abdullah's progress, but that was only so that he could watch the tapes and remember when he had been a father.
He was lying on the floor of his bedroom crying again when he noticed the martyr's vest lying beneath a pile of clothes. "You will feel no pain," Ajmaani had assured them. "One moment, you are looking into the terrified eyes of your enemies when they realize what is about to happen, and the next moment, you awake in Paradise."
As he picked up the vest, he heard another voice. Not Ajmaani. Not his own. He didn't know where it came from. But he was sure it was the voice of God, and it was telling him how he would earn his place in Paradise.
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