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Authors: Corban Addison
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Ismail cut off the motor, and the skiff slowed to a stop. He found a flashlight in the bottom of the boat and turned it on, spreading his fingers across the lens to diffuse the glow.
“I know you’re hungry,” he said. “I am, too. We should pray the Maghrib like we were home. We need Allah’s help to stay alive.”
Sondare, the most pious of the group, agreed first. The others soon followed. Their religious commitment was dubious—especially Osman and Guray, whose pastimes on land were drinking liquor, chewing qat , and fornicating. But all of them had been raised Muslim, and they knew the prayers.
“Who will lead us?” Mas inquired, speaking the question as a challenge.
Ismail opened his hands in invitation. “How about you? You know the takbir .”
Mas’s eyes reflected his surprise, along with a hint of fear.
“No, no,” Liban said. “You should lead us. You know the entire Quran.”
“Liban is right,” Guray chimed in. “Allah will listen to Afyareh more than any of us.”
Ismail waited until the vote was unanimous. Then he pointed north. “Mecca is that way. There is not enough room to stand or kneel, but we can bow our heads.”
As the skiff rocked on the gentle swells, he closed his eyes and pictured his father, Adan, as he was in the world before—the handsome, angular face, accentuated by a traditional moustache and beard; the intense brown eyes veiled by rimless spectacles; the smiles that came so unexpectedly and disappeared so suddenly that you missed them if you weren’t paying attention. He heard the echo of his father’s voice, the way Adan had taught them the suras. Ismail remembered the smell of frankincense burning in the dining room, the way his mother, Khadija, had created a haven of peace in a city torn apart by violence. It was there in that small house overlooking the Mogadishu airport and the sea that Adan had first permitted Ismail to lead the prayers. He was fifteen—in his father’s estimation “a man becoming.” Ismail had been ready then, as he was now.
He began to recite the takbir in a low, even tone. “ Allah-hu-akbar . . . God is Great. I bear witness that there is no god but God. I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God.”
His men recited the words with him, their voices blending together in a harmony of half-whispers. When they reached the sadja where they would normally prostrate themselves, they bent at the waist and lowered their foreheads as far as they were able.
“Glorified is my Lord, the Highest,” they said, repeating the refrain twice more and then sitting straight again. “I ask Allah, my Lord, to cover up my sins, and unto him I turn repentant.”
In time, Ismail spoke the peace and brought the Maghrib to a close. He opened his eyes and saw the effect the prayers had on the group. The men’s bodies were relaxed, their faces serene. It was the result Ismail had hoped for. Unity, his father had taught him, was fostered by brotherhood, and no brotherhood was more durable than the community of faith.
“We’ve made good progress today,” Ismail said, taking advantage of the moment. “But we still have forty hours of travel time left. We need to keep moving.”
The men began to murmur their discontent. They would never admit they were afraid, but Ismail could see the anxiety written in the shadow lines around their eyes. It wasn’t just the sea that scared them; it was the prospect of navigating by the GPS unit none of them knew how to use. Ismail used their fear to his advantage.
“I’ll stand the night watch,” he said. “But I need one of you to keep me awake.”
“I’ll do it,” Liban volunteered. “We can talk.”
“Good,” Ismail replied. “The rest of you get some sleep. But have your guns ready. With the moon so bright, we might see a ship.”
The hours of darkness crept by on the quiet ocean. The stars in the west set and the moon rose behind them, silvering the water and painting the skiff
“I know you’re hungry,” he said. “I am, too. We should pray the Maghrib like we were home. We need Allah’s help to stay alive.”
Sondare, the most pious of the group, agreed first. The others soon followed. Their religious commitment was dubious—especially Osman and Guray, whose pastimes on land were drinking liquor, chewing qat , and fornicating. But all of them had been raised Muslim, and they knew the prayers.
“Who will lead us?” Mas inquired, speaking the question as a challenge.
Ismail opened his hands in invitation. “How about you? You know the takbir .”
Mas’s eyes reflected his surprise, along with a hint of fear.
“No, no,” Liban said. “You should lead us. You know the entire Quran.”
“Liban is right,” Guray chimed in. “Allah will listen to Afyareh more than any of us.”
Ismail waited until the vote was unanimous. Then he pointed north. “Mecca is that way. There is not enough room to stand or kneel, but we can bow our heads.”
As the skiff rocked on the gentle swells, he closed his eyes and pictured his father, Adan, as he was in the world before—the handsome, angular face, accentuated by a traditional moustache and beard; the intense brown eyes veiled by rimless spectacles; the smiles that came so unexpectedly and disappeared so suddenly that you missed them if you weren’t paying attention. He heard the echo of his father’s voice, the way Adan had taught them the suras. Ismail remembered the smell of frankincense burning in the dining room, the way his mother, Khadija, had created a haven of peace in a city torn apart by violence. It was there in that small house overlooking the Mogadishu airport and the sea that Adan had first permitted Ismail to lead the prayers. He was fifteen—in his father’s estimation “a man becoming.” Ismail had been ready then, as he was now.
He began to recite the takbir in a low, even tone. “ Allah-hu-akbar . . . God is Great. I bear witness that there is no god but God. I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God.”
His men recited the words with him, their voices blending together in a harmony of half-whispers. When they reached the sadja where they would normally prostrate themselves, they bent at the waist and lowered their foreheads as far as they were able.
“Glorified is my Lord, the Highest,” they said, repeating the refrain twice more and then sitting straight again. “I ask Allah, my Lord, to cover up my sins, and unto him I turn repentant.”
In time, Ismail spoke the peace and brought the Maghrib to a close. He opened his eyes and saw the effect the prayers had on the group. The men’s bodies were relaxed, their faces serene. It was the result Ismail had hoped for. Unity, his father had taught him, was fostered by brotherhood, and no brotherhood was more durable than the community of faith.
“We’ve made good progress today,” Ismail said, taking advantage of the moment. “But we still have forty hours of travel time left. We need to keep moving.”
The men began to murmur their discontent. They would never admit they were afraid, but Ismail could see the anxiety written in the shadow lines around their eyes. It wasn’t just the sea that scared them; it was the prospect of navigating by the GPS unit none of them knew how to use. Ismail used their fear to his advantage.
“I’ll stand the night watch,” he said. “But I need one of you to keep me awake.”
“I’ll do it,” Liban volunteered. “We can talk.”
“Good,” Ismail replied. “The rest of you get some sleep. But have your guns ready. With the moon so bright, we might see a ship.”
The hours of darkness crept by on the quiet ocean. The stars in the west set and the moon rose behind them, silvering the water and painting the skiff
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