On any normal day, Arish would never wander far from his tiny farmhouse alone, but today would be anything but normal.

He was moving along the dirt road with a combination of frustration, anger, and weakness. Littered with holes and the occasional stone, Arish managed to navigate the road while kicking some of the stones aside as he passed.  Finally, one of the stones refused to move, and his kick opened a small cut on his foot.  “Aiiiieeee!” Arish yelped as he hopped about in a circle on one foot.

“Nikomak…Nikomak…” he grumbled the harsh Arabic profanity usually directed at the mother of your worst enemy. The pain shot up through his foot, making him fall onto the dirt road. He pulled his well-worn but calloused foot toward his face so he could examine the damage.

“Mannagge!” he bellowed in a perfect Neapolitan dialect.  He put a finger in his mouth and then wiped the spot of the offending wound with his hand and some spit. He hopped back to his feet, swiveled his head back and forth between the farm and the town, and thought, “Was this a mistake”? Was he thinking straight and making a sound decision?

It had been so long since he last ate that his hunger had morphed into weakness.  His tiny body craved nutrients and the electrolytes necessary to survive the heat and exhaustion.  But he was committed, and there was no way he could give up now. Arish was already hot and tired from the morning work in the sun, and his body was simply not prepared.  He tried valiantly to summon up images of his beloved and tireless father to help him gather strength.

His work on the farm always gave him a strong sense of satisfaction because it brought back bittersweet memories of working alongside his father. He held those memories close, vowing at his father’s funeral never to let go.  He even had a cherished daily ritual of looking longingly skyward, closing his eyes, and asking his father ever so formally if his day’s work had pleased him. For the rest of his life, and in everything he did, Arish would always and forever seek his father’s approval.

Life’s simple pleasures would be more than enough to fulfill Arish as long as he knew his father’s approval would smile on him. However, the challenge at hand remained.  Would the adrenalin summoned by his father’s memory be enough to carry him through the day?

With the extreme physical fatigue and more road in front of him, the mystery of his missing family added a new and unfamiliar burden. He was confused and unsure of how he should feel about being abandoned by his mother and sister. It was these unsettling feelings that irritated him the most. Like a mother waiting frantically for her overdue child to return home, he was caught between a fit of brewing anger at having been denied breakfast and some quality time with his mother.  A real sense of fear that something terrible had happened to her lay close to the surface. This tension was in stark contention with an image of his mother and Jasmine on a wonderful adventure.

Forging ahead with the day, he had struggled hard to concentrate on his work as he milked the cows and weeded vegetables in the hot sun. In an absolute sense, Arish was a very good boy – the hardworking and reliable man of the house. For life to test him this way seemed so very unfair. 

Pushing his feelings aside again, he looked back at the dusty road winding toward their farm.  He took another glance toward the sun, and the giant yellow ball was touching the top of a tree that marked the corner of their vegetable field.  As sweat beaded on Arish’s forehead, he tried to gulp whatever little saliva he had.  He had never seen the sun aligned in this exact position before, and he examined the flickering yellow rays as they wrapped around the treetop.

Still fighting the weakness in his knees, he dipped and weaved his head around as the sun peaked through the leaves, creating a brilliant light show.  The glare created a surreal haze that hypnotized him a bit, and he soon felt a general uneasiness. A queasiness in his stomach rose as he realized the sun was suddenly shaded by the tree. The lateness of the day was never so salient.  Where was everyone!?

Somehow, he was walking steadily and even showing a bit of a pop in his heels.  He was used to summoning up strength when hours in the field were wearing him down, and the lateness of the day told him he needed to find that strength now. The road turned left and then right, then left again as it followed a pronounced but usually dry creek bed.

His concern was concealed beneath dark streaks of sweat and dust. The gritty perspiration pouring over his forehead was adding to the obvious frustration and confusion as the salty soup of dirty sweat repeatedly filled his eyes. At each turn in the dusty road, Arish perked up a bit and strained his neck to see down the rising road. He tried to focus on the ground by counting each set of steps.  He tried to wipe the burning saltwater from his face using his cotton tunic, but finding a clean spot not already gritty from the day was getting harder.

After some minutes of putting one foot in front of the other, he paused to survey the scene around him.  Suddenly, he was no longer alone on the road.  People were moving about, and every woman he saw melted into the sea of black cloth.  He scanned the hem of each burqa, hoping to find the distinctive bright green hem worn by his mother.

That electric streak of emerald-green was from a bolt of cloth given to her by a grateful ship captain.  He expected her to make a beautiful dress from the fine Italian silk, but that bold statement would only bring trouble for the whole family.  

Wanting to display her beautiful gift but not push the limits of her Muslim cultural boundaries, she decided she would boldly add a broad stripe of the cloth to the hem of her burqa. She hid the remaining cloth away for another day, hoping the Italians controlling Libya would promote a more secular Libya.

 Whenever she walked the dusty streets, the bright ribbon of emerald-green would glide over the ground and instantly separate his mother from the dark, ubiquitous burqas that blended into a sea of black.  Unlike most Libyans, she saw the occupying Italians as liberators more than oppressors.  Her bold attempt at this “fashion statement” put his mother squarely at odds with his aunt, who adhered strictly to “hijab,” the Islamic term meaning “to cover.” 

A line of tension was building between the two women, and the disagreements had grown tenser since his father’s death. The most heated discussions would always be centered on Arish’s education. Azaria’s demand that Arish attend the town’s Madrassa school for his Islamic training had been denied by his mother.  Azaria believed in the strict Sharia doctrine and supported the Islamic school’s focus on fighting the Italian occupation.

For Arish, if the Italian occupation failed, it would end the enlightenment for him and Jasmine.  His mother had worked so hard to make Arish a man of the world, and she did her best to turn a cold shoulder to Azaria’s religious ranting. Unfortunately, with the death of Arish’s father, Islamic law left his eldest sister as head of the household.  It was getting more difficult to ignore the growing conflicts between the two women.

When reading her Quran every evening, the Azaria would often clear her throat loudly before reading aloud from SURA 24 (the 24th chapter of the Quran), AYAT 30-31 (verses30-31)

“Say to the believing men that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty: that will make for greater purity for them: And Allah is well acquainted with all that they do. And say that the believing women that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty that they should not display their beauty and ornaments except what (must ordinarily) appear thereof; that they should draw their veils over their bosoms and not display their beauty except to their husbands, their fathers, their husband's fathers, their sons, their husbands' sons, their brothers or their brothers' sons, or their sisters' sons, or their women, or the slaves whom their right hands possess, or male servants free of physical needs, or small children who have no sense of the shame of sex…”

Her religious ranting had become more and more frequent every day. It is one of the main reasons that, in the evenings, Arish’s mother often retreated outside the house to the very edge of the farm just to avoid listening to Azaria.

Those memories swirled around in Arish’s head, bringing him back to the present.  Is it possible Azaria was responsible for this day of disaster and disappointment? He found himself clenching his teeth and renewing his hope that he would finally discover his mother at every turn.

He had been moving in a haze for some time when he suddenly realized he had reached the town's center. “Impossible!” he bellowed -- at least to the extent a nine-year-old could raise a deep voice. He stiffened his tiny body into a weak and strained but determined march. He rubbed his belly as he moved, still hoping to quiet the now constant grumbling.  In the center of the town, a large plaza had suddenly turned the dusty road to stone. The cool, polished limestone somehow refreshed him and put a small spring into his step. 

The end of the journey confirmed his decision to leave the farm.  With his mother and Jasmine still nowhere to be found, he scanned the rows of market stalls, hoping to see any familiar face. The plaza bordered a side street that led to the vegetable and fruit market.

The crowded alley, with shoppers gathering in front of the booths, would be difficult to traverse. He couldn’t make out which vendors were which.  The crowded area that lined the back of the market was a helter-skelter collection of wagons and crates.  Arish moved deliberately through the wooden maze so he could approach the booths from behind. As he got closer to the stalls, the powerful aromas of all kinds of foods almost made him faint.

Arish snaked through the market, scanning the ground for forgotten pieces of anything edible. Animal carcasses were hanging from wires and live animals of all kinds. Brightly colored scarves were hanging in stark contrast next to long black burqas. Beyond the bustle of the market and the loud voices of the vendors, one voice stood out.

Arish’s ears perked up. It was the gravelly voice of Kareem, his father’s best friend from childhood.  Moving closer, Arish pressed his face into a small space between two stacks of wooden crates, but he couldn't quite slide through, even by twisting his tiny shoulders sideways. On the other hand, the unnatural movement didn’t go unnoticed. Kareem felt the crates move behind him again, and he spun around, expecting them to fall.  Curiously, he tucked his head between the crates and found his sun-hardened, bearded face only a few inches from Arish’s. 

“Arish?” he smiled and gave Arish a familiar wink.  He rolled his hand in a circle, motioning Arish to come around to the front of the stall. A wave of relief washed over Arish, and he sheepishly shuffled past the displays of dates, apples, and figs lying neatly in little pyramids of fresh fruit. He didn’t want to insult Kareem by focusing immediately on his mouthwatering food. Kareem saved Arish from the awkward silence by bellowing in a deep but welcoming voice, “And how is everything with your family?” he asked.  Arish looked up and politely noted that his mother, aunt, and sister were all in good health. “Thanks be to Allah,” and the always cheerful shopkeeper nodded in approval.

He asked about his progress at school, but Arish’s little head dropped to his chest, and he held it there in embarrassment. When Arish’s father was killed in the construction accident, the family could no longer afford the tuition for the private school he attended. Kareem’s sister used to teach there, and he was used to hearing glowing reports on Arish’s progress.  “I hope to return soon,” Arish said solemnly.

“My mother has had the good fortune of advancement at work,” he said as his sweaty, gritty but precious face finally raised up.  With the mention of his mother, his bright green eyes welled up with tears, and he produced a difficult and painful smile.

Kareem nodded approval again and asked if Arish had enjoyed a special lunch with his mother today.  “I would very much like to hear today’s story,” he added as he spun back around toward the crowd and returned to organizing his crates of fresh vegetables. Arish would often share his mother’s stories with anyone that would listen.  He had become something of the town storyteller in his small circle of friends.  “This is a most serious problem,” Arish puffed.

“Only Allah knows why, but my mother has not returned home today,” for the first time that day, his voice cracked, and he was more frightened than tired and hungry. On the other hand, Kareem was reassuring and added, “I'm sure all is well”.

“I am sure she had some important duties. She is an essential worker, you know,” he beamed. The shopkeeper smiled broadly, but Arish lowered his head again. After a moment, Arish lifted his head and scanned the boxes the shopkeeper had been carrying into his store.

Arish’s hunger was more than evident now as he stared at each collection of fruits and vegetables that lay before him. Kareem saw the hunger in Arish’s eyes and snapped sharply.

“Help me load these to the wagon,” he barked out. Arish was quick to respond and grabbed two wooden crates of vegetables. Barely able to see over the top, he steadied the load and moved quickly to his task. After stumbling through to the back of the crowded stall, he placed the crates gently into the waiting wagon. Too weak from hunger, he couldn’t push the crates back into the wooden wagon.

Kareem appeared with a couple more crates and set them next to Arish.  He pushed all four crates with a single shove to the back of the wagon. Arish launched a generous smile and, with a slight twist and tilt of his head, acknowledged the vegetable vendor’s impressive strength.  Kareem’s expression turned from that of a busy merchant to one of proud parental approval. He reached into a box of fresh dates and filed a cloth sack of the sweet, plump fruit.

“Some apples, Arish?” he chirped with a big smile. Without waiting for Arish to answer, he dropped two of the bright red apples into the sack, then handed him the cloth bag of precious fruit. Arish’s eyes lit up as he felt the weight of the bag.

“Tell your mother that she must not work so many long hours,” Kareem said with a slight bow.  Arish returned the gesture and held it while walking a few steps backward.  Kareem waved to Arish as a customer approached his stall. Without missing a beat, Arish turned around, walked a few steps, circled again for a final bow, and quickly disappeared into the crowded street. 

Plopping himself down on a large stone next to a watering trough, he reached into the sack, examining the tender date as he withdrew it. He held the date in front of his eyes for a minute as if eating it immediately would be just wrong. He looked at it carefully, capturing its image. After an approving blink, he savored the piece of the sweet, dark fruit. Each time he took one out, Arish examined it before popping it into his mouth. He was saving the glorious apples for last.

Now that he had eaten, he could see with a fresh new perspective.  His meal of dates and apples was resting comfortably in his belly, and Arish was now wandering almost aimlessly through the small town. Suddenly, he found himself in front of the town mosque. His eyes scanned the town’s only stone building from bottom to top in awe. With his belly full, he was now more sleepy than tired. Tired and now hazy, Arish wasn’t focused on anything in particular.  But he did notice that a crowd of bearded men – their pristine white robes kissing the dusty streets - were gathering in front of the building. 

Arish’s father didn’t have a beard, and when asked about it, his father routinely said something about beards being for other people, not him. It often puzzled Arish, but the reply was always, “When you grow up, you’ll understand.”

Arish watched the men in silence, then turned his attention to the building. The mosque was a modest yet impressive building, especially when set against the ramshackle wood and mud buildings that predominated the village. The stone and marble were magnificent, and it was clearly the cultural and civic center of the town.

        An interesting show, but what Arish wanted most was to find his way back to the farm and plop himself into his bed. There was a shortcut through a narrow alley behind the mosque that would lead him back out of town. It was too narrow for most wagons, but children would take advantage of the forgotten, quiet street to build small forts out of the scrap wooden crates leftover from the day’s market.

With his mind focused on the house and farm, Arish decided to check the alley for kindling along the way. Normally, there would be plenty, and the kitchen fire could always use more kindling.  Today, however, the narrow street looked as if it had recently been swept clean. As he strolled deeper into the quiet alley, he couldn’t help but notice the silence. There was nothing there save for the three women huddled around one of the mosque’s basement windows. 

Arish walked toward the women. He casually pulled the last thoroughly worn date pit from his mouth. He liked to savor the stones by holding them in his mouth until every bit of fruit had been sucked dry. He looked over the stone to verify it was devoid of any fruit flesh. Tossing the small stone into the air, he tried to kick it like a falling soccer ball. The small stone flew off the side of his foot and struck a window just above the huddling women. 

Though it did no damage, the clack against the glass startled them. One of the women reared her head and looked directly at Arish. All he could see was her beautiful, round, black eyes, peering out from behind her nikab – the black veil that covers every inch of a woman’s head except her eyes.  There was something about those eyes. They left him mesmerized, unable to look away.  Arish couldn’t help but stare directly into her eyes, and she looked back at him. It was a hot minute before she was the first of them to blink.

His aunt always wore a full burqa. Unlike the nikab, it has a cloth mesh sewn into the veil. This heavy and dark garment prevents you from seeing even a woman’s eyes. He found himself entranced with how large and beautiful the woman’s eyes were. As she turned away, she seemed genuinely frightened.  The three women scurried out the back of the alley, leaving the mysterious basement window for Arish to explore.

Compulsively curious, Arish crept up on the basement window and pressed his face to see inside. There was nothing salient; only blurry images filled the dusty window.  Arish used a single finger to slowly clear a small circle on the window. First, he saw a tiny dot, then a larger circle, and finally, he could see more and more movement inside. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness inside, and the more they did, the more he was able to make out the room. He quickly recognized the ornate gold and red robes of the town Imam. The Imam sported gold and silver rings on both hands and brightly colored cloth circled above his head, running in contradiction to the Muslim expectation of modesty.

On either side were two women clad completely in black. Arish thought he saw a third woman in the room, but the only light was from candles, and the dim, flickering flames kept shifting.  Suddenly, the Imam moved forward, sliding along the table directly in front of the window. As he reached the table, a light from behind him flooded the wooden table.

Arish cleaned more of the window, and with the added light, he could see deeper into the room. The scene was full of flowing black robes.  Glancing at the table, he saw something poking out from under a white sheet. The milky white skin was in stark contrast to the endless black cloth flowing throughout the room.

Arish continued to wipe and squint, trying compulsively to satisfy his curiosity when, suddenly, the bare legs he was watching began to move.  The relatively calm scene he had been watching had broken into a violent thrashing of arms and legs. Arish couldn’t turn away. He was glued to the window as he watched the two women grab at each leg and then move toward the sides of the table. Suddenly, a scream broke the silence, and more women rushed to the table to restrain and quiet the struggling soul on the table.

Suddenly, one woman snapped the sheet down sharply, revealing more of the girl’s legs. She then placed her hand firmly on the terrified young girl. There was more struggling before things finally began to quiet down.  Arish realized he was sweating heavily and breathing very hard, so he pulled away from the window to catch his breath.

What he saw was strange.  It made no sense to him, and the violence shocked him.  But the bizarre scene also only fed his curiosity. Sitting with his back against the brick wall of the mosque and rocked by the sights in the room, he knew he was more curious than scared.  He moved back to the window.  One last peek into the room would satisfy his curiosity, and he quickly pressed his face back against the dirty window.

Now, he could clearly see people moving around the room.  An oil lamp hanging from the ceiling threw light directly below.  The Imam was now standing next to the table, but the sheet was lying on the floor.  The girl was lying motionless on the bare wooden table, surrounded by a sea of hands.  The Imam slowly raised the girl’s heavy black burqa higher above her waist, eventually covering her face with the heavy wool. Shocked by the sight of the girl’s nakedness, Arish was frightened but also transfixed by the images. He couldn’t move.

Unable to pull himself away from the window, he watched the Imam tighten his grip on the girl’s legs. As she reacted to the pain of the forceful pulling and twisting,  Arish was horrified. As the girl began to cry and scream at the same time, he felt sick to his stomach. His face contorted in response to the unexplainable images. What was this bizarre scene unfolding before him? 

He tried to make sense of it, but nothing had prepared him for such a sight. With his face now pressed firmly against the window, he saw that the two of the women had switched places with the Imam and were on either side of the table. Holding the girl tightly, they pulled apart her thin, pale legs. The girl let out a piercing scream before someone pulled the burqa from her face and placed a large hand over her mouth. With the young girl helpless, the Imam slid his hands up to the point where her skinny legs joined her now quivering body. Arish was paralyzed. Sweat poured over his eyes, but he couldn’t raise his hands to wipe it away.  He felt the blood draining from his face and arms, and his legs started to shake.

As the woman forced the girl’s legs further apart, suddenly, a muffled scream came from beneath the other woman’s hand. Arish pulled away from the window and swung his head back and forth, looking up and down the alley to see if anyone might have heard the girl cry out. No one was there, and he returned to the window to see the Imam holding something shiny in his hand.  One more woman added her weight and forced the young girl down, while another tried to calm her by stroking her cheek and hair. 

The Imam floated like a ghost from one end of the table to the other and was now hovering over the girl's face. Arish’s fear and confusion were overwhelming, and he felt faint. The young girl’s eyes seemed to grow even larger as the Imam held the long, shiny object in front of her face. Arish looked into the girl’s eyes and was horrified when he realized that the shiny metal object was a long, slightly curved dagger.

The Imam placed the dagger millimeters from the girl’s neck, waving it menacingly side to side while muttering more angry words. The look of fear on the girl's face was surreal. Tears were streaming down Arish’s face as he shared the terror of the young girl. He knew what he was seeing was real, but he desperately hoped it was one of his dreams so he could rescue this terrified girl.

With the dagger now pressed firmly against the girl’s neck, she twisted her head sharply away from the cold metal and directly toward Arish at the window.  For the first time, Arish was looking directly at the young girl’s face. As they locked eyes, the image he saw would be forever burned into Arish’s soul.

He began to shake violently, then screamed at the top of his lungs, “No! No, stop!! Please stop!! No!” He shouted again, but to no avail. He watched in horror as the dagger plunged deeper.  Blood spurted violently from the wound.  Some splashed onto the girl’s perfectly tanned face. Arish fell away from the window and collapsed.  Lying motionless in the street, with his tears  mixed with dust and dirt, reality hit him like a rock.  It was then that the darkness swallowed him.   It pulled him away from the bitter reality.  He sat helpless as his precious sister Jasmine lay motionless on the bloody wooden table.  Arish gave into the darkness as he lost consciousness…