Amsterdam 2012 (17 page)

A light down the hallway to the left.
 
More grunting and swearing, the kind of swearing that explodes through clenched teeth.

I found Alex sitting on the toilet in the bathroom, bent over and clutching himself.
 
Drugs was
my first thought, withdrawal, getting a fix, then I saw drops of blood on the white tiles.
 
“What in hell happened to you?”

Alex jerked up to look at me, moaning as he wrapped his arms around his chest.
 
He shook his head and caved again, rocking back and forth.

“Are you shot?”
 

He shook his head no.

The door to the medicine cabinet was open.
 
Bandages, scissors, iodine, and cotton balls covered the sink and floor.
 
In the shape he was in, he’d never be able to bandage himself.
 
I read the labels of the medicine bottles on the top shelf.
 
Dad had some leftover
Vicodin
from his knee replacement surgery.
 
I shook out two tablets, then a third, and ran Alex a glass of water.
 
“Here.
 
Take these.”

His eyes—I’d never seen Alex with such eyes—filled with fear, agony, and desperation.
 
And trust.
 
That really surprised me.
 
He took the pills, grunting in pain after he drank the water.

“Sit up if you can.
 
Let me see.”

Slowly he straightened his spine.
 
I brushed his hair off of his face.
 
His nose was bleeding, but not broken, his lips cut, his left eye red and swollen.
 
I cut off his T-shirt with scissors.
 
There was a large bruised splotch on his left side with an odd angular bump halfway down his torso.
 
I probed his abdomen with my fingers—no internal bleeding.

I knew about taping broken ribs, but had never done it before.
 
“Sit up straight,” I commanded, then worked the bones until they fell into place.
 
I cut five pieces of adhesive and laid one piece over the break, wrapping it around his chest to his spine, then two pieces on either side.
 
I then wrapped his chest with Dad’s blue rubber sweat wrap, which he wore to the gym to try to melt his belly fat.
 
“Cough for me,” I said.
 
Alex coughed, groaning in pain.
 
“You have to breathe deep and cough even if it hurts.
 
You don’t want liquid to collect in your lungs.”
 
I wiped the blood from his face.
 
It didn’t look too bad—teeth a little loose.
 
I stopped the bleeding in his mouth and nose with pressure, and cleaned the cuts with hydrogen peroxide.
 

I helped him to his room and out of his clothes.
 
I put him to bed and laid a steak on his eye.
 
After lowering his blinds, I kissed his forehead and told him to sleep.

I cleaned up the bathroom and went back to my room.
 
I felt oddly calm—as if I had been mending wounded soldiers my entire life.
 

I went to bed and slept soundly until eight o’clock.
 
Father and Mother were off to work, Cynthia to school.
 
I watched the local news,
then
waited a few hours before making a banana protein shake and soft boiled eggs.
 
I put everything on a tray with two more
Vicodin
and orange juice, and went to Alex’s bedroom.

He stirred when I walked in.
 
I opened the blinds and set down his tray.
 
I checked his forehead for fever—none—and his eyes for dilation, then wedged pillows behind him until he was sitting up.
 
I handed him the pills and orange juice.

“So, what’s the story?” I asked.

“Fucking
ragheads
.”
 
He gulped down the pills and handed back the glass.

What I guessed had happened turned out to be true.
 
The morning news had reported that the King
Fhad
Mosque, one of the largest mosques in Los Angeles, had been bombed, as well as the offices of the Muslim Public Affairs Council on Wilshire Boulevard.
 
Of the forty-eight mosques in Los Angeles County, twelve had been torched.
 
All eight Muslim charter schools had been attacked with handmade bombs.
 
The American Christian Crusade claimed credit.

“The news reported injuries,” I said.
 
“They didn’t say how many.”

“We planned it for night so we wouldn’t hurt anyone.
 
But at one of the schools, there were these seven guys working on computers.
 
They came running out when we threw the Molotov cocktail in the window.
 
We took them on.”

“Anyone hurt?
 
Besides you?”
 

“Two were killed.
 
Muslim.
 
The others were beaten up and scared.”

“The news didn’t mention—”

“They were terrorists.
 
I’m not sorry they got killed.”

“What makes you think they were terrorists?”

“Come on, Ann.
 
A bunch of
ragheads
working on computers late at night?
 
They had guns.”

Young men with guns hardly seemed proof of being a terrorist in this town, nor working on computers late at night, for that matter.
 
“Did they see your faces?”

“No, we wore ski masks.”

“Anyone else see you?
 
All of these places must have security cameras.
 
They will show you killed—”

“I didn’t say
I
killed anyone.
 
I said two were killed.
 
Not by gun.
 
Not traceable.”

“Alex, you can’t do this.
 
You can’t—”

“I have to.
 
We have no choice, don’t you see?
 
I’m not a racist.
 
You’re wrong about that.
 
I have nothing against moderate Muslims.
 
But that’s not who runs the mosques and schools anymore.
 
They’re all
jihadists
.
 
They spread it in the prisons.
 
They’ve infiltrated the gangs.
 
It’s not the
Crips
and the Bloods anymore.
 
It’s the Muhammad Militia.
 
We got to get rid of them.”
 
Alex was in tears now, in pain from raising his voice, clutching his ribs, furious at me for what he saw as the suicidal ignorance of his community.

“Mom and Dad would kill you if they knew what you’re up to.
 
They might turn you over to the police.”

“No they won’t.
 
Not if they understood what we’re up against.
 
Believe me.”

I jammed a straw into his protein shake and handed it to him.
 
“Tell Mom you fell from a motorcycle,” I advised.
 
“That will make her mad enough to keep her from suspecting the truth.”

I left his room, weak, ashamed, and frightened.
 
I wouldn’t tell our parents, not even for murder.
 
I was complicit, just as I was for the massacre of
Marjon
and her husband and friends.
 
I felt as if I were sinking in quicksand, and the only person I trusted, who could help me make sense of it is on the run from the FBI.

I ached to see Peter.
 

#

The following week the government seat of Iraq’s three-state federation was taken over by Sunni
Salafi
radicals in a military coup.
 
The international community immediately withdrew its peacekeepers.
 
Iraq then joined the other nations of the UNI, which now consisted of Afghanistan, Turkistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan, Sudan, Somalia, Eritrea, Yemen, Oman, and Zanzibar.

In Lebanon the confrontation between the Lebanese Army and Islamic militants at Palestinian refugee camps, which housed over 400,000 Palestinians, worsened, erupting into the greatest violence since the end of Lebanon’s bloody civil war.
 
The militants, belonging to
Fatah
al-Islam, had already taken over Tripoli, and the government was in danger of falling.

Afghanistan
jihadists
moved across the Pakistan border and rallied the tribes.
 
Dozens of suicide bombers attacked Lahore and Karachi, massacring thousands.
 
Jihadists
continued on, pouring into the front lines with Kashmir, launching attacks inside India.
 
Indians retaliated, demonstrating and indiscriminately murdering thousands of Indian Muslims, many who fled into Pakistan and joined the
jihadists
.
 

Al
Jazerra
broadcasted the second statement from
Qasim
bin Laden since the
Jenever
Theater murders.
 
“The world
is now tasting
what we have tasted for more than eighty years.
 
For years Europe and America have abused the blood, honor, and sanctuaries of Muslims.
 
Just as you laid waste to our nation, so shall we lay waste to
yours.
 
May God show you His wrath and give you what you deserve.
 
His sword comes down on Europe and America.
 
I bear witness that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is his messenger.
 
All praise is due to Allah.”

#

A new mosque opened on Sixth and Arizona in Santa Monica.
 
Sara
Jiluwis
invited all of the girls in Cynthia’s Islamic Club to an open mosque day.
 
Cynthia was very excited to see the new building and begged me to go with her.
 
I surprised her by saying yes.
 
I had my reasons.

The mosque was a classical abstraction in white travertine that fit in nicely with the Santa Monica Library down the block.
 
The dome looked like the sun setting behind collapsed slabs of white rock, and the minaret, a triangular tube, jutted high into the sky.
  

Cynthia and I covered our heads and walked inside.
 
The air was light and cool, the lofty dome shedding a warm golden glow on the travertine floor.
 
A woman in a sari met us at the door and directed us to the women’s section.
 
We took our shoes off at the door, and placed them on shelves.
 
We entered a room with thick carpets with pillows scattered in rows on the floor and against the wall.
 
There were women of all ages, many with small children lying with their heads on their laps.
 
Elderly women sat in chairs around the sides, or leaned against the wall chatting quietly.
 
Several women in skirts looked like they had just come from work.
 
Teenagers in jeans and headscarves clustered in corners.
 
Every race of woman was there—Middle Eastern, Indian, Asian, Somali, African American, white, all with headscarves.
 
One or two in full
burkas
.
 

Sara
Jiluwis
greeted Cynthia and her friends, and gave them presents of beautiful hand-woven head scarves from Egypt.
 
She led them away to meet another group of teenaged girls.
  

I stood awkwardly by myself and looked around.
 
In the absence of men there seemed to be a freedom and comfort among the women, an unguarded sensuality.
 
They moved among one another fluidly, as if currents pushing in different directions, but flowing as one body of water.

I began to feel seduced by the shimmering calm.
  

I watched a young woman who sat with an open
Quran
on her lap, reciting verses.
 
She looked completely serene, connected to her purpose and surroundings as if a lone fisherman on a still lake at dawn.
 
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
 
Something made me want to be like her—purposeful and pious.
 
I felt a sudden bleakness in me, hallowed out and paper thin.
 
A feeling like failure.
    

 
A woman stood in front of the room, opened her
Quran
and began reading aloud in Arabic, a lovely mezzo chanting.
 
Several women sat around her, others continued gossiping and soothing their children.
 
The feeling was silky, cool and warm at the same time, the lulling susurrus of prayers and light conversation.
 
I felt as if I were being folded into the petals of a flower.