Living Stones (4 page)

Ali reached for Robert’s passport. “They want to see our papers.” After appropriate scrutiny the guard ushered the two men with their packs into a room with a bare wood floor and mats for sitting. Shoes remained at the door. Robert scanned the metal roof above and the concrete block walls painted white. No chairs. They joined three other men who Robert guessed were Central Asian or Pakistani. They shook hands all around, silently without smiling.

In walked a tall, turbaned Afghan, his skin dark from the sun. He stood ramrod straight, slender, with an intense gaze. His long Pakistani shirt extended to his knees, while loose cloth pants and sandals showed below. They all shook hands and then sat down on thin mats around a central tablecloth. Robert tucked his feet in, cross-legged, uncomfortable. His new comrades seemed to sit easily that way. He
wondered what was coming. No one spoke. Soon a turbaned man appeared with tea and dates. He set them on the tablecloth and disappeared through a back door.

“Welcome,” the head man spoke in Pashtun. “Can anyone translate into English so our American friend can understand?”

Ali nodded and spoke briefly to their host in Urdu and Pashtun. The three IMU young men also spoke to him in another language Robert did not recognize. “Who are they?” Robert whispered to Ali.

“They are speaking Dari, the language of northern Afghanistan—like Tajik, Persian-based. They’re members of the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, the IMU. It’s a fundamentalist Islamic group active here and in other countries of Central Asia,” Ali whispered. “One guy is Uzbek, but the other two are Tajiks.”

Robert felt strange, the only white guy, the only one without Asian roots, singled out because he spoke only English. He’d never heard of the IMU and wondered how they linked with the Taliban. He felt so out of place, as though he didn’t belong here. He began to wonder whether he should have come. The realization that this choice could lead to his death or imprisonment struck hard. He glanced at the door. The driver had gone back to Quetta, so there was no escape.
Man, what am I doing here?

With Ali’s translation, the Afghan head man began to speak. “You have been carefully screened and chosen to learn to fight in the worldwide jihad to free our Muslim brothers and sisters. You will become jihadis, Salafis, to establish caliphates in many countries, obeying sharia, the correct path. During the next two months you will learn many skills.”

Robert’s heart raced.
No backing out now. I know too much already. It would be crazy to even try
.

The leader continued, “But first, security. You will not know my name, but call me ‘leader.’ We will not know each other’s names, but refer to each by Pashtun number.”

The five trainees counted off, “Silfer, Yow, Dwa.” Ali would be “Dre,” and then the leader pointed to Robert, “Salor.” Number five. Ali helped Robert pronounce his new name.

“You will not know the name of this place or its telephone number or e-mail address. Now give me your cell phones and computers.
You will get them back at the end of the training. When you do, you are never to mention or write about anything you have done here, anyone you have met, or where this camp is located.”

The leader held out a box. The five students rose to turn in all their electronic equipment, including cell phones, cameras, and laptop computers.

“It will be as if this experience and the people you meet never existed. If ever arrested, no record exists of your being here, and you will deny ever being here, meeting us and receiving training. We do fear the enemies’ learning of this place and our mission. They have been using drone airplanes, targeted bombs, and rockets to kill our people. Any questions?”

There were none. Sweat trickled down Robert’s temple. His heart raced. He knew the U.S. drones killed Taliban brothers on both sides of the border. Now he was in a target site himself. And were his tracks covered well enough? The airlines could document his arrival in Quetta and return to Seattle, but otherwise no one knew his travels except Ali.
OK, Imam Jabril
.

Robert had thought of taking an Arabic name to identify with his fellow jihadis, but realized he would maintain his security better by staying with “Robert,” at least at home. No one in the movement, even in the U.S., would know his last name anyway. He looked at Ali, who didn’t seem to be worried, sitting with a passive expression as though he was back in school.

“Allow me to outline the program’s schedule,” the leader continued. “Part one includes conditioning and teaches you military skills. Some of you will be fighting with our brothers in various parts of the world. You need to learn to be a soldier, to fire weapons, to handle explosives. We will toughen you up. After three weeks of basic training, those interested in fighting in the Middle East, here in Central Asia, and in Pakistan, will continue to acquire advanced military skills. That includes tactics, how to blend in with civilians and so on. You will get some training in creating bombs.

“For those with American passports, Dre and Salor, you will break away after three weeks and focus on the manufacture of explosives and how to conceal and use them. These skills are necessary since the only tools you will have for fighting our enemies may be weapons
you create yourself. It is now nearly impossible to return to the West with explosive material, even in shoes or underwear!” Ali looked at Robert with a whimsical smirk at the failure of their predecessors. And now they knew that they could return to their homeland or at least to Western countries.

Ashley couldn’t get Najid out of her mind. She was attracted to him, but there was something about his conversation in the coffee room that bothered her.

Ashley called her new friend in Seattle, Jim Swain, a young associate pastor at the church her father had recommended. He had found it on the list of “Churches United with Israel.”

Entering his carpeted office she noticed pictures of his attractive wife and two small boys on his desk, and a number of certificates and athletic trophies. Tall with dark hair, he extended his hand to shake Ashley’s and then gestured toward a large overstuffed chair across his desk near a floor lamp. A Bible rested on an end table close to the chair, along with a box of tissues.

“Welcome, Ashley. How’s school going?”

“It’s OK, but it doesn’t rock my socks. You know I’m in graduate school and a teaching assistant in zoology, but it’s just a stepping stone on my way to medical school.”

“So, what’s up?”

Ashley paused. “Uh . . . I’ve been raised in church all my life, and I became a serious Christian in high school. Our church in Oklahoma
teaches that God brought the Jews to Israel in my grandparents’ lifetime. And we believe that fulfilled Biblical prophecy, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“I just know bits and pieces of Jewish history, mostly from Bible stories. But I understand they’ve gone through a lot of persecution.”

“Incredible amount!” Pastor Jim leaned forward and spoke rapidly. “Just think, Ashley. They had no homeland. Remember the pogroms beginning in Russia and Europe in the 1800s, like in ‘Fiddler on the Roof’? That’s why Theodor Herzl began the Zionist movement in Europe in 1897 with the slogan about Palestine, ‘A land without a people, waiting for a people without a land.’ ”

“But weren’t people already there in Palestine?”

“I’ve always understood no one lived there,” the pastor said. “Ashley, we’re talking about the persecutions of the Jews over centuries. Think of the big one, the holocaust during World War II . . .”

“I’ve read that some people now deny that ever happened.”

Pastor Jim shook his head. “Six million Jews, Ashley, slaughtered by the Nazis. It happened. Remember, and never again. But now these suffering people who brought us Leonardo da Vinci and Albert Einstein have a land they can call home.”

“Da Vinci was a Jew?”

“Yes, Ashley. Scholars believe his mother was a Middle Eastern Jewish slave who converted to Christianity. There are still many anti-Semites who deny this or any fact that reflects positively on the Jewish people.”

“Why are Jews still being persecuted? Why do so many hate them?”

“Well, there have been several wars, and the Palestinians are trying to keep Israel from expanding into the promised land that God gave them. Many world forces want to keep the Jews contained—or even eradicated.”

“That’s what’s bothering me right now, Pastor Jim. I have heard for years that the Palestinians, and the Muslim countries surrounding Israel, are trying to push it into the sea.”

“And they are, Ashley. By the way, just call me Jim.”

“That’s what I learned, and I have always believed.” Ashley frowned and squinted her eyes. “So two weeks ago I met Najid
Haddad, who just joined us in the graduate program in zoology at U Dub. We learned that he is Palestinian. And ever since, I can’t get our conversation out of my mind.”

“Did he talk Middle East politics?”

“Oh no! He’s such a gentle guy, extremely polite, wanting to get acquainted, and eager to please. He only shared a bit about his family and background in response to our questions.”

“So why were you so surprised with what he said?” Jim asked.

“Well first, he lives in Israel proper, near Nazareth. I always thought the Palestinians were in the West Bank and Gaza only. He says there are over one million Palestinians in Israel, about twenty percent of the population.”

“Huh.” Jim paused, frowning. “I didn’t think there were that many.”

“So, we asked whether he was Sunni or Shia Muslim, and he floored us by saying he is a Christian, by birth
and
by choice, and that there are at least two hundred thousand Christian Arabs in Israel itself. Christian Palestinians! I thought the Palestinians were all Muslims.”

“So?”

“Then he went on to say that his family had lived there for at least three hundred years with records showing that.”

Jim looked pensive, chin in his hand, and gazed at Ashley without saying anything. Finally he asked, “So what do you make of his story?”

“That night I couldn’t sleep thinking of Najid. Here is such a gentle, refined guy with no apparent political agenda. He was just answering personal questions honestly and seemed quite free to respond to us.”

“So what kept you awake?”

“Jim, don’t you see that Najid doesn’t fit our Palestinian stereotypes? I had no idea that so many Palestinians actually live in Israel, and they apparently have lived together peacefully with their Jewish and Muslim neighbors for many years. Najid learned Hebrew from growing up playing with Jewish boys. He doesn’t seem to have a chip on his shoulder for Israelis. I’ve learned that out of the heart the mouth speaks, and there has been nothing so far to make me believe he hates Jews.”

“Do you think he is a real Christian?”

“He says he is, both by birth but also by choosing his own faith. Plus I had no idea that ancient churches exist there.”

“I must admit I don’t know much about them either,” Jim added. “So does the fact of Christian Arabs in Israel bother you?”

“No. I can accept that. What amazes me is that these people have been there for centuries—it’s their home. And they’re not Jews. Do the native people have a right to live there? Is it supposed to be a Jewish country exclusively?”

“But Ashley, don’t you believe God promised the land to Israel in the Bible?”

“I do, but I don’t understand just how these promises apply to the Christians there. Or Muslims for that matter. Should they be able to live there as they have for centuries?”

“Ashley, let’s talk again when you have had time to think and study the Bible about the significance of God’s special people of Israel. You have lots of questions, but don’t be influenced by anti-Israeli views. There’s a lot of anti-Semitism out there. Just keep an open mind to what you have learned your whole life.”

Climbing out of bed in the dark, Robert moaned to Ali, “I didn’t sign up for Marine boot camp.” Up at five, fifty push-ups, and a five-K run all before breakfast. Then more exercises. Climbing wood walls and slithering under barbed wire on his belly with live machine-gun fire overhead, followed by target practice—lying, sitting, standing, and on the run using AK-47s and live ammunition. More push-ups, sit-ups, and weight lifting. Finally Robert sat down as an instructor demonstrated how to break down their assault rifle and put it together again. Robert’s hands shook from fatigue, and he came in last in accomplishing that task. Lunch came in somewhere during the torture, and Robert could hardly remember the rest of the day when he crashed onto his mat at seven just after dinner.

“Ali, I didn’t know what we were getting into!”

“Neither did I. They seem to want us fighting tigers.”

“I think the IMU guys are in better shape than us. Dre and Salor always come in last.”

“Maybe we’re smarter.”

“I doubt it,” Robert said. “Silfer, Yow, and Dwa seem to know
several languages, and all I speak is English.”

“You don’t need any other language. They have to get along in different countries of Central Asia. They must know Russian as well. Remember they used to answer to the Soviet Union.”

“I’m too tired to understand all that. Tell me tomorrow. I can’t even remember your Pashtun name. I’m not using it when we’re alone. I’m almost asleep.”

The next morning Robert could hardly move. He couldn’t understand any of the shouting except Ali’s scream, “Robert, on your feet! The leader’s coming!”

The torture continued day after day. By the third week, he and Ali could keep up with the IMU guys, and they seemed to bond during the difficulties of the program. Robert sat with Ali on the floor at lunch. “It’s funny, man, that I could get so attached to a bunch of terrorists.”

“Look, Robert, you’re a freedom fighter in the cause of jihad, for freedom from Western domination. Don’t use the term ‘terrorist.’ That’s Western. We fight for noble causes, to free the Palestinians and to force the Israelis to return the land to our brothers and sisters, that is rightfully theirs.”

“That’s what I want to do, Ali. I hate Israelis, and the United States for supporting ’em! If I could get a bomb in a synagogue, I’d shock ’em all the way to Jerusalem.”