Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (47 page)

If she let her mind wander, who knew where it would go, especially after she had spent another anxious night fighting through the dark dream. She felt the thin blanket around her legs, tightly wrapped and damp, and remembered the dreadful feeling of waking in sweat.

The dream didn’t change much. Sometimes it was raining, sometimes it was dry, sometimes it took place in the mountains, sometimes down by the stream, but other than the setting, the basics were the same: the same tree, the same flames, her father, the smell.

So Azadeh guarded her thoughts carefully to keep the darkness at bay.

She had learned it was just around the corner, always lurking. The darkness. The anger. A depression so deep that if she ever fell in, she knew she would sink down forever and never come up for air. It was always there, always simmering just below her smile. It was the first thing she thought of in the morning and the last thing at night. It was in the air she breathed, a secret part of her now.

But she knew how to fight it. She had learned from her father how to keep the demons at bay. She had to keep the window closed and not let anything in. She couldn’t consider her situation or the sense of injustice would suck the life from her soul.

So she forced herself to be happy. It was all she could do.

She would keep on believing, keep on smiling, keep on trusting in something she couldn’t see.

But sometimes she wondered what she would do if she saw him again. What would she do if she met the soldier who had assassinated her father? She could picture his face, his flat nose, greasy mustache, and dull, deadly eyes.

Some mornings she prayed to forget him.

Some mornings she prayed she never would.

* * *

Soon after arriving in Khorramshahr, Azadeh had fallen into a routine. The camp provided food and shelter but very little else, and her days had become very much the same: wake on her small cot with a thin, cotton blanket over her shoulders, stand in line to wash, stand in line for breakfast, stand in line for drinking water, stand in line to speak with a U.N. refugee worker, stand in line to glimpse a newspaper, stand in line for lunch, stand in line for another drink of water, stand in line, stand in line, stand in line . . . . Looking at the back of some stranger’s head defined her life now.

Azadeh decided to write a letter to Omar, hoping against hope that he might be able to help her. As she stared at the single sheet of paper, she struggled to think of what she could say. Her mind drifted back to that horrible afternoon when the soldiers appeared at her house. She thought of Omar at their back door, coming to warn them, his hair wet with rain, the deep curls hanging in front of his eyes. He was sweating and panting heavily, his hot breath creating puffs of mist in the cold.

“Take them!” her father had commanded Omar, pointing to the young Saudi prince and his terrified mother.

Azadeh remembered Omar’s huge shoulders and thick legs propelling his weight up the rocky trail, holding the Saudi prince like a piece of limp baggage, the young boy appearing weightless under his powerful arm. The princess clung to Omar’s shoulder while holding one hand to her mouth. The mist gathered around quickly around them, and for a moment they looked like gray spirits moving through the orchard and across the wet grass. Omar had stopped and looked back, then turned and pushed them along, herding the princess and her son toward the rocky trail that led up the mountain. They were soon swallowed up in the mist, the sound of their footsteps quickly fading away.

Sitting on her small cot, Azadeh wondered for the thousandth time if Omar had been able to keep his charge safe. If not, her letter didn’t matter, for Omar was certainly dead.

But if he was all right, then where was he? Would he get her letter? Would it be safe to reply? She was just a young woman; she had no right to contact him in the first place. Such a great man as Omar, would he stoop so low as to answer her anyway?

Then a dark thought occurred to her, leaving a cold pit in her stomach.
Might the soldiers trace her letter to Khorramshahr and come looking for her?

She thought a long moment, a cold shudder inside, then slid the pencil and blank sheet of paper into her small burlap sack and placed it under her cot.

She considered for three days, then finally made her decision. That evening, when the sun was about to set and mourning doves were calling each other from the birch trees behind the last row of tents, she summoned her courage, feeling compelled to try. She took out the pencil and started writing, choosing her words carefully, the Persian script poetic and articulate from two thousand years of heritage.

Master Omar Pasni Zehedan:

It is difficult to consider the possibility that my words might not find you in good health or even find you at all, but I remember with such deep emotion that night that you came to our home and I felt a need to thank you for your sacrifice and what you were willing to do.

My father, as you must know, has been called home to Our God. I think I knew my father as well as anyone on this earth and I can tell you without hesitation that he looked forward to your conversations on the old tower as much as anything in this life. It is my belief that he loved you, Master Zehedan, as he would have loved a brother had that gift been given to him, and I pray you will remember his soul in your prayers.

I find myself in a situation which, though not home, is safe and tolerable. I am here in Khorramshahr. There is no school, and few young people my age, but it is safe and we eat, and are generally provided for, so I will not complain. What am I to do, I have not yet formulated, but I maintain my faith that, over time, Allah will light the way. I take one step into the darkness, and then wait for Allah light. Insha’allah. I trust in Allah’s will.

Were you to have opportunity, and were you to feel it appropriate for one such as yourself to show kindness to one such as I, I would look forward to hearing of your good health and well being.

I pray, as always, that Allah will place warmth in your soul and peace in your mind.

Respectfully. Humbly.

Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi

Azadeh stared at the letter, reading it carefully, then folded it twice and placed it in the brown envelope. And though she had fantasies of Omar receiving her letter and sending some of his men to whisk her away, her main reason for writing was to establish some type of contact with the outside world. She was desperate to believe there was someone out there who cared.

Still, she almost smiled as she reviewed the brief note. She felt like a little girl writing to an imaginary friend.

After sealing the envelope, she realized she didn’t know Master Zehedan’s address. She struggled as she thought, then did the best that she could, using his full name and a guess of his home’s location on the north side of the Agha Jari Deh Valley, five kilometers north of the village.

* * *

Although Azadeh had no idea what the outcome would be or where she would end up, she knew she was far better off in Khorramshahr than any alternative and she was grateful to be there, regardless of how bleak or hopeless it might seem.

She missed her father. She missed her village. She missed everything. Sometimes the homesickness washed upon her like a wall of cold water, leaving her shivering, lonely and cold. But she did not lose hope. There was reason still to live.

And just as she had done since she was old enough to remember, she started each day with
fajr,
the first morning prayer in the
sala’h
. Turning toward Mecca, she joined with the true believers from all over the world who demonstrated their faith in Allah by falling to their knees.

* * *

Azadeh believed, because she had been taught by her father, that Allah was closer to humanity than a father was to a child, and that nothing in this world deserved an equal surrender of self.

As a united people, Muslims begin each day by falling to their knees in worship of Allah, whom they consider the creator of the universe and every being therein. Bowing to pray is a demonstration of their surrender to the Allah, for Islam means
submission
to Allah’s will.

Azadeh had also been taught that she must always face Mecca when she prayed, for that was where the great
Ka’bah
was.

The
Ka’bah,
a stone building shaped like a huge black cube, was far and away the most sacred structure on earth. Forbidden to most non-Muslims, originally built by the Prophet Abraham and his son Ismai’l, the beautiful but simple structure was built for the purpose of worshipping Allah, and the ceremonies that were observed there had been performed by the Prophets for thousands of years.

Inside the
Ka’bah,
the Black Stone had been placed. Older than the creation of the earth, round and small enough to hold in two hands, the Black Stone was composed of several fragments of rock bound together by a silver band. According to Islamic tradition, God had given the Black Stone to Adam after plucking it from Paradise.

Because the Black Stone came directly from Allah, it was revered by all Muslims as the most holy object on earth. It was Allah’s gift to man, evidence of Allah’s being, and every prophet from Adam to Mohammed had at one time touched the Black Stone.

As the centuries passed, the
Ka’bah
was frequently damaged by calamities and war. In the early seventh century, a fire had ravaged the
Ka’bah,
and when it was rebuilt, the Arab tribes could not agree who should have the right to install the Black Stone in its place back inside the
Ka’bah
. After many arguments, which nearly escalated into war, the tribes finally agreed to let the next person who entered the courtyard decide who would be privileged to place the ancient stone in its place. As Allah had intended, the next person to come into the courtyard was Mohammed. A young man, not yet a prophet, Mohammed placed a piece of cloth on the ground and set the Black Stone at the center. Then he asked each of the tribes to select a delegate to gather around the cloth. Together they lifted the cloth with the Black Stone off the ground and carried it to the
Ka’bah,
where Mohammed set it in place.

Azadeh had been taught that if one kissed the stone, which was smooth and soothing and emitted a pleasant fragrance from Abraham’s hands, it would bear witness to that person’s worthiness on the Judgment Day.

Several feet in front of the Black Stone was the Zamzam well, another reason why the
Ka’bah
was considered so sacred. Tradition told that while Abraham was away from his wife Hagar and Ismai’l to visit Sarah at Mecca, the Angel Gabriel had hit the ground with his wings on this spot to bring forth a flow of clear water from under Ismai’l’s feet.

For these reasons it was essential for all Muslims to face the Most Holy Mosque of
Ka’bah
as they began their morning prayers, and Azadeh had never even considered breaking this command.

Once she had prostrated herself on her prayer rug and faced the city that contained the Black Stone, she closed her eyes and repeated the words her father had taught:

“Oh Allah,

I am the daughter of my father, Your Servant

And the daughter of my mother,

Your gift to me.

My soul is in Your palm

I receive light by Your finger.

Your judgment is perfect,

Now I ask you by every name given to you by the Prophet

That you keep my life in Your palm

That you touch me with Your finger

to remove my sadness

and give me joy today.

Prophet Muhammad,

Peace be upon him.

And though Azadeh had great faith in this prayer, she had come to believe that there had to be something more. So she closed her eyes again and boldly added other words to the prayer, words of her own, words that had not been taught.

“Allah, my God,” she began in a quiet voice, “In my heart I realize I don’t deserve what You have given to me. You have given me life. Yet I am a weak and unworthy child. You gave me a mother who wanted me, though I don’t remember her face. You gave me a father who loved me so much that he put aside everything that he cared about in order to take care of me. You gave me health and a strong body, and the opportunity to be here in this life.

“And while You have given me disappointments and heartaches, I accept them as well. I accept all of your gifts, both the good and the ill. Show me Your will, God, and I will follow Your way.”

With those words, Azadeh took a deep breath. Standing, she moved to her tent flap to look out on the refugee camp, one of the most empty and lonely places in the world, then squared her shoulders and stepped into the harsh sunlight.

The HH-60G Pave Hawks landed in formation, four helicopters in a right echelon position, each maintaining a position five feet above and to the right of their leader as they descended through the semidarkness. The sand blew before them as their enormous blades stirred the air, sending the dirt—fine as talcum powder—up and over the helicopters in a vertical whirlpool of sand. The pilots landed quickly through the blowing dust, barely able to see. When the helicopters touched down, the landing pistons hardly compressed for the helicopters had spent all of their fuel and most of their ammunition as well. The pilots nosed their helicopters forward and taxied across the corrugated steel that had been placed over the uneven terrain, moving toward the load-up area.

Dawn was ready to break, and the sky was in the transition from deep black to dark gray. Pulling onto the loading tarmac, the helicopters came to a stop. As they did, the soldiers opened the cargo doors and began to spill out, thankful as always to be on the ground. The men wore full battle gear: desert camouflage battle-dress uniforms, flak jackets, Kevlar
^®
helmets, and brown leather boots. Each soldier also wore multiple web belts and a small pack containing ammunition, rations, water, smoke grenades, radios, miniature GPS receivers, grenades, cigarettes, lip balm, night vision goggles—all the essential elements of modern war.