Jamila could barely remember how to pray. Faith had left her so long ago, it felt like a hazy dream that belonged to someone else. Still, as she quietly dressed to leave the house that morning, she sensed that this was the time and place to reaquaint herself with Allah. A prayer or two was necessary . . . before it was too late.

Even before the sun had fully risen, she could tell it would be one of those days. The heat, already thick as tahini paste, seemed to rise up from the ground in pulsating, furnace-style wafts, instantly dampening her Abayah with a layer of sweat. She thought about turning around and crawling back into bed. She longed to snuggle up to her still sleeping babies and curl her body protectively around theirs, as if they were delicate Bitanok flowers cupped in the palms of her hands. She stood for a moment, in front of the apartment door, letting the heat slip seductively into the folds of her long skirt, knowing that obligation was not the only thing standing in the way of turning back around: If she did so, a very good man she had once loved would possibly--probably--die.

Jason needed her, and so she had to go. With a heart that felt as heavy and tired as her sleep-deprived body, she made her way along the winding, cobbled streets, watching old ladies conduct their daily restocking of handmade baskets and fruit, rice, fish, and flowers to sell in their makeshift cabanas. Bees buzzed hypnotically around the pomegranates, figs, mangoes, papaya, grapes, and lemons. The old women, crinkled and baked into leathery blackness, barely noticed her as they fearlessly beat the bees away with giant banana leaves.

An intense concoction of sweat, smoke, and saffron swirled around Jamila as she walked. She was thankful for the canteen she carried beneath her clothes, along with a little money, and the fake passport that had finally come. The sharp plastic edge of it scratched meanly against her thigh, reminding her with every step that she was doing something dangerous--something that could take her away from her babies for longer than a fleeting, heat-filled morning.

But there was no time to think about that now. Jason Hollstaff was waiting for her at a friend’s house on the south end of Bagdad. She had little time before the sun would be up fully and people would pour into the streets as fluidly as water from her mother’s copper ġarrafa. Hopefully, her ahm was waking up now, and would remember the children and ready them for school. Even though she did this frequently, Jamila had taken to leaving her mother gentle reminder notes. Today’s read: Djaddah, please remember to give the children a bath.

She had told her mother about the outing, but, of course, had given her no specifics. She was a compassionate woman. Perhaps, she could have handled the news that her only child had decided to risk her life to save a former, forbidden habibi from certain death. But, she also suffered from dementia, and lately, just helping with the children seemed to take a serious toll on her frail, bowed body. No, her mother could never know she’d had a lover, let alone the danger she was now facing because of him. No one could, and this knowledge made Jamila feel more alone than ever before.

There is a limit to what one can do, even when there is great love involved . . . Even when the hands of desperation leap upon your throat, choke-holding your rationale as if it were an artery. Jamila felt that way now; the unyielding grip of something happening beyond her control. The feeling had started when she bought the black market passport from a shoe maker who didn’t really make any shoes. Now, she could barely breathe as she walked through the streets, feeling that important piece of paper rubbing defiantly against her thigh. There was also heat there, from the ground, from the friction of the passport, from her insides racked with nerves. It even filled her groin with hot intensity; moisture that felt not unlike desire, the longing for something you can grasp, but never quite possess.

As a field journalist working for the B.B.C., Jason fell into such a category. Even while laying naked with her, entangled beneath a drapery of bed netting, he was always ready to leave at a moment’s notice. They’d met when he’d come into her office looking for information about a colleague who’d gone missing. She’d been working later than she‘d planned, as she often did. Dinner would be cooking when she got home, unless it had already been devoured by two, constantly ravenous children and an old woman who, in the past, few years, sometimes forgot Jamila was coming home at all. The moment that he opened his mouth, to tell her his name and offer credentials, she felt strangely drawn to him; knew that he would soon see more than her face beneath a flowering Hejab that highlighted the charcoal of her eyes. Yes, regardless of her usual distrust--and the gaping cultural and language barriers--she intuitively knew he would be the one to nudge Imad over in the limited space of a heart broken so many times before. First, by loves that could only remain unrequited in a strictly fundamentalist Muslim city, then by a husband who would belong to her for barely five, short years before the war would make a whispering ghost of him.

Or, perhaps, she had only hoped Jason would help to ease the pain that swelled like a dry wadi during rain season, while the twins slept soundly on both sides of her, unaware of anything but their mother’s heaving chest and small, warm frame. Work at the university consumed her nearly seven days a week, but the nights were uncomfortably quiet--even with cooling fans on high, and the intermittent sound of bullets pop, pop, popping away in distant neighborhoods.

Jason was a quiet man. He didn’t have much to say after she told him what she knew, which was basically, purposefully, nothing. People just had a way of disappearing, as if suddenly eradicated by a lethal poison left out for spiders, scorpion, and anyone who openly criticized the government. She knew that the professor had been outspoken. A human rights advocate. He had talked in his classroom often of oppression, insurgents, torture, and those who’d previously disappeared in similar manners, caught like a rabbit in the middle of the night. She tried not to know too much because of the twins. Their father had already been taken from them in a battle of holy war. They could not lose a mother too. But, Jason had a way of understanding beyond all words. He’d looked at her and seen the soft, sad underbelly of truth: She herself was nearly a ghost; forced into barely visible timidity by an onslaught of tragedy, fear, and suppression.

Most likely, her whisper-like existence was the reason he’d chosen her for this important task. For, to the average eye, she was just like any other Muslim woman living in post-war Iraq; she kept her head down, was careful about not making eye contact with men, and, whenever in public, remained covered from head to toe. The morning sun brought safety as much as it did heat. As she walked through the awakening city, she fondly remembered the first time she and Jason had found themselves truly and utterly alone. She’d brought her class papers with her, as if she might start grading at any moment, as if she wouldn’t be fully enraptured within the first, few moments of intimacy. They’d barely spoken as he watched her undress. First, she removed the floor-length abayah and burqa she wore in public, then her flowered hejab, or head scarf, then the silver hairclip (a present from Imad); after which she slipped, shyly, out of the beautifully beaded dress she'd worn beneath. There was something especially thrilling about this moment; not only because it was strictly forbidden, but because being with this man felt more destined than anything she'd ever known.

“Jamila. My Jamila. You are more than I’d ever imagined,” Jason said, as he’d lifted her in one, sweeping motion beneath the netting and onto his bed. It was a statement that needed further investigation in her ever-analytical mind--not now, of course, but later, as the twins sucked away on their chubby, ceaselessly dirt-lined fingers and dreamt happily of their day school antics. Did he mean that she was physically more beautiful, after being disrobed from the dreadful, but necessary layering? Or, was it deeper than that? Was it possible he’d meant “more” than all who had come before?

It was impossible to say who he’d belonged to during his 40-plus years—or, perhaps, still did. He didn’t divulge such information, and she was fine with that. Such knowledge would only serve to complicate things, not to mention eat up too much precious time. They saved discussions for those few, lingering minutes before they parted ways. She would talk about teaching Middle Eastern history a little, but more about her boys--her angelic tefls--and her fear of them one day turning into war victims or vengeful mongers. (Either choice was equally repugnant.) He would listen mostly, offering little advice because, really, what advice could a childless man think to give? He may have been posted in Bagdad, but his real world was a distant, democratic place full of even-keeled thinkers and equality that seemed commonplace. In her mind, she wistfully pictured fashionable, colorfully dressed women sitting in public, openly meeting with their lovers for shared meals, hand-holding, and friendly, flirtatious banter. To Jamila, the concept alone seemed utterly surreal.

Feeling the growing heat beneath her layers, she stopped now for a moment near an alleyway, removed the canteen and took a long sip of water. A posh-looking businessman wearing dark glasses came out of a building. She lowered her head as he quickly glanced her way, and then hurried past without a word. She hadn’t realized how far it was to the safe house. There were at least 12 more blocks stretching out in front of her, each weighted by heavier, more oppressive air than the last. And dust, with its’ powder-fine granules, swirled feverishly too, burning her eyes and coating her lashes. Had this place always been so horribly filthy, she wondered, or was it simply the knowledge that someone she’d loved was on the verge of leaving her world forever?

When Jamila was a child, she used to accompany her mother to this part of town to buy the colorful silks for her father’s work shirts. The fabric store was long since gone, having been blown to bits by mortar shelling. But the memory remained intact. Her ahm, then a pretty, spry, wispy creature always smelling of ginger and lavender, would hold her hand the entire way. She would sing songs of the old ones, hum them softly under her breath as if the mystical notes might carry them along more quickly and fluidly than their thinly-sandaled feet.

It was customary for mother and daughter to stop for fataver bisabanikh at the local bakery along the way. “Shukran, Rfi'y,” Ahm would politely say beneath the veil of her burqa.

“Ah fik,” was the standard reply of the baker’s wife, a lovely woman who wore brightly colored hejabs and fire-red lipstick and sincerely enjoyed bestowing the blessings of Allah on everyone who entered.

As Jamila passed the bakery now, she felt tempted to go inside. She could use a little something to settle her stomach. Also, she hated to come to Jason empty-handed. The passport didn’t seem enough. Nothing is enough, come to think of it, when someone has brought you insurmountable joy, especially when you thought the feeling was no longer possible. For Jamila, Jason's love brought with it the realization that, in spite of the bleakness of being a young, Iraqian widow and single mother, her life did not have to end with Imad’s untimely death.

Her husband had been barely 29 when he died. A suicide bomber had exploded her fleshy, brainwashed wrath inside of his building, killing Imad and five of his co-workers instantly. The mourning lasted for months, years. . . .Perhaps, it sometimes seemed, it would go on forever. At the time, the boys were merely five weeks old--newborns with a mother who had had nothing but contented dreams for the first, few weeks of their lives, and only nightmares thereafter. Even though their marriage had been an arranged one, Imad had quickly grown to dearly love his wife. He treated her well. Felt proud of her professional success and achievements, even in the face of harsh criticism from unyielding elders who, like their ancestors, were ever-fearful that the culture of traditional Islamic law was slowly slipping away.

And yet, the name “Iraq” itself means “country with deep roots”. Ancient, fundamentalist ways of interpreting the Quran were embedded in this city, this country, in the same way sand is the essence of a desert. Such tradition would never “slip away”, but be simply slapped around, hashed and rehashed, while seemingly disposable humans were randomly blown up and butchered by fervent zealots. Alternatively, since the inception of Operation Iraqi Freedom, those suspected of being political dissenters were also imprisoned and tortured by the government, aided by American forces. All an official arrest needed was the simply hearsay of a “friend” or neighbor. Life had become a vicious circle of suspicion and betrayal. And, because Jamila was well-educated and professional, an even greater level of suspicion inevitably surrounded her. Her ability to succeed came from her own, equally suspicious nature of everything and everyone else. She knew there were religious extremists who balked at her insistence to stay employed, as well as governmental informers, just waiting for her to admit her preference for Saddam Hussein’s recently dismantled Ba'th regime. Informants were everywhere: At the university, in the neighborhood, in friendships both old and new. She was ever-careful to kept her politics to herself, and her clothes and mannerisms in strict compliance of Muslim law.

Now, just as Jamila was about to enter the bakery, there was the rapid, unmistakable sound of gunfire, close enough to make the market place women shriek and run for what little cover they could find in the streets. Jamila stood in the doorway of the bakery for a moment, her heart sinking into her stomach. There was more retaliating gunfire, and, in that instant, she knew that Jason must somehow be involved. Before she could think twice about it, she found herself running in the direction of the gunfire, crouching low and clinging to the walls of the buildings as she passed. Perhaps I am too late, she thought, as she moved stealthfully from alleyway to alleyway, listening to the ceaseless popping of automatics spraying the south end of town.

Jason’s latest article, it seemed, had evoked reason for gunfire. He had written a direct attack on Shiites-Sunni relations, especially as it pertained to Bagdad. Entire neighborhoods were being ethnically cleansed by Shia and Sunni Militias. His stunning editorial fueled anger on both sides, especially when he openly denounced the evacuations of large secular groups due to lack of security, and their forced move into new areas because of fear of reprisal killings. Ever since that article had hit the stands and airways, he’d received numerous death threats. Jamila knew he needed that fake passport in her pocket; that is, if he was still alive. She ran faster, pretending that Ahm was holding her hand. She could fly on the songs of the old ones. She prayed to Allah for protection and strength.

Finally, she made it to the safe house; a tiny, stucco building riddled with bullet holes. As the calls and bells rang forth for the morning prayers, the gunfire slowly ceased. Jamila waited across the street, crouching behind bushes on the lawn of a stark, western-looking business center. From where she hid, she could see the opened front door of the safe house. Should she go in? Should she flee? She slipped a hand inside her Abayah and slowly fingered the passport’s smooth exterior. The name inside read, “Gerald Brooks”. The fictitious Mr. Brooks was an American. Such a simple thing, this phony passport, and yet, it was a way out, offering no less than life itself.

Jamila waited on the lawn, keeping watch, well past the next round of bells and broadcasted calls to afternoon prayer.  She knew it was naïve to hope that at some point, Jason would just walk out, unharmed, and all would be normal again.  Nothing was normal; and, to her vacillating disappointment and relief, no one entered or left the house in all the time she sat there. Pretty soon, it would be dinner time in her home. Ahm would be worried, if, on this particular day, she remembered Jamila at all. The boys would need the baths that they most likely had not received that morning. She longed to see their small, brown faces--so similar to Imad’s--beam up at her when she entered the door. . . .To feel the softness of their cheeks and know their elation for her return as they pressed into her for a barrage of kisses and the hope of a tasty meedo treat.

Finally, Jamila spied a woman, also fully veiled, hurry down the street, quickly glance both ways, then duck through the open door. Jamila couldn’t take it anymore. She stood up and ran full-speed across the lawn and street and into the house. The first thing she noticed was a dead man lying face-down in a pool of blackened blood. His arms, one of which had a sleeve ripped off of it, were bent behind his head, as if he had surrendered; as if, regardless, someone had proceeded to shoot him directly from behind, at close range to the back of his head. Jamila had to step over the dead man to walk further into the house. All was quiet there. From the artwork on the walls, the fine furniture, and the Persian rugs, she could tell this was the home of someone well-to-do; someone with international connections. But, most importantly, this person—most likely, the lifeless man on the floor--had been Jason’s very courageous friend.

“Jason?” She called softly, hating the sound of her own voice as it interrupted the stark silence. “Jason? Are you here?” She walked gingerly around broken glass and toppled statues. Near the kitchen, food lay scattered everywhere. Clay pots and silver bowls, dumped upside-down, streamed colorful liquids that dripped from the table to the floor. “Jason Hollstaff?” She called again. Then, beneath her breath, she whispered in a trembling voice, “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun.“ (“We are from Allah, and to him we are returning.”)

“Jason Hollstaff is over here,” a woman called softly from another room. Jamila took a deep breath and walked toward the voice and into what must have been a sitting room. Now, it looked like some kind of nightmarish tossed salad. Furniture and walls were peppered with bullet holes that pierced clear through the intricately carved, wooden marquetry. The woman was kneeling down, dressing a wound on Jason’s chest. “Is he…Is he…” Jamila started, choking back tears.

“No, he’s going to be okay. He needs medical treatment. I can’t do much here. I have supplies at my shop.” The woman turned to look at Jamila. The red lipstick. Ah fik. Jamilia wasn’t entirely sure she could trust this woman--regardless of how many fataver bisabanikh she‘d purchased from her over the years—but there was something about her that seemed authentic. Trustworthy. Besides, what choice did she have, as Jason lay bullet-riddled in front of her? “Hold this tightly on the wound,” the woman commanded, handing her a bloody rag that Jamilia quickly realized was the shirt sleeve of the dead man. “He’s been hit in the shoulder. A good place. But, we need to get him to my bakery, so I can remove the bullets and treat the wound. It will be safe there.”

“This place was supposed to be safe too,” Jamila replied, looking around nervously. Obviously, the murderous beasts were not robbers. Broken pieces of Laleh Chin pottery and rustic, brilliantly colored ghelim--the kind that would have been passed down through generations—lay strewn haphazardly about, along with chars of decorated, blown glass. There was crimson blood--most likely, Jason’s-- splattered on a giant wall mural behind them.

The woman looked evenly at Jamila. “If you care about this man, you need to trust me. We must get him to my bakery before they come back. Will you help me?”

Jamila looked down at Jason. He’d lost a lot of blood, and was drifting in and out of consciousness. She remembered the first time he’d told her he loved her, knowing even then that it could never be a lasting love. She remembered sobbing after that last night in his bed, when he was getting ready to follow the American troops into the merciless deserts of Taliban territory. He’d ended their affair in an effort to protect her. At best, he was unsure he’d be able to come back, let alone stay alive. But, of course, she had been hurt—deeply and permanently.  Whether well-meaning or not, Jason’s severance felt almost worst than Imad’s death, because he’d had a choice. His departure felt like a knife that could never be removed from a wound.

“Yes, I’ll help you,” Jamila said, ignoring the tears now welling in her eyes.

“We will need to carry him, but we should cover him with something. A sheet, perhaps. Quickly, can you find us something?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll hurry.” Jamila jumped up, now thinking only of Jason’s safety. She ran up the stairs of the house and immediately found another body. This time, it was a woman in western clothing; possibly another journalist. She was lying on a bed on her stomach. Her head was tilted to the side and her sky-blue eyes were open wide, as if the very idea of death surprised her more than the weapon that had been used against her.  Ever-so-gently, Jamila rolled her over to get to the sheet beneath, a portion of which was covered in semi-congealed blood. The woman had been shot in the back. She may have been sexually assaulted before she had been killed, but Jamila tried not to think about that. It was simply too much. She gently closed the woman’s eyes and said a quick prayer over her: “'Assalam u alaikum wa rahmatulahi wa baakatuhu.” (“Peace be upon you and the blessings and mercy of Allah.”)

Using her teeth, Jamila hurriedly ripped the sheet in half and ran down the stairs with it. The two women worked fast together, bundling Jason into it, hiding his face. Jamila slipped the passport into his pocket, sealing his new identity. He was now Gerald Brooks, the American businessman. At least until he was safely inside the U.S. Embassy.

Carrying Jason between them, the women walked gingerly over the dead man on their way out the door. “He was a very good man,” the bakery woman said, casting him a long, sad gaze. “Jazakallahu khairan,” she said, bowing her head reverently in his direction. “”May Allah reward you with good.”  In the dooryway, a jagged, palm-sized piece of ancient-looking blown glass caught the sun’s reflection. As they passed, Jamilia found herself impetuously leaning down, picking it up, and putting it in the pocket that had held the passport. The bakery woman gave her a mildly puzzled look, then nodded solemnly towards the door.

It was hard to carry the weight of an unconscious man for six blocks. Jamila shook from head to toe. The streets were nearly empty, due to the earlier gunfire, but the evening sun seemed to act as a spotlight on the open street. Finally, they were at the bakery. As soon as they’d brought Jason inside, the woman put the “Closed” sign out, quickly locked the door, and nodded towards the back room. They hoisted Jason up onto a long table, one used for rolling out pastries. The woman shut all the curtains and opened a cabinet filled with enough medical supplies to warrant a legitimate hospital.

“You can leave now,” she finally said, rather curtly. “He will be fine.”

Jamila’s eyes narrowed.  “He will be fine? How do you know this?”

“My husband works near the Embassy. He will be home soon. He will help me get Jason there safely.” Seeing the look of doubt on Jamila’s face, she took her hands in her own for a moment and stared into her eyes. “I remember you when you were just a girl. You’d come in here with your mother. I haven’t seen her for a very long time. Is she still alive?”

“In some ways, yes. In others, no.”

“You have my word that I will take care of this man.”

“You have done this before, have you not?”

“Yes. Now go, before you become too involved.”

Jamila shook her head. Too involved? “La,” she answered, firmly. She thought about how wrong she had been in thinking her feelings for Jason must stay short-lived. Perhaps, someday, she would find love anew. Anything felt possible, really. And yet, she would cherish the passion of her short-lived experience with this man for a lifetime.

“Jamila?” Jason suddenly said, in a low, garbled voice that welled with relief. “You are here. My love, oh, you are so brave. Thank God that you are here. Ana bahibik.”

Jamila looked down at him and sighed heavily. “I love you too, Jason. But, you are Gerald Brooks now. You must remember this.”

Jason reached out and grasped Jamila’s hands in both of his. “Thank you, my sweet Jamila. My love. Thank you.” Jamila closed her tearful eyes as thoughts of the past--of love, of death, of pain, of loss, of her sons, oh, her sweet, beautiful sons--swirled quickly into her mind’s eye. She suddenly remembered the piece of broken glass and pulled it from her pocket. It was beautiful--adorned with a golden bird, somehow still perfectly intact. Without a second thought, she placed it gently into one of Jason’s hands, securing his fingers softly around it as she lowered her head in prayer. “Al hamdu lilah wa shukru lillah,” she said, praising Allah while Jason closed his eyes and pressed his head against her waist.

When she finished, she turned again to the bakery woman. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Aaleyah,” she answered off-handedly, as if it didn‘t really matter.

Jamila placed a warm, steady hand on Aaleyah‘s shoulder. “Shukran, Aalayah. You are now my trusted rfi'y. Shukran.”

Aaleyah looked up from the wound she was busy cleaning on Jamila’s lover, her habibi, and smiled warmly. It was an intimate look, usually reserved for the closest of friends. A private gesture meant only for true sisters. “Ah fik, Jamila. Ah fik.”

The End