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The Afghan Rug

By Bruce L. Cook (USA)

Chapter 1

The Afghan Rug
By Bruce L. Cook

Chapter 1

Just before the first light of morning Faheem brought the water containers to the stream below the family compound. He was thin and athletic in his robe. At 15 years he was bordering on adulthood.

Normally this task would have fallen to a younger sibling, especially a girl, but Faheem was the only child in his family. So he had collected water in the valley stream every morning without complaint. However, to avoid the girls who usually came for water, he came to the stream slightly before sunrise.

He accepted this task although it tied him down and he was missing the adventures he should have by traveling with his father. He lacked knowledge of the mountain paths and nearby villages and felt frustrated in more than one way. At the same time, he had learned to read and write Arabic script in the dusty local school for young men. In any case, he humbly accepted his lot. Such was his role, and this could not be violated.

Last summer, while fetching water, he had begun to notice Hana, a young girl who lived on the opposite side of the stream. For one thing, she had begun to visit the stream for water early in the day, so Faheem couldn’t help but notice her. At 14 years old, she was still unmarried, so Faheem could legitimately think of her as a potential wife. Perhaps she had noticed him too.

One morning, when she first began to arrive early, she had worn a shirt and shorts, like the women on TV, for the sun was only then rising. On this occasion, Faheem was favored to see her face without covering before she quickly turned and trudged away with her family’s water-filled containers. From then on her face was properly shrouded in her burka’s light blue screen.

The sight of Hana had fired his imagination. In the evenings he would think of her fair skin and dark eyes, dreaming that his family would arrange marriage. It was but a fantasy, though. Surely a beautiful woman like Hana would have to marry one of the wealthy elders. The only question was, which one?

There were other questions. How much would the elder abuse her? How long could she live in abject servitude. These thoughts left a bitter almond taste in his mouth, for she faced a miserable future. If required to sacrifice, she would do so in respect for her father and the traditions.

Faheem tried to imagine the fear that Hana must feel. He imagined her delicate frame shaking when she lay on her small mat every night. For her, dreams of the future would bring terror and sleep would be elusive. He dreamed that he could marry her and show her the respect she deserved. But dreams were dreams. She was powerless and his family had too little wealth.

However, he couldn’t explain why she had taken a chance last week and spoken to him. “Everyone is saying your father takes rugs to market in Lahore,” she had said. It was a long trek from their Afghan village and across the Pakistan border down to Lahore.

“Yes. Our family’s rugs,” Faheem agreed, keeping his eyes away, imagining her eyes searching him from behind the forbidding blue screen of her beige burka. It was unthinkable for a young girl to address him when her neither of her parents was present.

“Doesn’t your father have other work too?”

“Yes,” said Faheem. “At hospitals.”

She was trembling now. Faheem wanted to comfort her. Their communication was forbidden, but she continued, for they were alone. “Allah has favored you,” she said. “Your family must enjoy great wealth.” 

Faheem’s heart felt an unfamiliar ache. He studied the stream to prepare a response. Finally he said, “Yes. But our wealth could never be enough.”

She dropped her head, feeling thrilled that he was indeed thinking of their union. At the same time, she felt depressed, accepting the obvious truth of their situation. Her hidden eyes searched his face as she whispered, “I pray to Allah for you. May your family be successful.”

The conversation had crossed the barrier, and there was no question what they both wanted.  Both remained stationary, studying each other carefully. Faheem glimpsed small gleam from her eyes. He could not leave her comment unanswered, so he said, “I pray to Allah as well. Blessed be his name, and may he be pleased. I … I pray my family can afford….”

Faheem’s voice caught in his throat. His eyes burned and a tear formed. Never had he felt so out of control. He looked down again, feeling the touch of her hand on his robe.

Not knowing what to do, he knelt. She joined him. And both of these young people prayed, together, in the morning sun.

Finally she carried her container up the opposite path and Faheem strode along his own path stupidly allowing the containers to bump into his legs and spill out water.

Abdullah was standing beside the donkey, strapping seven rugs to the animal’s back and getting ready for the trip to Lahore. He was Faheem’s father, leaving home again. As usual, Faheem had to remain home because Lahore was too far for one day’s journey.

Faheem noticed that the load included the rug which had started the revision to his family’s design. It was an Afghan rug like the others, all patterned in the Bukhara design. All were made by his family, woven with his family’s variation on the standard Turkmen theme.

Family variations in design were rare, but last month Abdullah’s sister Lina had made an error in weaving her first rug. She had been visiting the family’s walled compound and had slept badly the night before. In the morning she made a weaving error at the loom.

Minor errors were to be expected in the rugs. In fact, every rug had to contain some imperfection, just to avoid perfection, which was reserved for Allah. No human could attain his perfection, and it would be sinful to try.

But this error had the wrong color, wrong position, everything! The error was impossible to correct. At the same time, the family was too poor to simply discard the rug. So Adbullah had joined his wife, Arifa, in adapting the mistake to create a new family design. They carefully incorporated the error, repeating it in each quadrant. As a result, it seemed that no mistake had been made, and a new family design emerged.

Other weavers in the village were surprised to see the new design. Some even preferred it to the centuries-old standard. They found it remarkable that Abdullah gave his wife full credit for originating the design. Only an elder male could ever have such a privilege.

Abdullah was a decent father. He liked to think of himself as young and vigorous, like his son Faheem. However, he was tall and often walked with bent shoulders as if talking with a shorter person at his side. Grey hair was hidden in his turban and the flesh of his face was worn. He commanded the respect due any elder in his village.

He was rare in other ways as well. For example, he was one of few in the village who demonstrated technical competence. At the age of twelve he had been chosen to assist an old woman who cured sick people using traditional methods and recipes. Sadly, he witnessed a death after her treatment and he stopped serving her. Then he had started to help Zaabit, who sold Afghan rugs in the village’s small marketplace, instead.

Eventually, Abdullah met Dr. Nasir when he was purchasing a rug for his dwelling near the hospital and mentioned his experience with the healer. Nasir laughed, but was surprised to hear the boy’s eloquence in describing medical procedures, and he invited him to work at his medical clinic in the fashionable Wazir Akbar Khan section of Kabul. At the same time, Dr. Nasir hoped to learn more about traditional medicine - perhaps enough to write a short article for the journal.

Today Abdullah still worked occasionally at Wazir Akbar Khan, specializing in renal nephrology. Of course, his commitment to family and tradition continued to necessitate the trek across mountains to Lahore, Pakistan, to bring rugs to the dealers in Main Market. Fortunately, on the basis of a recommendation from Dr. Nasir, he had been asked to assist at Jinnah Hospital there. The pay was small, but Jinnah enabled him to learn more advanced medical procedures in dialysis, and the Red Crescent Society of Pakistan always found a place for him near their guest house near Ferozepur Road.

This morning Abdullah began the trip to Lahore. He hugged his son Faheem, meeting the boy’s sparkling brown eyes with a promise to allow him to travel along on the next trip to Lahore. Soon he moved the donkey ahead sharply, assessing the weather, for any amount of rain would make the rugs less valuable to any of the merchants in Fazal Din Main Market in the Gulberg section of Lahore.

Occasionally, on the path behind him, he felt that someone was observing him. This was strange, for the trip was so routine, and he had never felt that way before. At one point he thought he recognized Mr. Ugba, who represented a new group of elders in town. These men claimed they were religious leaders, and Mr. Ugba, for his part, had fully accepted them. Abdullah did not agree, but he was silent on the matter.

 Abdullah remembered teachings about false leaders in the Holy Qur’an. He felt bitter, for it seemed the village was losing its direction as a result of these new leaders. But he was only an artisan, and had no right to protest. He was bound by his role in the village. He would support these elders regardless of his feelings.

Regardless, the trek was uneventful, and he was able to cross the border with only a small payment to the order guards. At the mountain’s base he joined hundreds of others on their way to the city, all hurrying to arrive before the sun disappeared. He paid a few rupees at the entrance to Main Market and led the tired beast to the wholesalers in back. There he drank bitter coffee with Qabil, the carpet merchant, and negotiated prices in the usual way. Throughout the process Qabil consulted his leather business ledger, standing up as if to leave several times, but he finally agreed on terms.

A small bag of currency appeared on the tray before him, so he arose. As was tradition, he counted the notes and met Qabil’s eyes. “Any message?” Abdullah asked. He looked away as he spoke, for the answer was always negative.

This was another way in which Abdullah never forgot. Three years ago Qabil’ had predicted that a message would come. A message that would change Abdullah’s life. But, whenever Abdullah asked, the merchant would shake his head negatively.

This time Qabil said, “Yes.”

“Yes?” Abdullah’s eyes shot to the man’s face.

“Yes,” Qabil chuckled. He waved impatiently, smiled, and said, “OK. OK. Just wait in your room at Red Crescent.”

Abdullah searched the man’s gleaming eyes for more, but silence ensued.

He departed, accompanied by Qabil’s short bodyguard, for he now carried enough cash to attract attention. He turned the donkey over to the bodyguard and followed him along the streets until reaching the guest house.

As was his habit, Abdullah crouched on the wall beside the door to his room and stared into the courtyard, awaiting total darkness. Here he usually meditated and thought of the coming day – a day at Jinnah Hospital or a trip back to his village. But he could not meditate in peace tonight. Qabil had predicted an event of significance.

He tried to imagine what the event would be. He hoped it would not be a woman, assigned by Qabil to test his moral strength. Such a test could be difficult for he was like any other man. But this would never occur at a Red Crescent building, so he imagined instead that a merchant might come and offer a high price for his carpets. Or, perhaps someone was seeking his medical expertise.

His eyes were fixed on the ground but fully aware at the periphery, where he now sensed movement. A glance told him that Qabil’s bodyguard had returned with the donkey. The animal had been fed and refreshed and now stood with worn baskets strapped to its sides. These did not belong to Abdullah, and he felt troubled, but he maintained silence where he crouched beside the doorway.

Darkness fell and the bodyguard held fast at the far end of the courtyard, patiently waiting. Shadows of the full moon illuminated the scene. Traffic seemed to cease on the street behind the building, where Abdullah could not see. Finally it was time for him to withdraw.

On his nights in Lahore he usually slipped into the small room at darkness and slept until daylight, and there was no reason for him not to do this now. So he arose, turned to the bodyguard, in case he motioned, and entered the room because the man turned away.

Inside he dropped to his mat and lay awake, wondering what was expected of him, and found it impossible to sleep. He studied the moon’s shadows as they crept across the room. Suddenly the moonlight blinded him. The door had swung wide open. In the doorway, the full moon shone behind a shrouded figure now approaching with caution.

“What?” he asked, sitting up, wishing he had continued his vigil outside.

“Abdullah,” grumbled a low voice. The figure moved like a cat. Obviously accustomed to working in darkness. He slid beside the mat. “Qabil has recommended you,” he said quietly.

“For what?” asked Abdullah, coming to his knees.

“Treatment.”

“What treatment?”

“We need Dialysis,” said the figure.

“Oh!” Abdullah breathed, surprised. “We do that at Jinnah Hospital.”

“No,” said the man, helping Abdullah to his feet. “For Ashab-e-Kahf, some men in a cave, in the mountains.”

“At my village?” Abdullah inquired, preparing to recommend the dialysis lab at Wazir Akbar Khan.

“No!” the man fairly hissed. “The location is secret, and must remain secret forever. Do you agree?”

“Of course!”

“Do you pledge to keep the location secret?”

“Yes.”

“Pledge it. On pain of death.”
“I pledge it.”

“You will treat a man there. The payment is more than satisfactory, and your family will have great wealth for all time.”

“Yes,” Abdullah said, breathing deeply and looking up gratefully. But he was still a technician, so he asked, “Do you have the necessary medical equipment? It is expensive.”

“We have,” said the man as he led Abdullah from the room. “Everything.”

There was the bodyguard, close to the room in the courtyard, and lifting a canvas from the donkey’s baskets. Nested in the blankets inside were boxes with durable medical equipment.

“Oh!” Abdullah exclaimed.

“Come,” urged the man. “Treatment is urgent.”

Never had Abdullah traveled in the night. If nothing else, it made people suspicious, and the likelihood of robbery was high. But here was a guide who seemed to know night better than day and the night was illuminated by a full moon, so he felt reassured. They struck out at a brisk pace, one that would be impossible to maintain through the night, but Abdullah was willing to stay awake and try. For nothing would satisfy him more than finding a way to guarantee abundance for his wife and family. His son Faheem could now realize his dreams and demand the respect of the entire village. Thanks be to Allah, blessed be his name.

So all three disappeared into the night – Abdullah, the guide and the bodyguard, accompanied by the swaying donkey.

Abdullah’s son Faheem received several unexpected visitors the following day. He brought them to front room of the compound where they could rest on the red earthy wall and catch part of the meager heat that emanated from the earthen stove. His mother threw some cakes on the stove and brought strong coffee.

Faheem pondered the purpose of their visit while his mother Arifa hovered in the background, worrying that Abdullah might have been injured, robbed, or even killed. But hospitality came first, and they were unable to inquire for several minutes.

One of the visitors was Ugba, an elder of the village, a man who cared for religious men in the village. He was first to address Faheem, “Your father…” he began.

“Yes,” said Faheem, meeting his eyes. Arifa moved closer to be certain she could hear correctly.

Ugba leaned forward, adjusting his turban. Faheem noticed that he must have travelled with the other visitors, for a tiny cloud of granular material descended from the headgear, finally joining the sand floor of the dwelling. “Your father asked us to visit. We have invited him to join us at a secret location and he has graciously accepted. He is serving Allah, our Imam, and our group (may Allah be pleased). He is rendering medical care for us.”

Arifa appeared in front of he visitor, offering more coffee for his cup. He nodded and studied the floor. After the coffee was poured, he examined the family in this dwelling.

“We have agreed to support his family, so I am here.” He pulled a manila envelope from his robe and passed it to Faheem. “First, he was able to sell the carpets your family produced. You will find every rupee in this envelope.”

Faheem bowed, accepting the envelope. He placed it on the clay surface where they sat. “Thank you,” he said. He would not count the notes until the strangers departed.

Then the stranger continued. “Your father has always earned money from the hospitals, and now he will be unable to work there.”

Faheem nodded. “It’s true,” he murmured.

Again the visitor extracted an envelope. “Here is a monthly payment for his service. It is quite generous.”

Faheem accepted the envelope, placing beside on the other one. “Thank you,” he said again. “So we will see you again.”

Arifa brought the cakes and shared them with the visitors.

“And what of my father?” Faheem asked in a tiny voice. “When might he visit us?” Actually this was as important as the money. It defined Faheem’s role in the family. For, if the father would be absent, Faheem would assume his role as head of the family.

Also, Faheem thought with his mind racing, he needed his father if he were ever to have a chance to marry Hana.

He saw Hana again in a few days. He was approaching the family compound on his way home from the market, and he saw her kneeling at the stream. He stopped, watching, expecting her to fill the container and walk up the path. But she remained kneeling. She was facing in his direction and seemed to meet his gaze.

As if gripped by an unseen force, Faheem found himself walking down the path to the stream. He kept his composure, although he no longer was in the routine of fetching water there. As head of the family, he had decided to hire a neighborhood girl for that duty. Otherwise the task could have fallen to his mother, and he found that abhorrent.

Now he approached her on the path, stopping and looking over her head as if surveying the village. Perhaps an onlooker would think he was searching for new property. Finally, assured that there were no onlookers, he knelt and said, “Hana.”

Closer now, the sound of weeping came to him. “Faheem,” she choked out.

“Can I help you?”

“No,” she cried, allowing her face to fall forward.

“What?” he asked.

“My father,” she whispered, looking up at him through her screen.

“He is well,” stated Faheem, for he had just seen him in the market area.

“He wants to sell…” she began.

“You?” Faheem asked sharply. He jumped to his feet, angry.

“For wealth,” she stammered.

“Please,” was all he could say?

“Your father?”

“He is away.”

“Can you…   Can he…”

“Hana,” he said, a tremor in his voice. “I will settle this in our favor.”

“Please,” she whispered, lowering her head. “Pray with me.”

Faheem knelt briefly beside her. Then, rising, he whispered, “I promise you”

Faheem approached Mr. Ugba’s compound the following day. Her found Mr. Ugba friendly, offering the traditional guidance expected of a Muslim elder – especially when talking to a young man whose father was absent.

Where is your son Habib?” Faheem asked when Mr. Ugba invited him in. Both were enjoying hot tea in small earthen cups.

“Ah,” Mr. Ugba chucked. “Not many are aware. Habib has taken a new job, tending the hospital café in Kabul.”

“At Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital, where my father worked?”

“Yes, he is acting as my eyes and ears there. Ah, many of the patients have contacts with western countries, and we need to protect our faith.”

“Perhaps my father will meet him there. I suspect that he will eventually work there again.”

“But your family is provided for, right?” Mr. Ugba laughed, raising bushy eyebrows.

“Oh yes,” Faheem insisted. “I would never complain. We thank you a thousand times!”

“Actually, your father served us when he was there. He was my eyes and ears. He met many medical workers and patients. No he is gone, and Habib is my helper.”

Mr. Ugba leaned back in satisfaction. Sensing a question, he turned back to Faheem, studying his eyes. “There may be something more?” he asked, fairly whispering. His voice seemed to tremble.

Faheem was confused. As an elder, Mr. Ugba’s voice would tremble sometimes, suggesting he was moved with emotion. But it was also possible the emotion was forced. This time it seemed that Mr. Ugba had genuine concern. He had to take the chance.

“Yes,” said Faheem. “There is more.”

“It is a personal desire? Something just for you?”

“Yes, sir,” Faheem stammered.

“Are you concerned about your father’s current, ah, project?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Ugba. My family is proud he can serve.”

“Do you know the exact nature of his service?”

“Oh, no sir. He works with you. We trust you absolutely.”

“To be certain,” said Mr. Ugba, studying Faheem again. “And so you should. But there is a problem?”

“It’s, well….  It’s Hana.”

Mr. Ugba’s face brightened. “The maiden?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes, her father is accepting offers. Soon she will…” Faheem choked, squinting to avoid tears.

“Ah!” Mr. Ugba met Faheem’s eyes, holding his gaze. “Perhaps I could help. I’ll get word to your father.”

“Oh thank you,” said Faheem, breathing deeply. “I’m certain he will approve.”

“We will see,” said Mr. Ugba, rising and leading Faheem to the doorway.

Within several weeks Faheem was summoned to the cooking area.

A neighboring youth had observed a group of men approaching the village on the path from Kabul. He came to warn Arifa. She immediately suspected that her husband, Abdullah, might be one of the travelers.

In his father’s long absence, Faheem had taken the parental role which included greeting visitors. It would be Faheem who would decide how the visitors would be received.

“Father!” Faheem shouted when he recognized his father in the group. Father and son embraced and swiftly changed roles. Now it was Abdullah who welcomed his fellow travelers, leading them to the cooking area with a smooth gesture.

“Will you be staying?” asked Faheem as Arifa brought coffee.

“Until tomorrow” said Abdullah.

A long silence followed as the visitors settled themselves and sipped the coffee. Arifa dropped dough on the hot cooking surface.

“You spoke to Ugba,” commented the father, toeing the earthen surface.

 “Forgive me,” said Faheem, blushing. Usually he felt confident when he spoke, but now his confidence was abandoning him. On the matter of Hana he should have approached his father, so he was terribly uncomfortable to be sure. But he was committed to keeping his promise.

“You are forgiven, for I was not here. So. She is Hana, is she?” said Abdullah.

“Yes,” Faheem choked, embarrassed.

Abdullah placed his arm around his son, part\ting his back gently. “Be well my son,” he whispered. “We will visit her father this day.”

Faheem lowered his head, feeling an unknown passion. Never had he felt such comfort. “Thank you father,” he said. “Thanks be to Allah (blessed be his name)!”

Abdullah returned late in the afternoon. It was routine, as if he had never left. Arifa bowed to him, accepting his gentle embrace, and watched as he approached his place in the cooking area.

Arifa brought his favorite tea, kneeling before him. “Where do you stay,” she asked quietly.

“It is secret,” he said, touching her burka. “I cannot say.”

“In Kabul?” she asked.

“The mountains,” he responded. “I am sorry. One day I may explain.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“I have news,” he said, imaging her dark eyes behind her screen.

“Faheem?”

“Yes.”

“Hana?”

“Yes.”

“Will they marry?”

“Yes,”

“Oh, my husband. Thank you!”

Abdullah arose and accepted his wife’s embrace. Each celebrated this impossible success, for never could their family have ever hoped to outbid the elders. So this moment was sweet, even though it rested on their painful separation. It was as though they had sacrificed their own lives in their son’s behalf. As a result, the joy was tainted with sadness, and Arifa wept. Abdulla comforted her, patting her shoulders, sharing her emotion. He looked around the room and found it deserted. Then, bowing his head, he joined her in tears.

In the evening Abdullah admired Arifa as she took her place at the loom, where she continued her weaving. He noticed that she had continued weaving the family pattern. Abdullah was transfixed, his heart bursting with pride as he watched her intricate movements, her graceful strength at the loom.

Faheem sat beside his father, bowing his head with respect.

“Hana,” Abdulla muttered.

Faheem leapt to his feet. Then, recognizing his folly, he returned to his place.

“She will be yours,” Abdullah said, nodding with pride.

Faheem wanted to shout thanks like a schoolboy who had just received an ice cream. But he knew his place and remained silent.

Rising, Abdullah moved across the room to inspect a rug Arifa had completed last week. He held it up in the wavering light from the gas lantern and examined its edges, its elegant design. He reached for a needle and some thick white thread on the table and carried the rug to Faheem, looking around the room to be certain they were alone.

He sat beside Faheem and turned the rug so the dark backing faced upwards. Then, carefully, he guided the white thread through the needle, weaving a figure in the backing. Up and down the needle moved until a squarish figure emerged. What could this mean?

Faheem watched as the figure became more complete.

Abdullah worked with intense concentration, only breaking his gaze to the doorways occasionally. Finally satisfied, he moved the rug to Faheem’s lap and pointed to it. He moved his finger from the diagram he had created to different parts of the family compound. He looked in his son’s face and repeated the pointing until Faheem finally understood. It was a diagram of the family compound. Every detail of the drawing accurately represented its shapes and dimensions.

Faheem knew he was not welcome to speak, so he nodded when he understood, pointing to the figure and parts of the compound to indicate his appreciation. Abdulla nodded his head vigorously, and Faheem followed suit.

Abdullah crossed the room and placed the carpet back on the wooden display stand. He returned to Faheem, caught his eyes, Asked, “You remember the rug with an error?”

“Yes,” said Faheem. “Did it sell?”

“I thought,” said Abdullah. “But the merchant kept it for me. They have brought it to my sleeping area. In my secret place.”

“Oh, good,” said Faheem. “I dream of you there. I could visit.”

“No,” Abdullah said with strength. “This can never be.” He looked at the darkened doorway, careful to be certain they were alone. “One day I will send you that rug.”

“You must need it there,” protested Faheem.

“No. It does not matter,” said Abdullah. “I am unhappy there. Nothing will please me, except knowing that you and your mother are well.”

“Then you should come back,” protested Faheem.

“Ah, but then … Would you be planning to marry Hana?”

“Oh, father. Your happiness is more important than this.”

“My happiness is no longer relevant,” said Abdullah, his eyes on Faheem.

“What do you mean?”

“Dr. Nasir can explain,” said Adbullah, his eyes fixed in place. Faheem felt uncomfortable. The father comforted him with a hand on his shoulder and said, “When you receive the rug, take it to Dr. Nasir at Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital.”

“A gift, for your former employer?”

“A gift for all nations,” said Abdullah, a tear glistening. “More than that. You must show the rug’s base to Dr. Nasir. Then leave the rug and run away from him and the hospital. Afterwards, never go back.”

The sun slanted through a set of windows high on the wall above the bar at Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital. Habib was brewing espresso coffee and the café was nearly deserted. Only a hospital doctor and an American sat within, at a table near the counter where Mr. Ugba’s son Habib was working. Espresso was a popular item, for many wealthy Afghans and foreigners were attracted to European fare.

The whining of the espresso machine made it difficult, but Habib was still able to connect the works spoken by the doctor who was conversing with an American visitor, perhaps a spy. In these cases, Habib stayed close to the table and served graciously, but frequently dropped behind the counter to write notes on a pad of paper. Occasionally he used a digital audio recorder, but his father had warned him of dangers, so written notes were adequate. If further observation were needed, his father had access to other specialists in Kabul.

“This Jihad,” Dr. Nasir was saying, leaning on the table. “It is only a way to blame terror on our delightful religion.”

“OK. So there is no Jihad?” asked the American.

“Well, it is mentioned, certainly. You can read it in the Holy Qur’an.”

“Yes. I have seen.”

“But this terror. It is not Jihad. It is not from the Holy Qur’an.”

“But the leaders…”

“They are false leaders,” said Dr. Nasir, touching the man’s arm.  “Political leaders with personal aspirations. Sadly, they exhibit terrible cowardice, hiding behind woman and children in caves and in family compounds that are not their own. They use the Qur’an to further their own agendas.”

“Aren’t they recognized religious leaders,” the American protested.

“Recognized, yes,” said Dr. Nasir, nodding. Habib was taking notes on a pad of paper below the counter. He reached back up and straightened the coffee cups, bringing them to the table.

“Thank you,” Habib,” said Dr. Nasir, looking up briefly.

“You see,” he continued, looking back to the visitor. “You can read the Qur’an for yourself. You will discover that these “leaders” actually divide the community into sects. They are far from telling the truth. They blame everything on persons they call non-believing tyrants.”  Dr. Nasir pulled a Qur’an from his coat, thumbed the pages, and found a marked page. Then he read: “Whoso desires for power (should know that) all power belongs to Allah. To Him good words ascend, and the pious deed doth He exalt; but those who plot iniquities, theirs will be an awful doom; and the plotting of such (folk) will come to naught. (Holy Qur’an 35:10)”

He closed the book and looked up. “They seek power, not religious truth. And, underlying everything, they trade in the fear that exists among many Muslim leaders.”

“Fear? Of what?” asked the American.

“You won’t believe it when I tell you,” said Dr. Nasir. Habib had returned to his note pad.

“Oh, I can believe anything!” laughed the American.

“Women! Of all things. Yes, they fear women. The women have been suppressed for so long. So unfair. And now, if the world has its way and someone gives freedom to the women, the leaders fear it will pose a serious threat to their power. Perhaps the women would even seek revenge!”

The American whistled. “Yes,” he said.

Habib rubbed a towel on the counter, gritting his teeth in anxiety, wanting to transcribe these phenomenal statements. His father would be horrified to hear such blasphemy!

“Why do the real leaders permit this?” the American asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Again, fear,” said Dr. Nasir. “Religious leaders have great power and they can bring great pain to anyone, discredit their families. In fact,” he said, looking at the empty tables in the café. “I have said too much already.”

“Yes. I imagine.”

“But there is only young Habib,” he chuckled, indicating the young man, who was bringing a small slip of paper to the table.

Habib grinned. “Oh, no worry sir,” he said.

“Very well” said Dr. Nasir. He signed the bill and stood, leading his American guest down the hall to his office.