by Walt Gragg
Much to the delight of all concerned, however, the baby lived to see the coming of the next day’s sun. And as the first twenty-four hours of his flickering life neared their conclusion his illiterate peasant parents anointed him with the name Muhammad Mourad. With each passing hour, the tiny infant fought to fill his striving lungs with enough sustaining breath to reach out for another sunrise. The surprisingly resilient child found strength in the nourishment of his mother’s bosom, and the desperate battle to overcome his fate went on through the critical days that followed. In the spirit of a true warrior, hour by hour, day by day, he held on to the tenuous life Allah had granted him. In a few weeks, the crisis threatening his meager existence ended and the child took his place in the world of mortal man.
Mankind took no notice whatsoever of his birth.
The days and months slowly passed. A frail infant became a frail child. Muhammad was small for his age and quite fragile. His early years were marked by continual abuse and unceasing torture from the children of his backward village. By the age of six his life outside the protection of his meager home had become a living hell. The cruelty the Aynorian children displayed toward the weakest among them knew no bounds.
Yet each evening inside the walls of his threadbare dwelling, he found respite from the unremitting desert’s scorching heat and the children’s evil deeds. For in his home waited his devoted parents. At the end of the day he’d make his way to the place he loved. There his doting mother caressed his soiled brow and wiped away the child’s endless tears. Nestled in her protective arms, with the setting of the sun, Muhammad would find his peace. Wrapped in her tender embrace he’d revel in the tranquillity he desperately craved. During the remainder of his years, he would equate the coming sunset with the exquisite paradise he felt in her arms. Every day for the rest of his life the ritual would be the same. When the piercing rays began to fade he’d stop whatever he was doing. While he watched the disappearing sun, his mind would fill with comforting thoughts of the modest place where unconditional love had waited to greet him.
His father’s love took quite a different form from that of his mother. Yet it was no less strong. A fanatically religious man and a stern disciplinarian, he showed his concern for his only child by forcing the boy to face the multitude of problems the world had heaped upon him. Rather than protecting him from the terrible deeds of the village children, he taught him to fight back. He instilled in his son the fires of righteous indignation. Despite the plaintive pleas of the child’s mother, his father refused to let him hide away from the countless troubles facing him outside the family’s door.
He would return each evening, his body bruised and battered, his face filthy, his nose bloodied. Nevertheless, the next day his father would shove the reluctant child out into the brutal world once more. It was a harsh life. But his father understood Muhammad’s only chance of enduring would come through learning to use the gifts Allah had graciously bestowed upon him. And in many ways his God had been truly generous. For Muhammad Mourad had been given an exceedingly strong intellect far beyond any seen in the isolated outpost since well before his father’s lifetime.
Along with his quick wit came an orator’s tongue and the cunning of a cornered lion. Even at this early age, his father realized it was his astonishing mind, not his meager body that would help the child find his way through this bitter existence. By his seventh birthday, the remarkable boy was amazing the elders in the mosque with his grasp of the tenets of the Quran. And with his ability to outfox and outthink them, in the dirty alleyways where the children played, he was continually astounding his bigger, tougher opponents. Even so, he returned home on many an evening with blood on his tattered clothing and bruises on his anguished soul. More and more, however, the child was beginning to comprehend his place in this difficult world. And the boy grew to love his father with all of his being for what he’d done to show him the way.
Unfortunately, within months of the passing of his seventh birthday, Muhammad’s father would be gone forever from his life. For the 1950s found his country in the depths of a fearsome whirlwind beyond anyone’s control. A savage tumult was reaching out to change the lives of the people in even the remotest of locales.
A scourge was upon the land. A reviled pestilence that had to be eradicated. Riding on the hot Sahara winds, a fervent call to arms swept across the barren desert. Along with nearly all of the men of Aynorian, Muhammad’s father answered the revolution’s siren song. Algeria had to be freed from the clutches of decadent French colonialism. Each man knew the only way such an event would occur was by the spilling of the blood of both the innocent and the guilty. So with no training and few weapons the men of the distant oasis marched north across the arid land to join in the great battle for liberation. Too young to comprehend the earth-shattering events unfolding around him, Muhammad watched his father go. Every day for the next nine months, from sunup to sundown, the boy waited on the edge of Aynorian for the first sign of his return.
Late one afternoon, as the sweltering North African sun sank over the low mountains, Muhammad spotted a rider approaching from the north. The child rushed back into the village to alert the elders. By the time the stranger arrived the entire population had gathered on the edge of the small town. His horse was nearly dead from exhaustion. Nonetheless, the news the rider carried was far too important to spare the animal the torturous trip. Out of breath, he dismounted and faced the anxious crowd. With him he carried the word of a great battle in the north. It was an evil word well beyond any of the villagers’ comprehension.
Where the desert meets the sea there’d been a fierce clash with the enemies of Islam. The blood of victor and vanquished alike had flowed like a raging river onto the shifting sands. The losses were great. Thousands had died. The men of Aynorian had been among them. There was little chance the brave fighters from the humble village would ever return to their homes.
Muhammad’s father had fallen in the struggle. While leading an assault against heavily fortified positions, he’d died a martyr’s death at the end of a French bayonet. It would be the boy’s first encounter with jihad—Allah’s holy war. Yet it certainly wouldn’t be his last.
The entire citizenry reeled beneath the crippling blow of the horseman’s news. The finality of death, however, was well beyond the understanding of a boy of nearly eight, even if he was the brightest lad in the village. So with the next day’s dawn, he went back to the northern edge of Aynorian to wait for his father’s return. For many weeks he continued his hopeless vigil, his pleading eyes glued on the distant horizon while he prayed for his father’s figure to appear on the interminable Sahara.
His mother was beside herself at the loss of the man to whom she’d dedicated her existence. In the passing of a handful of months, consumed by grief, she withdrew into the tormented world within her mind and lapsed into an uncommunicative stupor. Her arms no longer welcomed the child. Even so, Muhammad continued to provide his undying support to the woman who’d given him life. Day after day, the small boy watched her relentless slide into oblivion. Her failure to respond to his continued attempts to comfort her wounded him more deeply than the terrible scars caused by his father’s death. The agony of her husband’s demise had stolen away what coherent thought remained within her. And there was nothing her helpless son could do to end the nightmare that consumed every moment of his life.
One morning, six months after the loss of his father, Muhammad awoke to find an empty house. His mother was nowhere to be seen. Muhammad’s frantic search of the desolate village failed to find any trace of her. Even at his age, he knew there was only one plausible explanation for her disappearance. She’d wandered off into the remorseless desert.
There was nothing anyone could do. The elders made every effort to find her. But too few able-bodied men remained in the desolate hamlet to conduct a proper search. And Aynorian was too poor to have any vehicles to aid them. She’d been gone for mos
t of the night. Her head start was far too great to overcome. In a short time the unforgiving sands devoured her.
Her remains would never be found.
The boy was alone now. Alone in a hostile world appearing to have no room for him. In the lonely years that followed, Muhammad lived on the edge of starvation. Each day, the angel of death looked upon the trifling figure. Muhammad bravely returned the angel’s stare and fought to overcome his desperate situation. He scavenged what he could, but with most of its men dead the impoverished outpost had little with which to nourish the abandoned youngster.
It would be quite some time before the forsaken youth would find the smallest traces of solace in his father’s brave deeds. Eventually, however, he did receive a measure of comfort in his death. For his sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. It had been a long, harrowing fight filled with unspeakable cruelty on both sides. Yet finally the end had come.
Shortly after Muhammad’s fourteenth birthday word came that his countrymen had expelled the despicable oppressors. Algeria was freed from its shackles.
Even so, in his mother’s senseless passing the orphaned boy could find no peace.
Muhammad’s hatred for the hostile world outside the insignificant crossroads consumed every ounce of his being. A fire found its way to burn in his dark eyes. It was an indomitable flame that would remain there for the rest of his life.
And then the first miracle occurred.
* * *
—
Like an apparition, his uncle Sallah, long reported dead in the Great War for Independence, appeared in the barren desert north of Aynorian. Captured by the infidels, Sallah had lived for many years behind rusting barbed wire. With the freeing of their homeland had come the freeing of the French chains holding thousands of prisoners of war. Sallah had survived the mighty struggle. And by Allah’s grace, he had endured the difficult journey on foot across the expansive sands. Of the scores of determined men who’d marched out of the meager oasis seven years earlier, he’d be the only one to find his way home.
Before the war, Uncle Sallah had been the most important man in Aynorian. Owner of the modest marketplace, he’d been Aynorian’s sole link with the outside world. Prior to the conflict, Muhammad’s uncle had been the only person in Aynorian to have ever ventured farther than fifty miles from their secluded desert home. And with the exception of the clerics in the mosque, the lone resident who could read and write.
As custom demanded, Sallah took in his starving nephew. Muhammad was given a job in his uncle’s shops, a roof over his head, and three solid meals a day. For the first time in his life, his continued existence was no longer in question. Sallah’s house was three times the size of Muhammad’s parents’. Even though Aynorian had no electricity or running water, his uncle’s home appeared palatial to the boy.
The unassuming teenager lacked for nothing. Except love. Not that Muhammad was abused or treated harshly, for he was not. Yet with his own children’s needs to care for, and his shops to run, Sallah didn’t have the time to grow to love his nephew. He was quite fond of him, but the attention Muhammad needed to overcome the severe scars that had crusted upon his crushed spirit simply wasn’t available.
Like the boy’s father, his uncle was a harsh taskmaster and a highly devout man. Muhammad’s religious fervor grew even stronger under Sallah’s firm guidance. The inquiring youth took to spending every free minute in the mosque. He loved nothing more than listening to the clerics read from the Quran and hearing them share their ideas of the true path to paradise. He reveled in the encouragement the clerics gave him in expressing his own views on the teachings of the Prophet. More and more, the holy ones praised the stunning boy’s religious performance.
His father had burst with pride at the child’s ample abilities. It didn’t take long for Uncle Sallah to begin sharing those immense feelings for Muhammad’s accomplishments. By the end of the clever teenager’s first year in his house, Sallah and the clerics had reached full accord on what must be done with the incredible lad. As he neared his fifteenth birthday, Sallah approached with news that would forever change the direction of Muhammad’s life.
“Boy, do you like your life here in our village?” Sallah asked.
“Yes, Uncle.”
“And do you like your life in my home?”
“Very much so, Uncle.”
“Will you obey my wishes?”
“I always have.”
“Will you leave my home if I so order?”
Muhammad hesitated. “Uncle . . . I don’t understand. Have I done something which has offended you?”
“Oh no, Muhammad, you haven’t offended me in the slightest. But you didn’t answer my question. For the good of Aynorian, will you leave my home?”
“If that is what you wish, Uncle,” the dejected figure responded.
“Muhammad, you’re a special child. In the past months, I’ve had many discussions with the clerics. And we’re in complete agreement. Your talents can’t be wasted. Aynorian needs your help.”
“You know I wouldn’t hesitate to make whatever sacrifices are necessary for our village. I’d gladly forfeit my life for Allah and my people.”
“Then you must leave Aynorian. Go north to the great city. Go to Algiers. Go and learn how to read and write. Go and study the ways of modern man. And when you’re finished, return and lead this secluded place out of its backwardness.”
Muhammad was staggered by his uncle’s edict. Algiers. In his entire life he’d never been more than ten miles from the time-forsaken settlement. To travel for many days on such a quest was beyond the boy’s comprehension. The concept of leaving Aynorian and entering into so foreign an environment had never before crossed his mind. His uncle might as well have announced he was about to travel to the far side of the moon.
“Uncle, I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing for you to say. Allah has chosen this path for you, and you’ve no choice but to follow it wherever it leads.”
Muhammad realized any further protest would be beneath the stringent principles his father and uncle had worked so hard to instill in him. His baffling destiny was sealed. To fight against it was a useless gesture. Nevertheless, his answer was a reluctant one.
“Yes, Uncle. It will be as you wish.”
“The arrangements have been made. You’ll depart at the end of the month and go north with the caravan that brings supplies to Aynorian.”
“As you desire, my uncle.”
“You’ll attend the holy school in Algiers. You’ll study hard. And when you’re through discovering the world outside of ours, you’ll return to show our people the way.”
* * *
—
As his uncle had decreed, Muhammad left the modest gathering at the end of the month. It would be three difficult years before he’d see Aynorian again.
One chapter had closed in his life. And another had opened.
7
To say Muhammad struggled in his new surroundings would be an understatement. The world outside the high walls of the holy school terrified him. Algiers and its million and a half inhabitants overwhelmed his sensibilities. For a boy of fifteen who’d never before seen an automobile, the strange things waiting beyond the stout fences were incomprehensible.
To hide from his horrific dreams, he threw himself into his studies. At the rigorous Islamic preparatory school, the training and disciplining of his remarkable mind soon took form. Though he’d had no previous education, he quickly grasped the rudimentary elements of mathematics and Arabic. Despite the vigorous protests of the most radical of the country’s clerics, geography, French, and English also were included in the school’s studies. Even so, there wouldn’t be a minute of education in the sciences. Science was banned from the program as heresy, as many of its principles were in unyielding conflict with the teachings of the Quran. And such contr
adictory information could never be tolerated.
Though most of his classmates had been at the school for many years prior to his arrival, it wasn’t long before Muhammad was head and shoulders above the rest. Once again, it was in his religious training that the extraordinary youngster astounded his teachers. This was a child capable of grasping the most subtle of fundamentalist concepts. The precepts of holy war were as natural to him as if he’d written the sacred passages himself. Muhammad’s tutors were soon singing his praises to the elders in Algiers’s grand mosque. Despite his sheltered upbringing and lack of experience with even the most rudimentary rules of living in the existing society, this was a youth with remarkable religious gifts.
His instructors recognized he just might be the honored person who’d grow up to lead the revolt against the secular government that had seized power in the new Arab nation. The small boy was held out to his classmates as a shining example for all to emulate. The painfully shy Muhammad accepted the mounting praise with abject humility.
In the dark dormitory where fifty students slept in each cramped room, the favorable attention given him by the rigid clerics didn’t go unnoticed. The other students didn’t take kindly to being upstaged by the insignificant outsider from the remote desert. Within days of his arrival, the first assault upon the talented newcomer occurred. Each night, for months without end, the beatings would begin anew. The brutality of the grim dormitory became a central part of the solitary teenager’s life. This time there’d be no mother to wipe his furrowed brow and soothe his wounds. There’d be no arms reaching out to comfort him. Still his father had prepared him well for the harshness of others. Muhammad took the fierce beatings without the slightest whimper. Never once would the tears welling inside him appear upon his face.
