The Refugee

by S A Tameez

  This will certainly be the last time that I write anything. I am dead. I died not so long ago. Murdered by my maltreated conscience.

  My body and my mind persisted in the pursuit of freeing my son, but my soul had departed, like a galloping horse, it broke free from the carriage that carried its oppressive master — it had to, for me to carry out all that I have done. Although I had witnessed so much evil, and despised it with all my heart, I have become part of it — a necessary evil, if there were ever such a thing. Or if this was not the case, then evil, somehow, surfaced from within me — from deep within me, so deep that I knew not that it existed. It erupted, without warning, like a blood-thirsty wolf, concealed for a lifetime, by the darkness of night.

  My ambition to bring back my son demanded I voyage to depths that once I could not have stooped to, yet before I had a chance to realise, I was already in these pits and I had glided there effortlessly.

  What does that tell me about me? Evil is within me? Within us all?

  I am not sure, but I am now certain that we are all capable of it. I proved it to myself, as would any man with such desire to save one that he loved.

  I am not proud of what I have done, the people I have hurt. I am not proud that my son was worth more to me than anyone else in this world. I am not proud of what I had to do to get to him and that I was prepared to do even more if I had to.

  I know that he, nor anyone else on this earth, will not be here forever, this was something that the love of my life, Maryam, demonstrated by not only leaving me, but leaving this world, so I could not pursue her. Something that she knew I would have valiantly done.

  Knowing that all what you hold dear is only here but a moment, only deepens your love for it.

  What little time we have on this earth should not have been spent the way that my son would have spent it had I not done what I did — so as evil and inhumane as it was, I will not live my last moments in regret. Regret is a road that I have stared down many times, but will never walk down.

  If anyone ever reads this then know that I was as far from ISIS as heaven is from hell. I observed their evil in person, their lack of respect for life and honour. They are not an Islamic State, they are a confused state. And I am free from them.

  My vacant body will not survive much longer. In moments, I will be killed by corrupt men, or massacred by the merciless mob that I picked a fight with, if I don’t bleed to death first, that is.

  The media and the government will team up to use me and my death as a triumph in their war on terror, and to their political advantage, I have no doubt.

  If you are the only person that reads this and it is never shared with another soul, then you must live with the truth — the truth that I was Ahmed, a refugee, a son, a husband, and a father, but above all, a human. A human whose eyes witnessed such vast wickedness that they yearned only for the eternal slumber.

  Death, and only death, shall now set me free.

  Ahmed closed the journal, to never open it again.

  He couldn’t move, the pain in his stomach was too intense. His chest felt prickly, his breathing became heavy and stabbed him every time he inhaled. His eyes closed slowly as he rested his head against the wall. So, this is what death feels like! He thought to himself. Hurts like hell!

  But his eyes suddenly opened, like the shutter on a camera, when he heard the man lying nearby, move. Having regained consciousness, the man reached for his gun and pointed it at him. Ahmed wanted to smile. This would certainly speed up the process! He thought. He then closed his eyes peacefully.

  There was a loud, echoing sound of gun fire. Ahmed didn’t feel anything, “Am I dead now?” he mumbled to himself. He opened his eyes and saw his would-be assassin lying flat on the ground. He looked up and saw masked men approaching. He guessed that one of them had shot the man before he’d been able to shoot at Ahmed.

  “So, you’re Goldstein,” one of the men said, approaching him. Ahmed almost thought he spoke in admiration of him. He didn’t have the energy to reply, he just nodded. The man knelt beside him and took his mask off. “I’m pleased to meet you at last, Goldstein. I’m Agent Stavros. It’s funny, I imagined you a lot bigger,” Stavros said, inspecting the wound on Ahmed’s stomach. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” he said peering back at the men, “we need to get him to a hospital!”

  Stavros looked back at Ahmed and smiled, “I know about your son… and all about Boreas’ operation. We have enough evidence to prove your innocence… but we don’t have enough time to wait for an ambulance, we’ll get you into the helicopter and to the hospital.”

  Ahmed waved a hand to protest. He didn’t have the energy or the will to move. Death seemed the easier option. But he had no choice, they had started moving him onto a stretcher, carrying him outside where the helicopter was fired up.

  “Let’s get you safely to hospital,” Ahmed heard Stavros shout over the noise. He felt himself being rushed towards the helicopter.

  Suddenly he heard a whooshing sound and felt the impact of a bullet hit his chest, shortly followed by another, again, also hitting his chest. Pain… Everything spun… and then darkness seemed to be falling.

  He heard screaming. “No! No!” He heard running feet, seemed like it was all around him. Then he felt himself pulled this way and that on the stretcher. He was behind a car to shield him from more bullets.

  “Come on, stay with me Ahmed – stay with me!” He heard the man, Stavros pleading with him. Someone was applying pressure to his chest. But it was too late. It was getting darker and he knew it was too late. His luck had finally run out… But it was ok… he had done what he had set out to do. Malik was out of the hands of those monsters. He had fulfilled his promise to Maryam.

  Living with all the terrible things that he’d done would have been impossible, anyway.

  Ahmed felt himself falling deeper into the sea, being sucked into the water, with no way of escaping. Except this time, he didn’t struggle, and he wasn’t panicking, nor was he frightened.

  Except this time, he lay peacefully and let the water carry him. Except this time, he did not wake.