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Escape the Hezbollah

By Pola Marie Muzyka

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HEZBOLLAH NIGHTMARE

The glow of a blast momentarily lit up the sky. Under the camouflage of the night shadows, several blackface men dashed for a fishing boat bound to Maharashtra. Joseph was among those fugitives who were determined to seek asylum in another country. He observed others up ahead, scurrying toward the harbor where he was advised to wait. They crouched close to the ground to drop instantly, should they need to prevent detection. Joseph followed suit. He was now considered a criminal and must be captured. In Iran, that would mean certain death. The judge made all the decisions and his decision was for Joseph to disappear quickly, quietly—and lethally, just like any other deserter. More than half the men escaping with him deserved the death penalty, according to
Sharia1 law.

His case was unique. Joseph had been abducted into an army desperate for new recruits, and should he have escaped, it could shame the government and the whole nation, disgracing the Imam. The government was determined to keep any apologue about him classified by stealthily hunting him down in secret. Somehow, word got out that Joseph was still alive and hiding along the Gulf Coast. Bushehr was one of the stops the soldiers were assigned to search along the shoreline. Their orders were to find him, kill him, and bury him in an unmarked grave.

Hezbollah soldiers had been hovering around the harbor coastline for days. Today, they searched the houses and apartments around Bushehr. This was the opportunity Joseph and the other escapees were waiting for.


While the soldiers combed through the apartments, the fugitives scurried toward the fishing dhow.

At twilight, another explosion roared and lit up the sky near the distant nuclear power plant. Although the site was still under construction, the Iraqis attacked it regularly. The underground used explosives as a diversion, in the hope that the blast could be mistaken for one of the Iraqi attacks. A discharge gave Joseph and the others the cover they needed to escape to the port. Fragments from the exploded structures flew in the air and landed all around the plant and nearby buildings. Fires from burning debris lit up the unfinished nuclear plant again, and the darkened streets echoed with the stampede of soldiers running toward the blast.

Joseph looked back through the haze and smoke and saw a man with a rope around his neck swinging from a crane. Blood dripped from his jugular down his arm and chest. His death was intended as a warning to anyone sheltering fugitives, but instead, the corpse had reinforced the underground’s convictions to help the fugitives escape from Iranian territory. Most of them were innocent of a crime deserving death.

Joseph jumped over a wall and crouched on the beach. Here he either would be picked up or receive further instructions. He saw a comrade up ahead disappear into the darkness. Joseph knew what he must do to stay alive—something he’d learned while training to become a soldier like the ones he now evaded. When he peeked back over the ledge of the wall in the vicinity of the blast, he saw two hefty men close to the explosion run for the beach toward him. Joseph recognized one of the men as an accomplice. He knew the man had spotted him, but the man said nothing. Instead, he slid on the gravel road, turned back to the power plant, and stopped short. A shot rang out, wounding another man at his heels. Joseph reached out to help, but soldiers were closing in behind them.

“Get them. They’re the ones who started the explosion,” one of the soldiers yelled in Farsi. “Kill them! Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar! Shoot them!”

Joseph ducked quickly. The man behind Joseph saw his companion fall to the ground. He glanced forward again at Joseph and motioned for him to keep going, then ran back to help his friend. The soldier who first fired, fired again, but missed. Another soldier fired repeatedly until both men dropped. Joseph hunkered further down. When he saw the soldiers approaching the bodies of his two comrades, he looked around for a better place to hide. But he couldn’t keep advancing without being spotted.

“That man in front with the denim shirt recognized me,” Joseph whispered. He raised his head slightly for a better view. The men were definitely dead. “If only I knew. If only I could have saved them.”

A gunner close to the bodies searched the area cautiously and aimed his rifle in Joseph’s direction. Again Joseph ducked out of sight. His heart pounded like a judge’s gavel. The sweat of his brow dripped into his eyes and he squeezed them shut to mitigate the sting as he clung to the wall. If it had been possible, he would have buried himself in the sand to escape detection. He could hear booted footsteps close to the shoreline. They diminished as the soldiers dragged the dead back toward the town. The captain warned him that traveling in the hull of the fishing boat would be harrowing and that only the stouthearted could endure. Any harder than this––I’m a goner.

The smuggler Joseph’s father commissioned to help him escape told them that once aboard the dhow he would be safe, or at least safer than going through the overpass. But either way, Joseph knew his chance of a getaway was slim.

#

A full day passed since he boarded the derelict old fishing vessel. Sitting on a crate, Joseph pulled his knees up to his chest and tried to breathe. Liquid from the bottom of the fish hold dripped off his shoes. He told himself that he would live, if for no other reason than to take his story out of there so that the world would know the truth.

“Joseph––my name is Joseph, not Yousef,” he whispered. He wanted to hear his thoughts aloud, to hear his voice, to remind himself that he was still alive.

A filthy bearded man grumbled, “I don’t care what your damn name is. Keep it to yourself and shut the hell up.”

No one aboard ship was courteous. Almost everyone shoved and cursed, but this man was the worst of the lot. Joseph knew he wasn’t aboard to make friends, so he didn’t care if his shipmates didn’t like him as long as they left him alone. His stomach was growling and all that was on his mind now was food, but there was none. Breathable air, if he could get it, would have to do. If only he could breathe without gagging he might be able to think clearly. Joseph wasn’t sure if he would ever see ground or feel sunshine on his skin again.

He glanced around at his entombed environment in the cargo hold. It was well disguised as a fish storage tank. Fragments of decaying fish from voyages gone by lay strewn on the bottom. The little he could see in this compartment was by means of a small hole in the hatch. This particular storage tank resembled the inside of a large metal drum. Joseph fixed his eyes on the man who had yelled. The man only had the use of one eye. The other was patched. Now I get why we were warned against exchanging names. I never figured anyone would hear me, but good old One-eye’s got radar ears.

A large receptacle sitting in the middle of the planked metal floor was intended to be a chamber pot, but only one person had used it so far. In the dimness of the hold, Joseph saw a small man get up, touch the edge of the pot before he peed, then return to his spot on a crate near One-eye. One-eye punched him and almost sent the guy to his knees. Wow. Slow down One-eye. He rose to help.

An angry One-eye raised his eyebrows. “You want somethin’?”

“Just want to help the guy, that’s all.”

“Nothin’ wrong with ’im––yet,” One-eye threatened. “But there will be, if ya come any closer.”

The small man next to One-eye sat back down carefully. One-eye shoved again and the guy went down, this time in the murky water at the bottom of the drum. “Get your own damn seat,” the bully said with a sneer. Then he looked up at Joseph. “Ya still wanna help dis guy? Then give ’im your own fraggon’ crate. This one’s taken.”

“I’m all right. I’m okay.” The guy was nervous. “I don’t need your seat. Thanks anyway.”

One-eyes’s scapegoat was young, from the sound of his voice. Joseph watched as he sat on the far edge of one crate and crammed himself between another to avoid touching the scummy water. One-eye had plenty of room now.

These putrid accommodations––with such little light. Joseph inched his way back onto his crate and pulled his long legs up so he wouldn’t intrude on anyone else’s space. He braced his back against the cool metal wall.

Maybe it’s just as well. Who knows what I’d be looking at if I could see better down here.

Joseph shot a furtive glance at One-eye. He hoped One-eye wasn’t peeking back, and he wasn’t. Then he looked at the source of the light streaming through that one small hole in the top hatch. Must be midday, he mused. He followed the light beam down to someone’s large nose. The vessel must have shifted course while he was asleep, because the beam from his improvised sundial landed on someone else’s nose. He hadn’t seen that suspicious-looking nose before. What a nose! Joseph wiped the sleep from his eyes to get a better glimpse. Looks very definitely Iranian. Maybe it belongs to a spy. Maybe a mercenary.

He cupped his hands over his eyes and inaudibly whispered. “Oh, God, if it is a spy, what chance do we have? Why did I even––? Oh, yea. I’m here because of Zita. She’s gone now.” Feeling a cramp, he tried to stretch out his legs, but was only able to wiggle his toes and tighten his muscles. His back was stiff, so he tried moving it to keep the circulation going. His face was numb. He rotated his neck. It cracked and then cracked again. Other stowaways stirred too. A man near him got up to relieve himself. It’s definitely tight in here. He took a breath to calm himself. Guess that’s why One-eye went ballistic. Tight space for such a big guy. Joseph almost snickered. Gotta try to stay focused on something other than the accommodations. Wonder what’s next when I get back to America, if I ever do get back. Somewhere, somehow, there must be something good to believe in again. He sighed. The plan was to take Azita back with me. That’ll never happen. Amid his confusion, Joseph searched frantically for hope. The lull of the splashing waves helped him calm down, but he knew he’d soon have to fill the pot as well.

“HHHHKKKK.” A harsh noise broke the soft swishing of the ocean against the boat. The small amount of water that escaped the vast ocean lapped out a rhythm on the inside of the hull, beckoning the ocean to take it back again. It was the only thing soothing about this whole passage. Now someone was trying to get the stench out of his nose – his lungs – and was ruining the rhapsody. “HHHHKKKK. Hk, Hk, Haak.” The sound didn’t fit.

Honker, Noser? No. Snot. Snot —that’s it. That’s his name. These guys are probably criminals. Criminals! He brightened. Huh––I’m one of them right now. He forced himself to block out any reflection that would bring him more pain. God loves us all. That’s it, I guess. Can’t judge now, not anymore. Not since I – well, Zita. She never judged me, no matter what I did. She loved me no matter what.

Azita was the love of his life, his best memory. Anything that he could think of involving any good in his life in the last eight years included her. Azita loved movies, said she could escape that way. Now he understood what she meant—a movie would help in this cramped situation. The first movie he saw with her was a crazy Australian or African film about bush people. One of Azita’s uncles had smuggled it into the country. It was also the first time Azita sat close to him. Almost too close, he recalled, relaxing his back up against the wall again. No one had suspected yet that he had a crush on her. That movie was silly, yeah, but funny.

A thump jerked him out of his daydream. Joseph became suspicious and slightly paranoid from his ordeal. Anyone could be the enemy. “The Nose” sitting near the end of the fish hold, the man next to him, “the Snot,” even the captain of this stinky vessel could be the one who finally snuffed him out and any good memory he had left. What’s to stop him from just killing us all and keeping our money? No. Don’t want to go there. He tried hard to keep focused on something good in spite of his physical discomfort. Azita had been sitting next to him the day of the movie. Joseph smiled at the thought. He was now in the zone and he wanted to hold on to it.

More men got up to use the pot, but he waited until the last minute so he wouldn’t get in the way. That was an interesting movie, bottles falling from the sky. Good thought.

Joseph drifted in and out of sleep that was half a daydream of better days gone by. The memories became stronger. Touching Azita’s knee that day was one of the greatest feelings he’d ever experienced, made him feel alive. He wasn’t sure then, but in retrospect he now realized that she had purposely pressed her thigh to his knee a few times. When she slid back on the couch, he felt her leg slide alongside his. His heart pounded so loudly that he was sure she could hear it. Reaching for the popcorn, she brushed against his hand.

She touched my hand that day. I had my hand in the bowl and she definitely knew that. I can’t believe I didn’t realize then that she did it on purpose. That touch had caused electricity to shoot through him. It started at the point where she first brushed him and then to every point where their bodies met—arms, legs, feet. He remembered it fully now. In the darkened living room, a bluish light from the television screen wafted across her face. Her smile kept his attention and the light in her eyes beamed, even in the dark. She quickly glanced away, but Joseph knew it was a cultural restriction against staring. He longed for the day when she could stare back, fully and without shame or coyness.

Was I staring at her? If so, would it have mattered? I was never really sure of the rules of propriety in that culture. In fact, he wasn’t sure now what actually happened. Was he making it up? Joseph was only fifteen when he met her—a lifetime ago. Here he was, leaving the country he’d never wanted to move to in the first place—until he met Azita at his father’s company party. He fell in love immediately. Then his life became complete and he wanted to remain in Iran at her side forever. She made life in “Mullah2 Land” so bearable, even enjoyable—until the kidnapping.

The first time she visited him at his home was about a week after the party. She walked over with her sister, Azadeh, and a young friend, Haleha. Azadeh was the eldest and her daddy’s girl, and the one to cause controversy in the family. She was also the first of their close friends to disappear. Bolder than Azita, she never hesitated to speak up when something bothered her, and she didn’t hide the fact that she disliked the regime.
She didn’t care what they thought of the way she wore her scarf or any other “dumb rule” they made up. She was enamored by Western culture; in Western culture you weren’t forced to wear a scarf, or worse, a chador. Scarves were for fashion, not restriction.

Azadeh’s friend, Haleha, was seven years younger than she was and also different—more American or Italian than Iranian in personality. Azadeh never gave her credit for anything, and laughed out loud at her crushes. She was young and naïve, no matter what their age. Haleha was five years younger than Azita and four years younger than Joseph, but that’s not what made her naïve. Her crushes blinded her to reality. She was infatuated with every new boy who moved into the neighborhood, even young soldiers or boys who passed by, and she definitely had eyes for Joseph. Her curly dark brown hair wildly framed a heart-shaped face. When flirting, she had no problem pulling her scarf down occasionally to flaunt her hair.

At times when she laughed, she choked on her own curls and had to spit them out. Joseph smiled; he found it amusing to think back to those early years.

“Joseph, do you like my new scarf?” Azita would say as she primped and straightened her shawl, running a hand down the full length of where her hair was underneath, as if to remind him of its presence hidden beneath the covering.

Haleha jumped right in with a teasing imitation: “Joseph, do you like my new scarf––do you like my nail polish––do you like my shoes? Na-Na-Na––Na-Na-Na.”

Haleha followed Joseph around until Azita made it clear that Joseph was off-limits. Azita wanted him to herself. After a while, Haleha understood that “your mother is calling you” was her cue to leave.

Someone banged loudly on the hull and Joseph’s memories dashed away. The metallic echo reverberated like a blast. Even with his eyes open in the dark, he flashed back to visions of little children running, laughing, teasing, and exploding, their body parts flying through the air, the babble of children yelling war cries, the crackling of the fires begun by the blasts, and the dead silence, except for a sniffle or two, after the minefields were cleared and fires died down. This was one memory he didn’t want. This reminder of why he was leaving was mixed with the horrible smell of dead fish and urine as he was jolted back to reality.

It’s just a daydream. More like a nightmare—a Hezbollah nightmare, for sure.

Joseph felt queasy and broke out in a cold sweat. Why am I here? I’m an American. I believe in God. I believe in freedom. I am American. I am not my father.

Others began to whisper among themselves. The ship’s fish hold was alive with noise. Some men used the pot, while others squirmed in their seats waiting for their turn. A couple of men spoke loudly in Farsi. “Shut up,” the one-eyed man shouted. “All of you just shut up and wait or we’ll all be dead. These Gulf waters have ears.” He got up and walked over to the pot.

That One-eye is gonna be a problem. Thank God he didn’t hit anyone on his way over.

Again Joseph tried to think of how he had ended up running for his life, hiding from his captors in this chamber. Before he came to Iran, life was good. The relationship he had with his father had been normal until his father decided to move back to where he was born. Joseph was only six when he first learned that his father was from another country. Although he was younger, those memories were clearer than the others. Life in America was clearer in general—simple and less complicated.

#

“Joseph, come and see what I have here.” His father played with him that day on the beach. It was the day he learned to fly a kite, the day his father found the conch shell. “It’s the best specimen I’ve ever seen. What do you think?”

“Oh, yes, Babá. This is cool.” Joseph took the seashell from his father’s hand. Jalal picked him up and hugged him.

“Cool, you say, my dear son. Cool?” His father laughed out loud.

Joseph often walked those shores with his babá. However, that was the first time they found a conch shell. It was one of the few moments he had with Jalal that he could call “special.” Jalal picked up a handful of sand to put in the bucket with the shell, some rocks they had found, and a small crab that almost got away along the shore. He touched the side of the bucket and smelled his fingers. “Oh, yes. The smell of the beach in the sand. It reminds me of my country. We have lots of sand along the beach there. Not like here, where clay takes over the land.”

“Your country, Babá?” It was the first time Jalal mentioned it. Confused, Joseph asked, “Isn’t America your country?”

“Yes, this is my country now,” Jalal replied.

His father shook the sand off and looked down at his hairy, dark skinned hand. His Persian ancestry was obvious to Joseph, who inherited his father’s looks. From his mother he inherited faith.

Once, when Joseph was almost twelve, just before the move, he came into the house to see his mother in tears. “Why are you crying, Mama? Did you hurt yourself?” He walked over to where she stood near the kitchen sink.

“Honey, do you like it here?” his mother asked.

“Yes, Mama. I like my friends a lot. I like our home, the food—what’s not to like?” Joseph replied.

With a melancholy look she asked, “Do you believe in Yeshua?”

“Yes, Mama. That’s a funny question. You know I do.”

Dorothy smiled through her tears. “Oh, of course you do, Joey. Always remember that you do, even if we move to another place, where people don’t like what you believe and call God by another name, or even if they hate other people.”

“Why would they hate people?”

“Some countries are against Jews and even Christians, Joey. In fact, never tell anyone you’re Christian, if we move.” She sat down at the table and he sat with her. She reached out and took his hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek. “You have to always remember what you believe. And keep it to yourself.”

“To myself?” He was puzzled at the time. But now he understood all too well. Before they left, she had warned him to protect himself. As he looked around the ship’s hull, he wondered if she had known then what the family would be up against.

“Recognize when to talk and when to be silent.” His mother gently released his hand and tapped it. “God is always with you. Will you promise me this, my dear son? Will you always remember?” He told her he would keep his promise, but she kept insisting. “Will you always believe?”

“Yes, Mother.”

He had never called her “mother” before and he perceived that it bothered her. “Honey, call me Mama, okay? Call me Mama. I know other boys your age call their mothers, ‘Mother,’ but I prefer that you call me, Mama, okay? Don’t grow up too soon.”

“Okay, I will believe in God forever, and I will always call you Mama, even after I grow to be a man.” He gave her a wink and a smile. And then she did something that surprised him. She laughed loudly that day. Joseph grinned now as he remembered. Azita used to laugh too, when he agreed with her. She often reminded him of his earlier years with his mother, because she could say or do almost anything and he’d still agree with her.

One day, Azita made Persian rice cookies and accidentally added way too much cardamom. Her sister Azadeh came in and grabbed one of the cookies from the cooling rack. “Auk, this cookie is horrible.” Aza threw it down onto the counter.

Joseph remembered the look of disappointment on Azita’s face. He spoke up, saying, “These are the best cookies I ever ate.” Azadeh didn’t agree.

Azita’s mother heard him and peeked around the corner. “Something tells me you like Azita, maybe even love her––don’t you, Yousef?” He glanced over at Azita and hoped that she didn’t notice what her mother said. Azita winked at him. She did notice.

#

For a moment Joseph could feel her eyes on him and the touch of her kiss on his lips. Her lips pressed to his. He remembered the wetness of her tears the day she said good-bye, and the salty taste of her tears.

“Jeez!” Joseph lost the memory and jumped up as one of his hullmates moved over to the pot, splashing the salty, stinky water around the hull as he went. Joseph took an end of the scarf around his neck and wiped the dreg from his mouth. The sweet smell of the fabric calmed him. Azita had given him that scarf. Even though it still carried her perfume, the fragrance couldn’t erase the taste of fish scum. He shuddered and his stomach convulsed.

“Siddown. Shut up. Stay still or I’ll kill ya myself,” someone on the far side said. It wasn’t One-eye this time. “You’re takin’ way too many chances, soldier.”

Joseph’s stomach convulsed again. He coughed. Not here. I refuse to get sick here. I’ve come too far to break down now. This killer-man might kill me just for the sport of it. Wonder why he called me soldier.

He could hear the movement of the mate who just splashed him while settling down. He sat too. The crate was now wet, and he felt slimy bits of the stench-ridden pieces of fish squish beneath him as his thigh, then his butt, sank back on the crate. Well, least I’m not in the middle of it. Joseph looked up at the young man next to One-eye. Poor guy.

Then, his foot touched a piece of the slime, slid a little, and crunched down. Joseph had felt that type of crunch before. He was relieved that this time it was just fish. Children. How could they even think of using children that way––no one to protect them? No one to help. He recalled the point of horror in his military training that the crunch reminded him of. Seeing fragile children blow up so that others would die—or for whatever diabolical, misguided reasons the Mullah had.

The mate next to him whispered as loudly as he dared, “Going home?” Joseph had always been the one a person could count on to be a friend, without question, without hesitation. He tried to forget the offensive splash he now associated with this man. That stupid move took him away from the daydream of Azita and blissful memories. He couldn’t make out the man’s face to see if it was the face of someone he could trust. “Splasher,” he said under his breath.

“ ’Scuse me?” Splasher faced him. “I asked if you were going home.”

“I don’t know where home is anymore.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“So many changes these last few years––so many homes.” Joseph had divulged more than he had planned to. He lifted his legs again and lowered his face to his kneecaps.

“Oh. Where’d you come from?”

Joseph began to tremble. He shivered despite the heat inside the hold. This reaction from fear and lack of nourishment was familiar. He lifted his head and glanced at the Splasher. “I’d rather not say. Mind if I just keep the captain’s rules?”

Most of the men in this temporary torture chamber wouldn’t answer that question either. “Sure.” Splasher retreated. “I understand.”

Joseph said nothing more. He closed his eyes to avoid any more questioning and remembered Azita warning him just before her arrest.

#

It was on the day Hafez smuggled her into the camp where Joseph waited years to be escorted to this freedom dhow. “That guy’s really been good to you?” asked Azita.

Joseph agreed that Hafez was a hero and one of the good guys. Azita asked him when he was going home, and when Joseph shrugged, she warned him that he couldn’t stay there anymore. Times were getting dangerous in Iran. “Yeah, but it’s not up to me. Besides, I don’t even know where home is anymore. You’re my home, Zita. Wherever you are is home.”

She pressed him more. “Oh, Joey––sweetheart, don’t say that. You need to get out of here. If they catch you now, they will kill you. Your life isn’t in Iran anymore.”

Joseph felt guilty about his capture. He wanted to protect Azita, but in leaving he was abandoning her. “Zita, you know what I’ve done? Do you realize my life is worthless no matter where I am? You’re the only good in my life now. I’m so ashamed––so terribly ashamed. The least I can do now is protect you.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “Joey, you did what you had to do to get out alive. If you hadn’t, they would have killed you and those people. Didn’t you tell me God forgives?”

Joseph wasn’t convinced. “But Mustafa’s mother—how can He forgive? If you only knew––seeing those children become body parts, Zita. They were no longer people. It was a hellish horror that I can’t wipe away. How can God? You’re in danger, too. Don’t forget that.”

Azita grabbed Joseph’s shoulders. His gaze softened as she slowly ran her hands down his arms and back. “Joseph Rabbani, you listen to me. I love you. I want you to remember that. God loves us both. I will be safe. The best way you can protect me is to get out of here. We will both be safe. I’ll join you later. God did forgive you.”

With her in that camp settlement, Joseph felt complete, invigorated by the possibility of a future together and intoxicated by the perfume of her breath as they kissed, by the perfume on her neck as they embraced. He wished their lives could be different, and he knew they would have been if they lived in the U.S. Joseph was disturbed by the whole ordeal and by the events that led up to his being in Iran. He was searching for an explanation—someone to blame besides himself. “I hate my father.”

“What are you saying, Joey?”

“If my father hadn’t wanted to come here, none of this would have happened. I never told you how he beat me when I told him I wouldn’t go.” He stiffened. “I was just a boy.”

She pushed his arms away and stood. “Joey, if you hadn’t come here, I would never have met you and my life would be worthless. Remember the good, Joey—always remember the good and be careful whom you trust.” She held up her finger like a schoolteacher. “Remember that. Be careful whom you trust.”

She was right. Joseph had mixed feelings about his father. On the one hand he was safe, and his father basically told him the same things, but on the other hand, his father was cruel ever since before the move—at least that’s what he thought. He had beaten Joseph for rebelling against the move, but after the beating his father wiped the perspiration from his brow and took a deep breath. He turned to Joseph. “Some day you’ll thank me for this, Yousef. Someday you’ll meet a beautiful Persian princess and fall deeply in love and you’ll thank me.” It was because of his father’s desire to move that Joseph met her, his Persian princess. How could he have thought of hating his father when his father had paid all that money for his release?

#

Tortured by his own thoughts, Joseph groaned. “She was right. Damn it! She was right.”

“What? Shhhh. Keep your voice down. What’re you talking about?” Splasher sat up to hear more.

Joseph didn’t realize he had spoken out loud again. “I told you to shut up,” the Killer-man from before yelled out as he lunged forward, splashing water all over the other fugitives. “Even the spook over there told you to shut up. So shut up before you say too much.”

Joseph ducked, hoping Killer-man wouldn’t see him in this dimly lit dungeon. Killer-man’s cries echoed back with a resounding metal clamor. “Where da hell are you?”

Others joined in, trying to get Killer-man to keep still. The hull was now full of activity. Three loud bangs from above added to the commotion, and then a loud thump, scuffles, and a crack to the back of his head sent Joseph to his knees in the polluted water he was trying so hard to avoid. Crack. Killer-man found him and the commotion died. “You’ll thank me for this later.”

Joseph groped to find his crate in the dark liquid, keeping his hands close to the ground to avoid any contact that might stir up the sediment from the bottom. Nor did he want to stir his hullmates up again, at least not that one. His crate was his last possession and he meant to keep it. Finally, Joseph’s slimy hands found the box—a seat he would now cherish.

The ship’s hold was again silent. The only sounds came from the lap of waves against the hull and the splashes of Joseph trying to climb back up. He was stunned and dazed by the blow to his head and by the lack of food. The odiferous fumes overcame him, and he almost blacked out. I refuse to be sick here. He held his head and quietly moaned. I will not give in to my own weakness.

Everything was slippery. Climbing onto this small crate should have been easy. In his dazed state he was again reminded of his father.

#

He was six or seven when he’d cried out to his father as he struggled to get into his bunk bed. “No, son, you need to get strong, build your muscles. Children in my country become men very early. You should learn to fear nothing.” His father watched.

That was one of his trademarks in raising Joseph and his other son. He said his goal was to make sure they would grow up to be strong men. That day Joseph asked about his father’s country. “I’m here now, Yousef.” Jalal scoffed at him. “My country is a million miles away to us. This is my country now. Besides, that’s way too much for you to be asking. Why do you even think about it?”

Earlier that day, Joseph’s mother had given him a book about Aladdin. He imagined that all of Persia was really like the book. “Because Aladdin was happy. He was a hero. Can we go there someday, and get lots of gold like Aladdin? Can we see the cave with all the gold and jewels?”

“I’m here now, I said, aren’t I? We’re here. Someday you’ll learn to be happy with what you have and where you are. Aladdin is just a fairy tale. True happiness comes from inside you, right here.” His father pointed to his head during the conversation. “Make your own happy memories, and you will always be happy wherever you are.”

Joseph touched his head where his father had pointed that day. It now ached because of the blow he received during the skirmish. Guess my father was right about the fairy tale. He pressed his shirttail to the wound. When his mother overheard the conversation between him and his father, she pleaded for his childhood, saying that there were too many nightmares out there. “Let him have some good dreams while he can.” Joseph closed his eyes again and heard his father’s response ring in his ears. “I’ll tell you one thing, Son. This is the fairy tale. We are in the fairy tale, now. Real life is different.”
Some fairy tale I’m living now. This is the part in the story where the dragon burns up the knight. Who knows what the outcome will be. Or even if I’ll come out of this alive.

Like his mother, Azita had a similar way of looking at things. She was never embittered by disappointments, so her version was amiable. “We’re in the fairy tale now, Joey,” Azita said when they were at the camp settlement. “Life doesn’t get any better than this—us, together, without Haleha staring at us and giggling.”

That’s when she gave him the scarf. “Take my scarf, Joey. Take it to remember these last few days.”

Joseph warned her to keep her head covered, as if that were the only danger they faced. Then she slipped the scarf off her hair. It framed her olive-skinned face like a Michelangelo painting, and Joseph knew at that moment that he would do anything to get her out alive. He grabbled around his pants and jacket for a memento to give back, but all he could muster was a bullet. When she looked at it strangely, he wanted to crawl into a little hole. “You’ll turn it into a good thing, knowing it’s with you.” Joseph cocked his head, looked down at the bullet and then back at her. “Someday, I’ll trade it for a ring. You’ll see. I’ll come back and get you out and we’ll live happily ever after. After all, you are my Persian princess.”

Now he wanted to take those words back and tell her instead that he wouldn’t leave without her, ever, and nothing she could say would change that. His memory of that day was too clear. Her scarf was the part of her that he took with him; his T-shirt was the part of him that she took with her. He gave it to her to cover her head, but when he did, she laughed.

“I’m not going to use this to cover my head. It’s a T-shirt—but I will keep it.” She pushed it to her face and took a deep breath, and then the blast went off at the other side of the camp settlement. That was just before he had left for Bushehr.

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