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The Struggle

By Nelson Lowhim

Copyright 2012 Nelson Lowhim

Eiso Publishing

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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead or otherwise, is purely coincidental.

Contents:

The Struggle Knows Not

Other Reads

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Walid sat at a table across from Mahmud. All Mahmud did was look at him, shaking his head. None of Walid’s apologies worked. He woke up with sweat gluing his shirt to his skin.

Walid's sleeping wife stirred, but soon returned to her steady breathing. He swung out of bed, and walked out to the lawn, listening to helicopters in the distance. He was tired of the sound. The steady beat of an American machine gun started up, hitting a note inside his chest. Either someone was standing up to them, or they were shooting at shadows. Walid lit a cigarette and shivered as cold Baghdadi air leaked into his blood. The Samarra Mosque had been bombed earlier that morning, and though he still felt anger, he wasn’t certain what to do about it.

“Walid, they’re coming!” Haji Salaam yelled

Walid turned. His mind lingered on last night's dream. Smoke from late morning fires thickened the air and blurred the street. They had just set up a checkpoint, and he wasn’t certain if Haji was joking.

“Minoo?”

“The Americans,” Haji yelled, as he climbed into his car.

“Wayeen?"

“The bridge to Azamiya.” Haji started his car.

No way, thought Walid, he had promised last night to get at least one.

“Get back out, they are at least five daqa'iq away,” Walid said. He tried to stop his voice from quivering. Normally, he would've done exactly what Haji was doing.

They were parked on the side of a small road that was regularly used by people who tried to avoid the main street's traffic. Taking a deep breath, Walid pulled out his handgun, and pointed it at the first car that came down the potholed street. He hoped it would stop; he knew he wasn’t going to shoot.

“Identification. Where are you from?” Walid asked the driver.

“What is this police checkpoint?” the man asked, scrutinizing Walid with a look of disdain as he handed over his ID.

Walid looked at the man, surprised that he had obeyed him so easily. “Us?” he looked back at his group and felt more powerful. “We ask the questions here, where are you from?” Walid asked; the ID checked out.

“Hurriya, azizi, you?”

Walid smiled. One of their own. “We are only looking for Sunnis, drive on.”

The driver hesitated, looking at Walid, Haji and their entourage, before swallowing his words, and driving on.

Walid pointed his gun at the next car driving by.

“Walid, they’re getting close,” Haji said.

Walid tried to slow his breathing down.

The car squeaked to a halt.

“Identification please. Where are you coming from; where are you going?” asked Walid.

“Where are your uniforms?” the driver asked back.

Walid pointed the gun at the driver’s asymmetrical, beady eyes, and large nose. “No questions, just answer.”

“Azamiya. I’m going to the market.”

Walid’s heart jumped. This was his moment to act, to prove Mahmud wrong. Walid felt queasy. He was not certain if this was right. He turned to Haji and the rest of his group and they came at the car.

“You are Sunni, n’am?”

The man’s eyes darted to the other men, and he nodded uncertainly. “But I am a good man, I work with Shiites, azizi you must not…”

Walid opened the car door, and pulled the man by his shirt.

“No please, I have a family, what are you doing?”

Haji opened his trunk, and they stuffed the man in. When the man gave Walid another look, Walid felt like crying.

They all jumped in their vehicle, and drove away. Walid looked behind to see an American Humvee slow down near the man's car. Two soldiers nervously approached it, guns out, like it was a car bomb.

“They think it’s a seeyara mufakhakha!” Walid forced out a laugh. The rest of them laughed with him.

They drove a little ways until they got to Salaam’s place. They pulled the man out of the trunk, and dragged him into the house. On the living room floor, the man got on his feet, and started to beg. Walid tried to stand as tall and steady as he could. He could feel the eyes of his group on him. He fought the urge to shit. He hated the man for not making this easy.

“Please, why are you doing this?”

Walid stepped forward, his hands shaking, sweating. “You think you can destroy our mosques, and murder our women, and not expect us to fight back?”

“No, no, I have never done anything; I don’t know anyone who does that. These are Arabs from other…”

Walid stepped forward, steadied his hands and shot the man through his face. The sound jolted everyone, including Walid. The man crumpled to the ground. Walid realized he had been hoping the gun would jam. A pool of blood spread. He told the group to clean up and dump the body near a Sunni neighborhood. They stared at him in silence. He decided it was awe.

A good night’s rest was all he wanted, but his wife was giving him that look again.

“What is it?” Walid asked.

He'd been scared of killing again, so he found other things to do. Many Sunnis lived in Hurriya. He took his group and forced the Sunnis to leave. Walid and his men managed to collect taxes from some of the people or take some of their possessions.

His wife pulled out a poster that had his picture on it. Wanted, for 500,000 dinar. He was shocked; first that he would be on a wanted poster, then, that he would be worth so little.

“Where did you find this?”

“At the market. I tore some down, but then there were police everywhere.”

He smiled; he loved that his wife would do that when she saw his poster. Other women would have just run away. He kissed her and caressed her smooth skin. She turned her head away.

Walid followed her eyes to the door. There was no one there. His stomach churned. Would the police knock his door down at any moment?

“Is dinner ready?” he asked.

She didn’t reply and walked into the kitchen.

That night, after they had made love, she stared at the ceiling in a way that let him know that he needed to say something.

“It will be zian honey, don’t worry about it.” Walid, of course, hadn’t stopped thinking about being caught for what he'd done. He felt small, foolish.

“You have one son and another on the way, in sha allah, what will we do without you? Think about it, Walid, please?”

He wanted to slap her, but she was right, he had to think about his family. He could not get arrested. He knew what happened in those prisons; sometimes people never returned. His family would most certainly starve. In the end, she was concerned with him turning out like Mahmud.

“I will,” he said to calm his wife down.

“But what will you do now? Your face is everywhere, and people need money.”

He looked around their room; the house had been theirs since they married. They recently bought a new heater, but the cracks in the wall were still growing.

“You could live with your relatives in Karbala until things got quiet again.”

“Walid! Don’t become like your brother, you are not him.”

“Ooskut,” he hissed, angry that she would dare to say such a thing. “I will take care of this.”

Mahmud would have known what to do. Walid had fought with him after their father was killed in a missile attack during the invasion. But Walid could never stay angry with his brother for long. Mahmud had always been the one people in the neighborhood looked to for guidance. After the invasion, Mahmud had told everyone to wait and see what the Americans were going to do. He always thought about some greater good that Walid couldn’t see.

Walid walked into the kitchen, put on a coat, and stepped outside. Winter was giving way to spring, but the air still bit. He could hear the helicopters again and, in the distance, some shooting. He lit a cigarette, sucking in the smoke to warm his insides. “Mahmud, Mahmud, Mahmud,” he muttered. He missed him.

It was Mahmud who, when Al-Sadr rose against the Americans, decided to fight. We cannot lie down like dogs. Walid followed his big brother to Karbala, and they fought against the Americans. Mahmud fought without fear, firing clip after clip at the occupiers. Sitting in a dilapidated house, they found themselves overwhelmed as the Americans returned fire. Walid hugged the ground, his stomach churning. He remembered the disappointed look Mahmud flashed him; a look that he'd given Walid throughout his life whenever Walid had acted too weak.

Mahmud was shooting from a break in a wall when Walid, who was looking for a way to get out of the house, heard a grinding splat. He looked over to see Mahmud, half his head gone, falling to the ground.

Walid remembered lying on the floor of that house in Karbala and thinking about how to escape. He hid as the Americans came through. He crawled away when night fell. He came back to Baghdad, and everyone thought he'd been a brave warrior. People stood in awe of him, of Mahmud. He didn’t tell them how wrong they were. Instead he lied about how many people he'd killed. Only he knew that man in Haji Salaam’s living room had been the first. That man’s face was still etched in his brain.

Walid finished his cigarette and threw it into the street. He walked back inside the house.

The next day Walid awoke to his cell phone ringing. “Yes?”

“Walid, your pictures, they are everywhere. Abdullah was stopped at a checkpoint today, and they asked if he knew who you were. I think you should lay low right now.”

Walid felt his stomach acting up. He wondered what would happen if he did lay low. Would the police forget him and chase someone else? No, he was being a small man again. It was his time to stand up.

“We will not hide, we are protecting our neighborhood. Have the police done that for us?” He fought to keep his voice from cracking, from showing Haji his fear.

“No,” Haji said.

“Of course not. Drive here now, we’re going to settle this once and for all.” He reached for his gun, but remembered that it was in the bedroom. He had the urge to drink, to stop his trembling.

He hung up and put on his clothes. It felt like someone else was doing it for him. He checked his handgun, tucked it into his pants, and grabbed the wanted poster. His wife was cooking breakfast, and he rushed out when she called him. He did not want to stop, but she called him again. He poked his head back through the door. “I will be back in a few hours.”

Haji pulled up in his car, and Walid jumped in.

“Where to?”

“The police center, where else?”

Haji stared at him. “But…”

“Are you deaf? Drive!”

Haji put the car into drive, but didn’t press the accelerator. “Are you mutaeqed about this?”

“Yes, stop being a coward and drive. You have your gun right?”

“Yes, but the police center?”

Haji’s voice threatened to kill the bravery he had mustered. “You never fought against the Americans. Are you a dog?” Walid asked.

“No.”

“Then drive. When we get there I will go inside and you will stay with the car. All right?”

Haji drove the car without another word. Walid fingered his handgun and remembered what his father had told him: that no one was scared of an AK, since everyone owned one, but handguns reminded people of Saddam’s secret police.

Five minutes later they stopped in front of the police station, and Walid hopped out of the car. It was a large cement building with massive steps leading inside. The guard at the front door stood silent as Walid walked past him to the shiny main lobby. Walid rubbed the wanted poster folded in his pocket before realizing that he was sweating too much. He wished he'd asked Haji to come with him so there would be someone beside him. He would not be able to fight all these policemen.

A large poster with his face grabbed his attention. He couldn’t stay in the lobby for much longer. Walid saw signs for the police chief’s office. It was down a long hallway to the left. He touched his gun and started walking. His hands trembled. He felt like he did after he shot that man in Haji’s living room.

He stopped at the door with the police commissioner’s name printed in English and Arabic. He leaned against the wall and looked up and down the hallway. No one seemed to have noticed him. From inside the room, he could hear a man yelling on the phone in a gruff voice. Walid thought about Mahmud; he thought about his family. He knocked and squeezed his trembling hands together.

“Enter!”

The voice sounded large. Walid pulled out his gun with one hand and his poster with the other. He stepped into the room.

“What can I do for you?” the chubby, bald, man asked, hesitating when he saw the gun in Walid’s hand.

Walid placed the wanted poster on his desk. “You’re looking for me?”

The police chief glanced down at the image and recognition crept up on his face. “I…”

Walid felt his nerves calm down as the man stuttered, unable to finish a single sentence. He went around the desk and grabbed the policeman by his collar. He was fat, but compliant. Walid pulled him out to the hallway, over to the lobby. “On your knees.” The man fell down and started to cry. Everyone was looking at him, but even the guards, with their AKs, didn’t move.

“I am Walid, the man on this poster.” He pointed at the poster on the wall. “I am not here for anyone else but this man.” He looked around when he said it. He felt invincible and the trembling stopped. The overweight policeman continued to whimper, rocking himself like a child. Walid pointed, shot; the man fell. He looked the guards in the eye, and they turned away.

Outside, he lit a cigarette. He absorbed the nicotine hit and sauntered over to the car where Haji sat, staring at him.

“Drive.”

He didn’t say another word to Haji, and when they got to his house he nodded and walked in. His wife warmed up his breakfast, and he ate it, not speaking to her either, but keeping his eyes on Mahmud and the first man he shot, both standing behind her.

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Bonus Material:

The Struggle Knows Not

The pair of children wouldn't stop crying. Their wails pierced the chilly morning air and made Walid feel out of place. He had half a mind to hit them. Their parents were loading their car, as if in a daze. He didn't know why they were surprised. They'd been given a warning a week ago, yet they ignored it.

"Abdullah, make sure there's no police or Americans." Walid pointed to the street.

Abdullah gave Walid a prolonged stare then walked out. Abdullah had been pushing the couple around.

Walid watched the other members of his gang lounge around the house. None of them seemed to have their heart in the matter. A few of them picked off assorted items they liked. The same thing Abdullah had been doing, but with Abdullah there was a certain relish that seemed improper.

This family was Sunni. Walid had known them before the invasion. They were nice people. But they were Sunni, and these days they couldn't be trusted. Who knew if a relative, who worked with terrorists, was to come by? Then another Shiite marketplace would be torn to pieces and blood. Walid still filled with anger whenever he thought of the marketplaces being bombed, and the Golden Mosque being destroyed.

They were in Hurriya, and Walid had made a promise to clear it of any Sunnis. He knew what the great Al-Sadr was saying, it wasn't the Sunnis, but he found it hard to believe any words coming out of that man's mouth.

"Walid."

He turned to Haji. His friend seemed to shrink in size, as if he was scared of Walid's eyes.

Ever since Walid shot that police chief, the police had been ceding them way. No one tried to push the group around at checkpoints. They were invincible in this area. And everyone in the group looked at Walid with a newfound respect, especially Haji. Yet, even with that reverence Walid felt the need to keep finding new ways to impress them.

"Ma?"

Haji was holding an old pistol in his hand. "He has a gun that he wants to take." Haji shook the gun in his hand. "He says it is to protect his family."

The man stood behind Haji with the look of a dog. Walid felt some sorrow for him. The man was right; it would be murder to let a man go without a weapon of some sort in this country, but his entire group was looking on. Walid couldn't appear weak. He felt as if even Abdullah, out on the street, could hear this.

"Please, we have nothing else. My family..."

Walid reached out his hand with all the fingers touching at their tips to make the man stop talking. "How can we be sure you will not use it against us, or some innocent people?"

"No, I don't do such things. Rajaan," the man clasped his hands together, his eyes glistening with shame.

The man was frail, with a bent back and shiny thick hair. He was groveling in front of his woman. This was not right. A wave of exhaustion came over Walid.

"Keep it then." He felt everyone's eyes narrow. He would not dance to their eyes.

Walid had restarted the checkpoints after he shot the policeman. They learned to take the car, take everything of each Sunni they caught. His aversion for what they did wore off, but it still left an aftertaste. He handed the killing and dumping of bodies to the others in the group. Everyone in his group now owned a car, and they were selling the extra ones. Other young men in their neighborhood, cousins of men in his group wanted to join up.

"You let him keep the gun?" Abdullah asked in a sneering tone. The rest of the group shifted to his words. They all stood in Haji Salaam's living room. New carpet and new furnishings filled the room with shiny surfaces and singular-polished smells. They smoked out of a hookah pipe, celebrating the money they had taken from the Sunni family, evicted earlier that day. What was supposed to be a meeting about the future of the group, and how to let new people in, was turning into a confrontation.

In the other men's silence, Walid could see they agreed with Abdullah. The man was acting too brazen. Walid would have to step up again.

"Minoo is the boss here?" Walid leered at Abdullah, squinting his eyes.

"Why would the boss give a Sunni his gun back?" Abdullah said.

Walid paused. He would rather have been dealing with other issues, but he could see Abdullah gaining stature in the eyes of the group.

"How dare you say something like that? Who ordered the house be taken? Whose idea was it to take a person's house? Maltee." Walid jabbed his finger at himself then his accuser. "You are nothing but a dog. Let me show what we do with a kelb." He stepped forward aggressively.

To his credit, Abdullah didn't flinch. "Okay, so the first house we took was your idea, but ever since that you've avoided it. Admit it. We would not have gone to this house if I hadn't made us." Abdullah pointed his thumb at his chest and looked around.

At least they hadn't taken sides yet, thought Walid. He knew Abdullah was a wiry man and full of energy. Walid also knew that Abdullah had a cousin killed in a market bombing. It was entirely reasonable to want to kill as many Sunnis as possible, but this confrontation was a matter of who was boss.

"Please, we should not fight amongst ourselves." Haji Salaam stepped forward with his face scrunched into a plea.

Walid waved him off with his hand.

"You're a fool Abdullah. And an ungrateful one at that." Walid stepped towards Abdullah until their faces were inches apart. He reached for his handgun stuffed in the waistband of his pants. "I am the boss, you are a dog. Remember that. I come up with the ideas and will choose to do as I please. Do you understand that?" No matter how much bravado Abdullah had, he still hadn't done much in his life.

"The gun," Abdullah spoke with a hint of softness in his voice.

Walid sensed some slack from and knew this was his moment. He pulled out his gun.

"What gun? This one?" He turned the barrel so it grazed Abdullah's cheek. Abdullah flinched, and Walid knew he had won. "Are you calling me a coward?" Walid stepped back. The room was silent. He pointed the gun back at Abdullah. "Are you?"

"No," Abdullah said, barely above a whisper.

Walid smiled. He had won. "Then sit down." He pointed at the coach with his gun. Abdullah stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes full of venom, before he sat down. Walid looked around again; everyone relaxed. "So you're not a coward?"

"No," Abdullah said in a deeper voice.

"You talk too much Abdullah." Walid stared at others in the group to make certain that he had their attention. "You remind me of a policeman I once knew." Walid paused as some chuckles erupted. "His last words to me were 'no' as well." The group burst out laughing.

Walid sensed that it was slightly forced, and he liked that even more. "But don't worry, you are in my army. We call it jaish al-Walid." Walid said. The men continued to laugh. Walid could see that Abdullah was smiling too.

"This is why I am the leader." He waved the gun in the air. "I think with my head. I don't think with my balls." He grabbed his groin with his other hand. "Like you do. Like a kelb." He pointed the gun at Abdullah and tucked it back in his pants.

Some of the men in the group nodded with a strange air of sagacity and cigarettes were passed around. Walid let them talk before sitting down. All the while he kept his eye on Abdullah, who appeared to be sulking.

"There is the issue of us having too many people join us at once. Everyone here..." Walid said and gave a sweeping gesture, "is now a leader. I will allow you to recruit people, but be careful of whom you let in. They should be people you completely trust with your hayetkum. Because, in the end, your lives are in their hands. There are many informants for the Americans, the police, the army, that we need to be careful of. They are everywhere. Understood?" He paused and took in his men again. Eight of them.

"What about the Americans?" asked Abdullah, his voice tight.

"What about them?"

"Aren't we going to hit them? What are we telling the people in this neighborhood if we don't attack them?" Abdullah looked around trying to gather some support. Some nods rippled through the group.

"Don't talk to me of Americans. What have you ever done to fight them?" Walid said and wondered if Mahmud had ever been doubted like this, in front of people from the neighborhood.

Abdullah raised his hands as if to surrender.

At least he was being respectful, thought Walid.

There wasn't much else that Walid could do about the question; it had been on his mind as well. Not because he particularly wanted to attack them, but because attacking the Americans would be absolutely necessary unless he wanted to lose the respect of his men, lose the fear of the neighborhood. There was always Mahmud, those dreams.

Walid pantomimed smoking at cigarette at Haji. Haji threw Walid a cigarette. Walid lit it and sucked in some nicotine. The complete silence while he did this soothed him.

"Good question." Walid shook his finger at Abdullah as he spoke. "That is the main reason I called this meeting." He kept his eyes on Abdullah who seemed not to believe his words. Walid glanced over at Haji.

"Your cousin's in Sadr City, right?"

Haji seemed to take a second to break out of a daydream. "Ye...yes."

"He knows people high up in jaish al-Mahdi?"

Haji nodded.

"Good, then tell him we will need some weapons. Some of those Iranian bombs we've been hearing about. Got it?"

"Yes." Haji squirmed under Walid's gaze. "Now?"

"Now. We'd better find out what all the obstacles will be." Walid sucked in more nicotine as Haji walked out. "Anyone else know of how to get weapons? We will get our hands on as many as we can and keep them in safe places. Not..." He raised his finger. "In anyone's house. If you know of some people willing to help we can keep the weapons in safe places and that way if they are caught they will never be traced to us. Okay?"

"What if they rat us out?"

"They won't. We'll frighten them. But we need to know some people in the police and in the Army."

"And the Americans?"

He waved his hand, annoyed. "They will only arrest the men and lock them away. We won't be touched." They all agreed.

"Walid." Haji walked back in. "My cousin will help if you meet him."

Walid paused. He knew it wasn't going to be easy, but neither did he want to walk into a trap. Jaish al-Mahdi wasn't exactly the most disciplined group in the world. After all, he claimed to be a member to gain credibility, but it wasn't based on anything real. "Where?"

"Sadr City. I know where he lives so we can go whenever you like."

"He'll be ready today?"

"Yes. Now."

"Then we will meet with him." Walid looked at the group. He didn't want anyone in the group to see him stutter or show nervousness. So he would take only one more person.

"Mohammad."

The short man with a slight paunch perked his ears up. He looked as if he had been daydreaming the entire time. That was how Mohammad had been since he was a child: always in a constant daze, but smart and always down for a thrill.

"You will come with us."

Mohammad groaned out loud and everyone laughed. Walid smiled. At least the car ride over would be full of jokes. Though, at times, Mohammad could grind on Walid's nerves.

"Everyone else," Walid said. "I want you to ask as many people as you know how many weapons they have, and if anyone has connections to 'abowa nsfa," he made an exploding sign with his hand. "And places to hide them." His eyes moved over to Abdullah. "You," Walid pointed at his nemesis, who jumped.

Walid remembered a small lecture given to Mahmud and him the day before Mahmud had died. It had been given by a Sadr militia captain. "You will find all the best palm groves where we will be able to dig and hide things. Make sure it's where the soil is soft. Then find large plastic bags and shovels. Got it?"

Abdullah looked around. "Nam."

Before they got into the car, the Haji and Mohammad hid their guns in dug out holes underneath the seats. Walid had everyone in the group install them after he'd almost been caught by a random American checkpoint. Today, however, he had an overwhelming sense that some Iraqi was going to shoot him, so he kept his gun in his waistband. In the car, Haji drove and Mohammad sat in the back, his eyes closed.

"What are we doing this for?" Haji asked.

"Because it must be done." Walid lit a cigarette. He wasn't in the mood for more arguments. The confrontation with Abdullah had drained the energy out of him. At least he knew Haji wasn't thinking of usurping him. His dear friend Haji wouldn't dare take a piss without asking first.

"La, it mustn’t. You know what will happen if we are caught driving back with bombs? This isn't an extra magazine; they won't just take it away. They will throw us in jail forever. If they don't kill us first."

"Be quiet. If you are not man enough to fight against the Americans you should have said so in front of everyone else. Then everyone would know where your heart lies." Walid watched his words slice through his friend and felt a twinge of regret. He shouldn't have been so harsh.

"You shouldn't say such things. You know where my heart lies. Haven't I always helped you?" Haji spoke, his voice rusty with a tinge of fright.

Walid took a deep breath. Haji and Mohammad were his closest friends. The men that he could trust no matter what happened. He looked back to where Mohammad sat. Though his friend appeared to be sleeping, there was a slight crack in his eyelid and movement of his eyeball that indicated otherwise.

Walid placed a hand on Haji's shoulder. "I did not mean what I said, azizi." He patted him. "This will be done carefully, I will make sure none of us will get caught. All right?"

"How can you promise that? No one knows how these Americans work. Not you. Many men have died. Men better than y...us. Are you doing this because you think Abdullah will think less of you?"

Walid clenched his fists, but held back from striking his friend. He was trying to be nice, but these questions were out of hand.

A group of school kids crossed in front of the car, and Walid took a deep breath through his nose to calm himself down. The smell of smoke-cologne made him want to spit. "I am not doing this for Abdullah!" he hissed, reaching for his gun reflexively. He could see Haji flinch. Perhaps he had to be tough to everyone.

"Take it easy you two," Mohammad spoke up, leaning forward.

"What do you have to say?" Walid turned around.

"Well that you two are fighting over nothing. You." Mohammad pointed at Walid. "Shouldn't listen to that clown, Abdullah. He's just a loud mouth who will get us into trouble. And you." He pointed at Haji who had stopped at an intersection and turned to listen. "Should not be so scared. We are men, how can we stand by and watch these Americans get away with what they do?"

"That's not my problem. If you don't fight they won't come after you," muttered Haji.

"Then why were you angry the day they came to your mother's house and touched her in front of you?"

Haji's jaw muscles tightened.

"Walid, do you know what you're doing?" Mohammad asked.

Walid knew his friend was trying to be helpful, but he didn't need the help, it sounded condescending. "What do you know about fighting Americans?" Walid laughed with as much spite as he could muster. He tapped Haji. "The great Saladin here wants to tell me how to fight. What have you ever done in your life Mohammad?"

"That's not the point."

"Then be quiet. There are too many things here that you don't know anything about. Let me take care of everything. And please, don't think for us."

He turned to see Mohammad looking off into the Baghdadi streets. This wasn't what Walid wanted to see, but he didn't really know what he was doing. It just felt right to control his friends, to shut them up.

*

Mohammad stared at the street flying by. This one was filled with people going everywhere, markets full of goods. He normally loved coming here just to browse. Up front Walid and Haji sat silent. They were close to crossing the bridge and getting to the East side of Baghdad, where the infamous Sadr City lay. He lit a cigarette. Lately, he had been able to afford more and more. In that way he was lucky. Few people were making money these days, and just like under the Saddam, those who made money were usually close to the government.

"Turn on some music, will you?" Mohammad leaned his head between the two of them and forced a wide grin. "I don't think I can take much more of this solemn drive. You two are like old men."

"You talk too much Mohammad," Walid said.

"And you need to play music." Mohammad entertained the thought of pushing Walid as far as he could, to see if he would actually snap. But he remembered the story of the police chief. Haji had been scared that day. As if he'd seen a ghost. He was certain Walid was going to go on a killing spree. Mohammad had known better, he knew his friend's demons. Now, however, he was not so sure.

Haji pushed in a tape and it started to blare out some Lebanese pop that Mohammad wasn't fond of. He preferred American music. He leaned back and listened to the nonsensical words of the singer. Sucking in nicotine, he tried to recall pictures he had see of Lebanon.

The car was drenched in Walid's cologne. They went to a market the other day and his friend had purchased the cheapest kind. Mohammad had tried to warn him, but didn't seem to get through to him. He may have been tough, but Walid didn't dance well with money.

They were coming up to a bridge when a fleet of Humvees and small tanks turned and started to roll out barbed wire. "Damn it. The Americans have started another nukta tefteesh." Mohammad groaned and, flicking out the old one, pulled out another cigarette. He'd been caught in one before and been treated roughly after he smiled and tried to make a joke. "I hate Americans. They have less humor than you two," he said and caught Walid's glare, though Haji smirked.

"Isn't that right old grumpy man?" He patted Haji on the shoulder.

"Will you shut up for a second? You are more use when you're sleeping, you know that?" Walid said. There was nervousness in his voice.

"Well how about you hide your gun, Saladin? If they catch you with a handgun they might use it as an excuse to shoot you. Then where will you be?" Mohammad said.

Walid pointed his finger at Mohammad, then shook his head. He pulled his handgun and stuffed it into the secret compartment under the car seat.

They were about three cars out from being checked.

"Hide your money. My cousin said he was robbed of all his cash at one of these American checkpoints," Mohammad said.

Haji looked in the rearview mirror with a crinkled forehead. "Really? I usually don't have problems with them. It's only the Iraqi Army that's no good. They took my cash a week ago."

"Both of you shut up. They don't like it when we talk too much."

"What happened to the great Saladin?" Mohammad said. "If you're too quiet they'll think you're a Sunni going to bomb them."

"Be quiet, please?" Haji said.

Mohammad looked at Haji, whose hands trembled. Mohammad would stay quiet for him. "Yes, I'll be quiet. Because you asked nicely." He blew some smoke to the front of the car. "You should take some lessons from him, Saladin."

"Don't call me Saladin," Walid said, though the anger had faded from his voice. Perhaps the Americans scared him. "And you're wrong about the Americans. They're not all thieves. Only some."

Mohammad took those measured words like a hit. He wasn't certain why. Perhaps inside his friend a kinder man was trying to break out.

"Hello." An American wrapped in a helmet and digitized uniform smiled at them. He looked nice.

"Hello." Mohammad peered back at the face. It was chubby, young. He wondered if the kid liked what he was doing.

Up front an older American soldier stood next to an interpreter who covered his face with a piece of cloth. They peppered Haji and Walid with some questions about insurgents. What a way to find out, thought Mohammad. As if anyone would say something in a car in the middle of the street in broad daylight. Sometimes these Americans didn't think. He looked at the young soldier who seemed like he didn't want to be there. Mohammad reached for a cigarette and handed it to the soldier. The soldier hesitated for a second before taking it. Mohammad felt the jolt of a connection. In his periphery, Walid eyed him.

The older soldier, in front, turned after the soldier had lit his cigarette.

"What the hell are you doing soldier?!"

"No... nothing sir," the soldier stammered. Mohammad couldn't understand everything that was being said, but he could tell from the body language. The older soldier was probably a leader and probably was as big an asshole as Walid. When the older soldier finished yelling, the younger one walked away. Mohammad felt bad. Walid was giving Mohammad evil stares when they were waved through. They drove past the older soldier who was looking at the next car.

They stopped at the last roll of barbed wire. The younger soldier was there. He stopped the car and tossed in a short can of soda before waving them past.

Mohammad smiled. He caught the blue eyes of the soldier. They were soft. The Americans weren't so bad after all. But what a way to spend your youth.

"You had better beware, the soda could be poisoned," Haji said, still with a sense that he was scared of what the world had to offer.

"Don't be a child, it's fine," Mohammad retorted.

Walid turned. "You just can't be quiet for a single second, can you? What if you got the Americans angry enough to strip-search the car? Did you think about that?"

"No. I didn't," Mohammad said. He opened the soda and drank it. It tasted like oranges and a bite of bubbles, and it went down smoothly. He offered his two friends a drink, but they refused. "These Americans can make a great drink. Too bad they didn't come here with drinks and no guns. Maybe they would have gotten all their oil."

Mohammad felt some pleasure when Haji laughed, and even Walid smiled, though he shook his head.

The streets narrowed, and they entered the infamous Sadr City. There were stalls selling a plethora of food, the smell of cooked fish overpowering the vegetables. Mohammad's mouth watered. Rolling past what seemed to be a makeshift militia checkpoint, he could see some young men stare at their car. Mohammad knew that, with a car full of unfamiliar faces, there must have been alarms going off. Jaish al-Sadr, Al-Sadr's militia, was not taking many risks with all the Sunni attacks lately. Haji's cousin had better know they were coming or else they risked coming under fire.

They stopped when there were too many people clogging the street. A young man with an AK leaned on their car.

"Where are you from?"

Haji had pulled out his cell phone and must have reached his cousin, because he handed it to the young man. The man paused, then took the phone and started talking. Mohammad observed Walid, he didn't seem nervous. He looked at the young man after he was done with the phone and said: "We don't have time abu shebab, let us through."

"No cars are allowed beyond here." The young man sized up Walid.

Walid stared at him, cigarette smoke veiled, and tsked.

"But you can park there." He pointed to the side. "Then you and your friends can come in."

Haji pulled the car over and Walid turned around. "Stay with the car, we can't have your silly ways jeopardizing what we need to get done here."

Mohammad opened the door and stepped out. Silly ways. Anger clenched his head. He was sick and tired of his friend. He avoided Walid's gaze, pretending to observe the area. The buildings leaned over the car as if they were about to topple. He liked this place. Thousands of people living on top of each other. The resulting hum was relaxing. He watched his two friends enter a building, with young men in front of them and some behind. Walid needed to rein in his attitude. There was no way the militia was going to allow him to act like a boss here.

He tried to count the young men on the rooftops and in the streets who were just standing around, observing. Even if this was their neighborhood, their presence was overbearing. He reached for his cigarettes, but realized that he didn't have any left. He looked for a store. Some of the young men eyed him. They had a right to protect themselves, he reminded himself. Too many attacks. After all, wasn't that what they was doing in Hurriya? In the end, Sadr had done so much good and given the Iraqis pride. Mohammad lumbered over to a stand.

"Cigarettes?" he asked.

"What kind?"

"Anything." He smiled at the vendor. "How's life here?"

"Not bad." The vendor eyed him suspiciously. "Where are you from?"

"Hurriya." Mohammad placed down some money. The vendor visibly lightened up.

"Ah, how are things over there?"

"Not bad, getting better," he said not certain if that was the truth.

"Good to hear." The man nodded his head, glancing around. He seemed too nervous.

"And here?"

"Good, good." He turned his attention to another customer.

Mohammad walked back to his car. And that's when it hit him: he was an errand boy. That's what Walid wanted him for. He kicked one of the car tires and lit up a cigarette. His wife had been mocking him about the amount of money he was paid. Not that they didn't have enough—they had plenty—but that Walid and the others seemed to have more than he did. She chided him for being swindled. Told him he should push for more. He ignored her, told her to not mind what the men were doing. Now, here watching the car, thinking about the slights he endured, he bubbled with fury at his friend. There weren't too many things he could do. He could ask, but he would only get ridiculed. Like he had just been when he offered his advice to Walid.

There really was only one other choice. He shuddered at the thought, looked around in case someone could read his mind, and reminded himself that there were easier ways to die. Besides, weren't they were doing great things that he should have been glad to be a part of it? Walid was his friend since they were kids. Mohammad would talk to him; he would reason with him.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Walid and Haji walked out. They were hand in hand with two men in black suits, no ties. The strangers didn't seem Arab. As they came closer, Mohammad could hear their Persian accents. He was surprised; he thought jaish al-mahdi hated Iranians. After all, Al-Sadr mocked Sistani's Persian accent in the early days after the invasion. It was one of the reasons Sadr tried to kill the old man, wasn't it? The men shook hands with Walid and turned back to the building.

When they were in the car and driving away from medeena sadr Mohammad took note of the silence.

"What are Iranians doing in medeena sadr?" He leaned in for a look at Walid's face. He would try to understand his friend more.

"Nothing that concerns you."

Another barb. Mohammad steeled himself. "Why not? Am I not part of this group? Are we not friends?"

He watched as his words hit Walid. Walid tsked.

"Well?" Mohammad looked over at Haji who stared straight ahead.

"We have all the information we need from them. And them from us," Walid said.

Something was wrong. Something in that building scared him.

"And I can't know?"

"No, you cannot," Walid said.

The rest of the car ride unfurled in silence. Thoughts of injustice, then revenge, bounced around Mohammad's head. When they got back to Haji's place, Mohammad knew what he had to do. He was sick of his friend, and he would start showing him tomorrow. Only Walid wouldn't know. No one would know.

###

Read the rest of The Struggle Knows Not, and The Struggle Trilogy!

Also by this Author:

Clara

Tree of Freedom

Where the Sun Sets

About the Author:

Nelson was born in Tanzania where he lived for the first decade of his life. He then lived in India for a year before finally settling in the U.S. in the state of Michigan. From there he joined the Army and served for seven years as an Infantryman in 1st AD then as an Engineer in Fifth Group. After his time in the Army, he came to New York and earned an undergraduate degree from Columbia University. He currently lives with his girlfriend in the Bronx.

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