It was this time last year, Ghada was waking up with Ibrahim , one arm slumped over his side. She always cuddled Ibrahim. She loved him more than she loved anything in her twenty years on Earth. He was a slim man, with smooth, brown skin. He had 8 hairs poking out of his chest, making a near perfect line from nipple to nipple. She held her weight in her hips and was very self-conscious about her looks. She thought—she knew—that Ibrahim would hold this against her for the rest of her life. He never really noticed it. He was a child of sunshine.

He was soft around the edges, much to the displeasure of his neighbors. He didn’t care much. He didn’t mind being soft. From a young age, he remembered his father telling him, “If you’re not enjoying life, there’s no point in doing it.” Baba was a mujahid, but his words landed on deaf ears. Ears that were tuned to a scientific imagination. Images of Muhammad riding spacecrafts to the moon, crafts that didn’t even have glass enclosures. He imagined dragons coming into the village, protecting the houses from bombs overhead. He dreamed of stampedes of elephants, and camels, and Rhinos from Africa. They would attack the trucks, the armor, the tanks. They were liberators. And Ibrahim was raised to believe that life was incredible. Of all the misfortune in their country, they prospered. All the warring from the US had somehow missed their village. They’d not had a single explosion in their whole existence. Not by the Russians. Not by the Americans. Not by French or Mongols. They were Allah’s chosen city. As children, they guessed that AfKaz was the actual sight where Adem was originally created. Children will think such things.

And in his young adult years, Ibrahim was a proud young man. He had avoided becoming talibs to the taliban. Many idiot friends of his joined up. Some as early as 12. They grabbed a Kalashnikov, learned to take it apart, and before you knew it, your friend was policing the neighborhood. Ibrahim wasn’t concerned with the guns.

“But who will protect us when it comes, Ibrahim?”

“Allah protects us. He has not let us down in 500 years, Inshallah.”

“Wallah you must prepare yourself. The world is a cruel place, habibi.”

“Ma fi Muchkilak. Your guns will make it crueler, Inshallah.”

Ibrahim was a builder. He learned early on that there was strong glue that could hold wood together better than nails. He crafted wooden block palaces. When he discovered screws and drill guns, he changed his pants. He started erecting all kinds of hideaways, clubhouses, cinderblock gardens, chicken coups, goat playgrounds. By the time he was 12, he was doing two projects a week, after his farm work. He was making money, and by 14, he sold his side project business to his cousin Atif.

There was an incredible bridge erected throughout Ibrahim’s teenage years. Egyptian construction workers built it. Ibrahim would walk past every day, too shy to speak up to them. One day, he walked with his drill gun hanging out of his belt. He did it purposefully. He’d never spoken with anyone from Egypt. He was too shy to say anything like all his friends.

“Nice gun Habibi. You kill anyone with that thing?” He heard a man call over. He was surprised that they talked to a kid like him. “Kiddo, that gun. It’s cute. What do you do with that?”

“Projects.”

“Hamdalillah. Projects. What, you build poop houses with that thing?”

“I could. I haven’t, Inshallah.”

“What do you build?”

“A chicken coup.”

“Chicken coup.”

“I’m going now. I’m building a chicken coup for my imam’s baba. I have to finish the roof today so the chickens don’t get it in the rain, Inshallah. It’s supposed to be here tomorrow.” The construction worker was a little taken aback. He hadn’t anticipated such eloquence from this pipsqueak talking about building.

“You ever build a house?”

“No.”

“Well, sounds like you should get on that. That’s how you start to get good. Chickens live in crap, talib. Once you build something people can live in, well, then you’re talkin’.” The man looked to his right then to his left. “You ever seen a bridge site?”

Ibrahim shook his head.

The construction worker pulled the barrier back across the sand and let Ibrahim come in. “Check it out. Real quick.”

It only lasted 3.2 minutes before bosses started to walk around and the guy had to get back to work. He told Ibrahim to split, but it opened up a blissful door. Ibrahim came back on many occasions. He toured the construction site. He was let in several times from several different workers. He fell in love.

His dreams became filled with building. He thought about nothing but construction. Born in him was a desire to grow towers into the sky. To put roofs over people’s heads. He wanted to build an even better Afkaz.

And that’s why Ghada fell so deeply in love with Ibrahim. He was the anchor in her life. Her rock. He slowly fixed up Ghada’s Baba’s house, and then fixed their stairs, and eventually built the third story of their house when Ghada’s jida had to move in. Ghada’s house became one of the nicest in the city, and that was when Ghada knew she had gotten pregnant.

“Would you even want to marry me after all of this Ibrahim?”

Ibrahim looked at his love, and gulped heavily. Even thought they were bad muslims and had shared each other’s bed when Baba was asleep, he didn’t think of marriage. His thoughts were always preoccupied with buildings.

Ibrahim stuttered, “Allah…” and then he saw the way Ghada turned her eyes down in sadness. “Inshallah habibi,” he said, pulling her cold eyes up to his, “Inshallah I want to always see you smile. If we were to marry, would you promise to be happy for the rest of my life? And I mean it, happy with everything I’ve done for you. To give me one gift, and one gift only: To promise to always be happy for me.”

“Wallah, what if I get sad?”

“That’s what I’m here for. Haven’t I made you smile? Haven’t I laughed about your ridiculously high shoes?”

“You mean ‘high heels’?”

“Your such a crazy woman,” and then she grabbed her stomach and dropped her shoulders. Ibrahim caressed her shoulders and whispered, “you’re my crazy woman, habibi.”

“Ibrahim, no tricks.”

“—No tricks,”

“La la la, Ibi… you know I love you. Inshallah I love you, but I have a secret. Allahu akbar!” she said starting to cry. Ibrahim’s heart squeezed from seeing her in such pain, and he grabbed her close, turning to face her on her bed.

“Habibi, tell me what makes you hurt. Is it me?”

“I’m so scared Ibrahim. We’ve been bad and allah has punished us. You and me.”

Ibrahim started to get the picture. “Ghada… say it to me. If it’s what I think it is, Inshallah, it’s not your secret. It’s ours.”

“I’m pregnant,” she said and unloaded herself onto Ibrahim’s thobe.

He gripped her so tight. Then he pulled back and started wiping away her tears. “Ghada don’t cry. It makes you look ugly.”

“Wallah!” she said batting him away.

“I knew that would get you riled up.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because I wanted you to stop feeling bad for one minute about something as stupid as a baby.”

“Eskatu. Why are you being like this?”

“Because I want to marry you.”

You could skimp some of the rules in this town, but you did not have kids out of wedlock. They already were going to need to fudge the delivery date a little, but they were going to make it work. They’d notified their families, Ibrahim meeting with both of Ghada’s Baba and jid to discuss the dowry. They were already thrilled with the house, and made it clear jid would die in the finest house in Afkaz. Ibrahim nearly choked on a date hearing this. Ghada met with Ibrahim’s small family, wiped out throughout the years of invasions outside of AfKaz’s low stone walls,

Even the hard-hearted Reem told Ghada how light she was walking lately. Ghada and Ibrahim hosted so many parties after their big news it made the town look stingy. Wejdan and Khaled attended, together. Rumors spread that they were going to be the next to marry. Ghada had made everyone feel like they could be open and loving again. She was going to marry Ibrahim, her Ibrahim. She would create life from her Ibrahim. And then it happened.

The black flags drove into town. From several miles away, you could hear the snaps of Kalashnikovs. There was an armada of Toyota Tacoma’s coming to their town. Black flags drifted behind the trucks. It was their long-awaited liberators. Daesh. Rumors had been sprouting throughout the town. Would they come, or would it just be another trend? It seemed the Mujahedeen in town had a meeting. They knew Daesh was coming. They did nothing. They would not lift an arm against their Muslim brothers. Plus, they were outnumbered.

Daesh drove up and down the town. It seemed the leadership had taken a liking to the town. It seemed like a good outpost. But it was really the bridge. The bridge had made everyone in the town fall in love with the place.

It didn’t take long for Daesh to begin their investigation. It was really a purge. They sought out the conservatives in the town, the purists. The ones always griping about how things weren’t the way they used to be.

Now, Ghada was a sneaky woman. Her friend, Lama, was not. Apparently, Lama came home and gave up the secret of Ghada’s belly. Her umi didn’t care, but her jadi, a product of a salafi generation, watching TV in the other room, did. And she made sure to tell everyone who would hear. Someone, no one knows who, gave up names.

Whilst lying in bed, same as the day they heard the guns come into town, soldiers entered Ibrahim’s house. Ibrahim himself heard screams coming from the downstairs, where his umi lived. Ibrahim tensed, and Ghada tensed with him. Rampant with goosebumps, they held each other as they heard their attackers approach.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he told her, and the door burst open. Men in black, all black, came in, like specters from the abyss. They had AKs and pistols, and there were about 7 of them. They came in, fired some rounds into the air to scare the couple, then started to pull them apart. Ibrahim was calm and crying, and Ghada was thrashing to hold on. She got the business end of an AK jabbed hard into her stomach. She became panic. They separated, and Ibrahim and Ghada would never touch each other again. She yelled for him but was subdued by the black-clad men.

They quickly restrained Jeycob with handcuffs and took him out to the Tacoma waiting outside. He was thrown into the bed of the truck with a group of restrained citizens of AfKaz. He only recognized one person, a middle-aged woman in a burgundy Burka. He’d seen her around but didn’t know her.

They were driven, screams abound from the house, and taken to the bridge. Other Tacomas were there, some with prisoners, some with great guns mounted on top. They were taking everyone off. They didn’t have much regard for common decency. The citizens were poked, prodded, pulled by the hair, and punched in the face. Ibrahim realized for the first time in his entire life, that he had zero control over the situation. He was poked and prodded and pushed, like cattle, to the south edge of the bridge. He’d walked there many times with Ghada. They would grab Arabic coffee and dates and walk the bridge and cast stones off the edge.

He started to edge over to the bridge where he could see the water. Women around him started to cry. There was a chaos of children, and men, and confusion, and people with the same look on their face. “How did we get here?” “I need to talk to somebody.”

Before long, Ibrahim and the others were pushed up to the edge, the only thing standing in their way was the slim concrete barrier, about 3 feet tall, 40 feet above the river. There was pushing, and prodding, and then it stopped. The men in black retreated out from the edge of the bridge. There was a mass of people flush up against the barrier when the sounds of every gun being cocked pinged through the air. The prisoners gasped.

A man held up a megaphone, while another next to him pulled out his camera recorder, a small metallic gold device. Over the megaphone, the crowd could hear, “Shlom! Step on top of the concrete, Inshallah.”

Mothers started to cry. The girls in the line-up were balling and moaning, and Ibrahim got the gist. They were going to shoot him. They were going to shoot everyone.

“SHLOM! step onto the concrete.”

Some men in the crowd grew reverently angry. Allah would not allow such madness in AfKaz.

“Wallah! We can’t step there. Inshallah, are you crazy?”

“Tozz Feek, I’ve got a bad knee, and I’m handcuffed, you chelb.”

“We’ll play your games Inshallah but take off our handcuffs. Come, al’iikwa, this is madness,” said one of the Imams, whose name escaped Ibrahim. These men didn’t get it. There would be no debate.

“Shlom, step on top of the concrete.”

The crowd started to protest. Their patience burned out like a poorly lit match. Several men started to make a run for the men in black. They didn’t run in desperation. They wanted to give them a tongue-lashing. They wanted to beat them up verbally. That was when the bullets started to rip. Ibrahim was already sitting with his butt on the barrier. Hissing slugs started to pass into everyone, dropping men, women, boys, and girls. Ibrahim calmly reclined back. He left his eyes open. He felt specks of warm blood squirt onto his face from the woman next to him. As he fell back, he saw the sun rising one last time over the Drabshi River in AfKaz. What a marvelous day they picked to kill this percentage of their peaceful town. Ibrahim hit the water hard, clicking his jaw against his clavicle as the water broke his fall. His neck whipped violently, and he lost the feeling to his lungs. He wasn’t doing a great job floating, but he was more concerned that he couldn’t breathe.

He just floated there, into oblivion, slowly leaving everything. Slowly becoming all things. Floating down that river into paradise.

The men in black originally wanted to shoot their spoil off the bridge, to wash the river in blood, but they failed. There was talk of throwing the bodies overboard, but they decided to leave them, for now. The people they executed stood up to them. Only one actually fell off the bridge. Like it mattered to them. This occasion worked much better for the men in black anyway. Now that the connective tissue of the town was painted red, they could get everyone’s attention. By noon, they had the entire town report outside their doorsteps.

A great march took place, and everyone else in town crossed the bridge that day. On foot. And every last person in town got to see the tattered, poked up bodies of the people they loved. The people they knew. The people they played with. Dead.

Everyone except Ghada. Her screams continued all through her head, but she could not see the dead body wearing red silk night garbs with no shirt. She didn’t see anything of that sort.

And so she lived in hope.

Hope that her Ibrahim survived. That he fell off the bridge and moved to France.

The hardest thing she could do was not scream as she crossed, hearing the loud speakers of bearded men telling everyone who their liberators were. Hearing what they might do to anyone who opposed Allah. As if Allah looked upon these ibna al kalb and found them worthy. Everything was her worry now. She returned home to turn the screams in her head to the screams in her throat. She’d lost her husband. Her not-quite husband. Her more-than-just-her-husband. Ibrahim was no more. Worse so, however, she felt something wrong. Her grief was two-fold. She’d felt a bruise on her womb. She was praying all morning for salvation. She was begging forgiveness from her creator Allah. She knew in her heart that she had done everything right,

but she kept returning to the same conclusion: Afkaz had fallen because of her sin. She couldn’t eliminate this from her head. Her world erupted because she dared to be different. Inshallah, she was punished.

Her nights grew fearful. She wondered if Allah would ever grant her the gift of sleep again, morning to evening. The town shifted. War became the main industry. Women had a special place in this war. Ghada, and Wejdan, and their umis were given more and more clothing to cover them. Soon Ghada’s dreams of wearing fashion simmered. She didn’t dare push any fashion. No more fancy, nice clothing. Ghada hid under her bags of cloth, and watched her town.

Growing darker.

Growing faster.