Ibrahim, Mahmoud, and their two companions emerged from their car. As they walked ahead, a 707 came in low headed for a landing at the nearby airport. The noise of the engines rumbled loud and long across the flat wasteland.
As Ibrahim and his party approached, three men emerged from the Cadillac, four from the Dodge. All but one were clean-shaven and dressed in jeans and button-down shirts. The exception was Walid al-Nasri. Because the Prophet had worn a beard and a loose-fitting abaya, so did he. The seven men had come up from Raqqa, in the southwest corner of al-Gezira on the Euphrates. It was partly the desperate plight of their once-fertile city that had driven Walid to become active in the movement. And it was the strength and conviction of their newly chosen leader, Commander Kayahan Siriner, that kept Walid and the others active.
The seven Kurds welcomed the others with heartfelt hugs and smiles and the traditional greeting of Al-salaam aleikum, "Peace be upon you." Ibrahim and the others replied with a respectful Wa aleikum al-salaam, "And upon you be peace." They gave their confederates equally warm embraces. But the warmth quickly gave way to the business at hand.
The man in the robe spoke to Mahmoud. "Do you have everything?"
"We do, Walid."
Walid squinted at the Ford. As he did, Ibrahim regarded the revered leader of their band. His features were extremely dark, and the thick beard hid most of the lower half of his long face. The salt-and-pepper expanse was broken only by a long, diagonal scar that ran from the left corner of his mouth to just behind his chin. It was a memento of the June 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon, when his was one of over eighty Syrian planes shot down in the Bekaa Valley. Ibrahim felt humbled to be with him and deeply honored to be serving under him.
"The trunk of your automobile," Walid said. "It appears light."
"Aywa," Mahmoud said. "Yes. We put many of the weapons under the front and back seats. We did not want to be back-heavy."
"Why?"
"American satellites," Mahmoud said. "Our man at the palace in Damascus says that the satellites can see everywhere and everything in the Middle East. Even footprints. We have crossed sand in many places, and these satellites are able to measure the depth of tire tracks."
"They dare to be like unto the Mighty One, the Merciful," Walid said. He turned his face toward the skies. It was a face eroded by the hot sun and years of stress. "Allah's eyes are the only ones that matter!" he cried. "But we are told to keep vigil against our enemies," he said to Mahmoud. "You've acted wisely."
"Thank you," Mahmoud replied. "Also, the sentries on our own border might have noticed the weight. I didn't want them to move against them."
Walid regarded Mahmoud and his companions. "Of course not. We are peaceful, as the Koran teaches. Murder is forbidden." Walid raised his hands toward the heavens. "But killing in self-defense is not murder. If an oppressor lays violent hands upon us, are we not obliged to cut them off? If he writes ill of us, do we not sever the tips of his fingers?"
"If it is the will of God," said Mahmoud.
"It is the will of God," Walid confirmed. "We are His hand. Does the hand of God shy from an enemy, however great his numbers?"
"La," replied Mahmoud and the others, shaking their heads: "No."
"Is it not inscribed in the Celestial Plate, and thus inerrant? 'There was a sign for you in the two armies which met on the battlefield. One was fighting for the cause of God; the other was a host of unbelievers. The faithful saw with their very eyes that they were twice their own number. But God strengthens with His aid whom He will.' Is God not offended by our treatment at the hands of the Turks?" Walid asked, his voice rising. "Are we not the chosen instruments of God?"
"Aywa," replied Mahmoud and the others.
Ibrahim's response was quieter than that of his companions. He was no less devout than Walid or Mahmoud. But he believed, as did most, that the Koran advocated justice and not retribution. It was a matter of some debate between Ibrahim and his family, just as it was throughout Islam. Yet the Koran also taught devotion and fealty. When attacks against the Kurds had begun to intensify and Mahmoud had asked him to join the group, Ibrahim could not have refused.
Walid lowered his hands. He regarded Mahmoud's team. "Are you ready to move on?"
"We are," said Mahmoud.
"Then let us first pray," said Walid. Acting the role of the muezzin, the caller to worship, he shut his eyes and recited the Adhan, the summons to prayer. "Allah u Akbar. God is greater. God is greater. I witness that there is no god but God. I witness that Mohammad is the Prophet of God. Rise to prayer. Rise to felicity. God is greater. God is greater. There is no god but God."
As Walid spoke, the men removed their prayer rugs from the cars and placed them on the ground. The qibla, the direction of prayer, was chosen carefully. The men faced south, toward western Saudi Arabia and the holy city of Mecca. Bowing low, they offered their mid-afternoon prayers. This was the third of their five daily devotions, which were given at dawn, noon, mid-afternoon, dusk, and after dark.
The prayers consisted of several minutes of private recitations from the Koran as well as personal meditations. When they were finished, the men returned to their cars. A short time later they were driving northeast toward the small, old city. As they did, Ibrahim reflected that they were one more caravan among the countless caravans that had passed this way since the beginning of civilization. Each had had its own means of travel, its own personality, its own goals. That thought gave Ibrahim a precious sense of continuity, but also of insignificance. For each set of footprints lasted no more than a moment in the impermanent sands of al-Gezira.
Qamishli passed quickly. Ibrahim paid no attention to the ancient minarets and the cluttered market. He ignored the Turks and Syrians who mingled freely in this border city. His mind was on the job and on his faith, not as separate things but as one. He reflected on how the Koran speaks of Judgment Day, the final fulfillment of both God's threat and His promise. He thought about how those who live according to the holy words and commandments will join the other faithful and the alluring, virginal houri in Paradise. And those who do not will spend eternity in Hell. It was that faith, intensely held, that told Ibrahim that he needed to do what he would be called upon to do.
After they passed through the village, the cars moved on toward the Turkish border. Ibrahim rolled down his window.
The border crossing consisted of two sentry posts, one behind the other. One was Syrian, the other Turkish. There was a gate arm beside each booth and thirty yards of roadway between them. The road was weed-strewn on the Syrian side, clean on the Turkish side.
Walid's car was in the front of the caravan, Ibrahim's in the rear. Walid presented the visas and passports for his car. After the clerk examined them, he signaled an armed guard beside him to raise the gate arm.
Ibrahim began to feel the weight of destiny on his shoulders. He had a specific goal, the one Walid had selected for them. But he also had a personal mission. He was a Kurd, one of the traditionally nomadic peoples of the plateau and mountain regions of eastern Turkey, northern Syria, northeastern Iraq, and northwestern Iran.
Since the middle 1980s, the many guerrilla factions of the Kurds living and operating in Turkey had fought repression by the Turks, who feared that Kurdish autonomy would lead to a new and hostile Kurdistan comprised of portions of Turkey, Iraq, and Iran. This was not a religious issue, but a cultural, linguistic, and political one.