David was stumped and decided to move on. “What about gay rights?” he asked.
“Well, you shouldn’t be mean to gay people, but they shouldn’t have special rights. After all, marriage is a beautiful, sacred thing, between one man and one woman, don’t you think?”
David nodded weakly.
“Don’t you think?” she pressed a bit stronger, popping a few more Junior Mints into her mouth and smiling.
“Absolutely,” he insisted. “Beautiful, sacred-absolutely.”
He asked her some foreign policy questions, then a few about trade policy and immigration. When he was done, he just sat there for a few minutes, trying to process all that he’d just heard.
“Well?” she asked, practically glowing in the fiery rays of the sun beaming through the window. “What am I?”
David shook his head. “You’re a 99.967-percent rock-solid conservative.”
“Really?” she said, seeming happy with the sound of that. “So that’s the Republicans, right?”
David nodded but was crestfallen. He liked this girl. But he couldn’t fall for a Republican, could he?
“So are you a Republican too, David?”
At that, he shook his head, almost imperceptibly.
Marseille was aghast. “What do you mean? Don’t you agree with me on all those things?”
They talked and argued-civilly, but passionately-as the afternoon slipped away unnoticed. For someone not interested in politics, she certainly had strong opinions! Before they realized it, the sun had fully set, and they were arguing by the light of their flashlights. David suggested they’d better put their political feud on hold and get back before their fathers sent out a search party for them. Reluctantly, Marseille agreed.
“Maybe we should change the subject,” David said as they bushwhacked their way to the camp.
“Maybe.” They picked their way around a fallen tree in the darkness. “So what about you? What do you dream of doing someday, aside from running for president as a lunatic Democrat?”
“Very funny,” David said. He stopped walking for a moment. “You really want to know what my dream is?”
She nodded, expectantly.
“I dream-” he hesitated, and her eyes widened-“of having some of those Junior Mints.”
Marseille laughed. “Dream on. These are my own special treat.”
“You’re really not going to offer me one?” he said. “Not even one?”
“Maybe if you really tell me your dream.”
He smiled. “All right, it’s a deal.”
“Go ahead,” Marseille said. “I’m listening.”
“Actually, I’ve never told anyone this…”
“It’s okay,” she said. “You can tell me.”
He took a deep breath.
“My dream…”
She leaned in. “Is…?”
He paused again, letting the suspense build further. “… to get back to camp without being eaten by a bear.”
With that, he took off in a sprint for their camp, laughing, with Marseille running after him, yelling and trying to catch up.
16
Sadr City, Iraq
Najjar lay in bed and closed his eyes, but he could not sleep.
His mind raced as he pored over every detail of the kidnapping and his encounters with the taxi driver and later with the beggar. Then he thought of the little boy who had rescued him from a beating by those bullies when he was just ten years old. Was Allah calling him? Najjar wondered. Had he sent angels to protect him, to speak to him? Was he truly being chosen to know and serve the Promised One? It couldn’t possibly be. He had no parents, no money, no religious clerics in his family, no political power, no influential friends, no reason of any kind to attract the attention of the Mahdi, peace be upon him. Yet how could he deny this bizarre chain of events?
He dared not ask his aunt or his uncle about any of this. He couldn’t confide in anyone he knew. They would think he had gone mad. And maybe he had. But maybe not. Maybe Khomeini really hadn’t been the one the Islamic world was waiting for but rather just a forerunner. Perhaps the end of days was truly approaching. Perhaps the messiah was coming after all-and soon.
As the sun began to rise in the eastern sky, a weary Najjar slipped out of bed, quietly opened his bedroom door, scanned the hallway for any signs of movement, and then carefully crept to the living room, hoping he wouldn’t wake anyone. On the shelf beside the television, there were a handful of books-the family Qur’an, of course, and then a series of Shia histories and theological textbooks. His uncle, a devoutly religious man, had wanted to be a mullah before abandoning his studies to join the family business. But even to this day, whenever he had a little spare change, he bought another of the religious books he loved to study, and Najjar loved him for it.
One particular book on the highest shelf was by an Iranian man named Dr. Alireza Birjandi, one of the most renowned Shia scholars in the world and an expert on Shia eschatology, or End Times theology. His book, The Imams of History and the Coming of the Messiah, was a classic, arguably the definitive book on the subject. It told the stories and legends and controversies surrounding all twelve of the Imams, but the stories of the last-the Twelfth Imam-had always intrigued Najjar most.
The Twelfth Imam, Dr. Birjandi explained, was not a mythical character or a fictional construct. He was a real, flesh-and-blood person who had lived in the ninth century and would someday reemerge to change the course of history. Born in Samarra, Iraq, in or around the year 868, his name was Muhammad Ibn Hasan Ibn Ali. Like the eleven Shia Muslim leaders who went before him, Muhammad was a direct descendant of the founder of Islam and was thought to have been divinely chosen to be the spiritual guide and ultimate human authority of the Muslim people.
But before he reached an age of maturity when he could teach and counsel the Muslim world as was believed to be his destiny, the Twelfth Imam had vanished from human society. Some said he was four years old. Others said five or six. Some believed he fell into a well in Samarra, though his body was never recovered. Others believed his mother placed him in the well to prevent the evil rulers of the time from finding him, capturing him, and killing him-and that little Muhammad subsequently became supernaturally invisible. That’s why some called him the “Hidden Imam,” believing that Ali was not dead but simply hidden from the sight of mankind until the end of days, when Allah would once again reveal him.
Najjar carefully turned the pages of the dog-eared book. When he found the page he was looking for, his pulse quickened.
“‘The Mahdi will return when the last pages of history are being written in blood and fire,’” he read under his breath. “‘It will be a time of chaos, carnage, and confusion, a time when Muslims need to have faith and courage like never before. Some say all the infidels-especially the Christians and the Jews-must be converted or destroyed before he is revealed and ushers in a reign characterized by righteousness, justice, and peace. Others say Muslims must prepare the conditions for the destruction of the Christians and the Jews, but that the Mahdi will finish the job himself. But know this, O ye faithfuclass="underline" when he comes, the Promised One will bring Jesus with him as his lieutenant. Jesus will command all the infidels who are still standing to bow down to the Mahdi or die.’”
Najjar could hardly breathe, he was so excited.
“‘The ancient texts do not tell us exactly how and when he will come,’” Najjar continued reading. “‘Some believe he will first appear in Mecca and conquer all the lands of the Persian and Babylonian empires, then establish the headquarters of his global caliphate in the Mesopotamian city of Kufa. Others believe he will emerge from the well at the Jamkaran Mosque in Iran and then travel to Mecca by way of Mesopotamia. Some say that he will conquer Jerusalem before establishing his caliphate. Others believe Jerusalem must be conquered as a prerequisite to his return. Yet while much is unknown, the ancient texts make one thing abundantly clear: every Muslim must be ready for his return, for he is coming with great power and glory and with the terrible judgment of hellfire for all those who disobey or stand in his way.’”