There was a pause. Saleem’s outburst had surprised the others. Ali’s face froze, then turned red and splotchy. Saleem regretted his words immediately, but it was too late. He looked down, ashamed and unable to face Ali.
Ali stood up and went inside.
“You don’t know anything about him, do you?” Hakeem asked in a castigating tone.
Saleem looked up.
“Do you have any respect for a guy who shared his space with you?”
“I didn’t—”
“You want to know what happened to him? Ali lived on my street in Kabul. He was outside his house when his mother called for him and his brother to come back in. She told them it looked like it was going to rain and that they should get back inside. His brother listened. Ali didn’t. He said he would find other people to play with and went down the street. And that was when the rockets flew right into his house. Killed his entire family. Ali came running back to find his brother stumbling into the street, falling to the ground in flames. Ali tried to put them out, but it was too late.
“It broke him. All he remembers is his mother warning him to come into the house because it looked like it was going to rain. All he hears is her voice and it repeats in his head over and over again. I think he wishes he had gone back into the house and been crushed by those rockets instead of living with the memory of watching them die.”
Saleem stared at the earth. His face burned with remorse.
“So leave him and his crazy talk alone.”
“I didn’t know—”
“Of course you didn’t. But do you think anyone here has a happy story?”
Saleem kept his mouth shut. Hakeem stood up and sighed in frustration. The others stood up too but for a different reason. A crowd was starting to gather nearby. A few men were jogging over and calling out to the others.
Saleem felt very much like an outsider at the moment.
“What’s going on?” Hakeem called out.
“Get Akbar!” yelled one of the men. “It’s Naeem! He was killed at the port today! They are bringing his body back.”
CHAPTER 43. Saleem
AKBAR WAS NOT A REAL MULLAH. HE HAD NEVER BEEN FORMALLY trained in religion, but he was one of the oldest in the camp and had a decent repertoire of suras committed to memory. More important, he had a soothing, convincing tone that filled the gaps in his qualifications.
Only when the body was brought back to the camp did Saleem realize Naeem was the one under the truck, the boy who urged Saleem to find a different truck.
Naeem had nearly made it onto the ship before he lost his grip and slipped from the truck’s undercarriage. The exhaust fumes had likely dizzied him. As the truck rumbled toward the ship, the driver felt a grotesque thump under his tires and the hollering of voices in the distance. He had let out a bloodcurdling screech to find Naeem’s mangled body under his bloody tires.
The few Afghans who lingered watched from a distance and saw the boy fall, roll, and twist under the tires. They were too far to do anything but fall to their knees and cry out. By the time they reached the truck, there was nothing left to do but gather his body.
Naeem hung limply, carried by two men. As they neared, the gruesome details came into focus. His face and body were purple with massive bruising. His left forearm dangled absurdly from the elbow.
Saleem looked away. He felt his stomach reel and closed his eyes. He walked slowly, then quickly, then ran to the latrines on the outer corner of the camp. His stomach emptied once, twice, three times. He breathed deeply and remembered the determined look on Naeem’s face. He had nearly made it. Nearly.
Akbar gave out the instructions. He would be buried that very evening. Haste was dictated both by Islamic guidelines and by the hushed concern that the local authorities would step in. They washed Naeem’s still form and wrapped him in a white sheet, as was done back home. They chose to bury him in a wooded area near the camp, thick with trees.
There was a hum through the community that the police might come into the settlement but they never did. They had no interest in walking through the tarp-covered shacks. They cared only when the chaos spilled out into the rest of Patras.
Akbar instructed the men to stand side by side. They faced the direction of Mecca, Naeem’s body laid out before them. Saleem joined the others, though he wished he could be anywhere else. Ali stood at his side, tears running down his face. Solemnly and in unison, they followed Akbar’s lead. They formed three rows, about fifty men total, heads lowered and hands folded just below their navels, their elbows tucked at their sides. Akbar led the incantations. They whispered the verses together. Fingertips moved to their ears and back in synchronized motions.
Saleem had not prayed since his father’s death, but the dua rolled off his tongue naturally. It was a whisper he’d said a thousand times as a child, sounds that spoke of a shared experience, a common path to healing. He felt supported by the strangers standing around him. Prayer was a journey in itself, taking him home in a quiet verse. He moved with the others and he understood. There was nothing but a single breath between them and Naeem. A single devastating moment could return any of them to the dust from which they came. Naeem was close enough to touch and yet irrevocably unreachable.
Saleem prayed over the young man’s body out of respect. Out of guilt. Out of fear. It could have been him under that truck. It could have been his body lying here before strangers.
He had lost his place. He strained his ears to hear his neighbor’s whisper over Ali’s sniffles.
My father did not get even this much of a funeral. God alone knows how his body was treated. Not a soul to wash him, pray over him, carry him to a resting place and bury him with a bit of ceremony. I should have carried him. I would have done these things for him if I’d known. I should have looked for his body. I’ll never pray over his grave.
Saleem could not focus. His mind ran off in desperate directions, thinking about the war, his father, his family, and how long he could live with his feet flailing in the air. At some point, he would come crashing down.
Ali began to wail. He called out Naeem’s name and covered his face with his hands. He spoke in sobs. The sound of him made Saleem’s whole body tense. He shifted his weight and tried to block Ali’s voice, tried to hear himself pray.
Hakeem and his cousin stepped out of the line of men and took Ali by the elbows. They quietly led him away so the jenaaza prayers could continue without distraction. His voice faded as they walked off. Saleem understood this now. Sometimes the storm in a person’s mind raged too strongly.
They carried Naeem’s body as one. All the men wanted to help shoulder his weight. Akbar noticed Saleem standing back and called him to join in.
“It is our duty to carry our brother, bachem. Come and take part.”
Bachem, Saleem heard. My son. His shoulders relaxed. He had not been called bachem in months. His soul must have been hungry for it.
“There is sawaab in these deeds.”
Saleem stepped forward. Maybe the blessings of a good deed would be useful to him. He did as Akbar said. Naeem’s body was hoisted up by two rows of men. Saleem squeezed in and reached up with his right hand. He was touching Naeem’s knee. His hand trembled, and he focused his eyes on the feet of the man in front of him.
Don’t think. Just follow.
But it was hard not to think. Saleem felt suffocated as the men jammed together to carry the body. Saleem’s chest grew tight, as if the men had squeezed all the air from the small space. One breath. One breath separated him from Naeem.