Lion of Himyar

[Khemia]

He had become all but immune to the inane seagull squawks that were quite foreign to him; he had been raised in a sea of sands, mighty dunes like waves ever marching towards the sea amid fierce, blistering winds and a carnal sun. His sandals clapped along the wooden deck as he strode towards the exit ramp off the ship; the metal rails were hot and the people were dark and noisy. In many ways, Sikandara felt like home. A man in white robes, upon his head a flat, red fez cap, flashed a smile at him. His teeth were yellow and his gums seemed blackened, but the wrinkle in his eyes spoke of genuine happiness in his smile.

"'Asad ad-Din?" the man inquired in the language of the Quran.

"Salaam. Selim Çelik I presume?" 'Asad replied. Selim bowed his head and gestured that 'Asad should follow, reaching for 'Asad's briefcase to assist the new arrival to Sikandara. "No, it's quite alright. I can handle this myself," he said in a guarded tone, holding the briefcase close. Selim paid no attention to 'Asad's rebuff and the two headed towards a waiting vehicle.

The vehicle was stuffy, even with the windows open, but as it drove off the rushing breeze was relieving. "The weather here is quite different than al-Qadim, is it not?" Selim grinned.

"Yes, it is quite humid here. I'm not sure what to think of it yet," 'Asad replied with a wry smile. "Does the weather compliment your studies well?"

Selim shrugged. "Who's to say, I am not the best suited to reflect on my own work," he replied. "I am glad you have come this far to learn, however." The vehicle slowed as it arrived at a Sikandari checkpoint, the soldiers in uniform seemed relaxed and carefree. The driver searched for his papers and Selim lowered his eyes away from the guard. The man in uniform scanned the papers then looked at the ID of the driver, then into the back seat. What should have been a routine stop was complicated as Selim avoided eye contact.

The soldier stood beside the door and blew a puff into the window and Selim choked on the smoke. "Identification papers, please," the soldier asked first in Sikandari, then in the language of the Quran.

"Excuse me, sir, but my teacher is in poor health and I am trying to take him to a doctor," he said, reaching into the pocket inside his jacket and rummaging for his passport. He passed it on to the soldier worriedly.

"You realize you are entering a dangerous area?" the soldier raised an eyebrow as he looked over the documents.

"Yes, but I come from Cadim. Our healthcare there is poor, my teacher's family has a doctor who can provide us affordable service," 'Asad pleaded. The soldiers eyes showed sympathy, no doubt the man himself was a son of the faith who had elderly family to tend to as well.

"Very well, but be safe. There are rebels and brigands in these parts, so take care of your teacher and yourself. Ma' al-salamah."

"Fi amanillah," 'Asad replied. The driver did not hesitate to drive as the arm raised to allow them past. 'Asad's eyes connected with Selim's; they had passed the point of no return. 'Asad's training would begin soon.

 

[Khemia]

"What was that about?" 'Asad inquired as the car drove onwards to their destination.

Selim looked out the window, watching as the paved road turned to dirt, kicking up a cloud in their wake. "The government and I stand apart from each other. They do not believe what I have to say is worth listening to. For your own sake, my identity had to remain secret. We need to keep you away from their spies, they are everywhere." Selim nodded to the distance where the dome of the masjid rose above the pathetic hovels of the Sikandari village that was Selim's home.

Humble beginnings, 'Asad mused.

The car sputtered to a stop in front of the mosque and the driver exited the vehicle, opening the door for the two would-be friends. Selim smiled and gestured for 'Asad to enter the mosque. He slipped off his shoes and removed his keffiyeh, looking up at the modest mosaics decorating the ceiling before giving customary greetings to the few locals moving into and out of the masjid.

Selim guided him towards the study rather than into the musalla, no doubt they also served as his private office. The books were old but not dusty, it was obvious that Selim kept himself well read, something 'Asad could relate to. He, also, had spent time studying Islamic jurisprudence, but knew that the older Selim was far wiser than he, a true mujtahid.

"Sit, please," Selim insisted as he took a seat in his own, well used chair. Dust seemed to hang in the air, floating through the sun rays that streaked through the sand-stained glass. "I rarely receive visitors from Cadim, so you must tell me the real purpose of this visit. You are here for a specific reason, yes?"

'Asad nodded. "I wish for you to teach me of the concept of wilayat al-faqih, I received a copy of your book and the words you speak are new, refreshing. The ideas within energize me and encourage my submission to God in all realms of life, this is something that the Ummah needs. Something that al-Qadim needs."

Selim laid back in his chair and combed his fingers through his beard. "Yes, I see," he had not know that his text had reached lands outside of Sikandara, much less across the sea into Himyar, the home of the faith. He was sure that the government would have intercepted and burned all copies of the book. "The problem with al-Qadim," Selim wagged a finger, "is two-fold. al-Qadim has lost its connection with God, this is true. But its sacred sites have been desecrated by infidels; al-Qadim is a nation occupied. If it is to be receive the guidance of jurists, it must first free itself from the Catholic yoke."

 

[Khemia]

"Come," Selim gestured as he held the door open. Within a man and a woman, clad in traditional garb, who looked scrutinously at 'Asad as he enterred the poorly lit room. The structure itself was shoddily built and austere, the plaster on the walls falling apart and exposing bare bricks. 'Asad took a seat beside the two, but paid more respect to the male.

"This is 'Asad ad-Din," Selim introduced him to the others, "'Asad, this is Yasmin and Aşık."

"As-salamu alaykum," 'Asad greeted them, recognizing that Selim had deliberately not provided him their surnames.

"Wa-alaikum-salaam," Yasmin smiled at him, Aşık remained silent, his eyes like judges beset upon a criminal on trial.

"My friends here," Selim interjected, "are able to teach you how to change al-Qadim."

'Asad raised an eyebrown and leaned forward, interest piqued. "How so?"

"Revolution," Yasmin began, her voice like a song, "is change. True change cannot be attained peacefully."

'Asad nodded, bidding Yasmin to continue by prompting her with a question. "Why not?"

"Because a system which willingly provides does so with the least possible risk to itself. Minor changes produce minor results, only massive change, the kind which threatens a systems very existence, produces significant results. A monarch who gives his citizens rights legitimizes himself. A republic which grants its citizens the rights to vote entrenches itself by investing them in itself. But why should we accept half-measures and distractions when they only take our goals further away from us?" Her rhetorical question gave 'Asad much to think about.

"The problem with revolutions is that all too often they only seek to replace the head of the beast," Aşık chimed in, his face still grim. "To change the system, you must break it," he used his fists to snap an invisible stick held within their grasp.

"First, we will begin with the basics," Yasmin continued, rising out of her chair and walking towards a darkened corner, picking up a rifle hidden within the shadows therein. "If you want to bring change to al-Qadim, first you will learn how to destroy it."

Selim smiled and opened the door, sheltering his aging eyes from the sun, careful to make sure the door closing behind him did not disrupt 'Asad's new mentors.

 

[Khemia]

The report of the weapon accompanied the shattering glass as 'Asad's marksmanship was put on display. Yasmin's eyebrows raised, ever impressed by 'Asad's abilities.

"Crack shot," she whispered. Aşık, as always, remained stone. 'Asad fired again, taking out each of the bottles as they appeared in the scope. "Two hundred meters." Yasmin moved to squat beside the prone Badi student. "Well done."

"The rifle won't win the war by itself," Aşık interjected, "it's time for something that make an impact." Without motioning for the two to follow, Aşık led the way towards a small hut, pulling out a wooden crate. 'Asad raised an eyebrow, not knowing what to expect. Aşık set the crate on the ground and pried the lid off with the back end of a hammer. The contents within sent shivvers down 'Asad's spine.

"Bombs," 'Asad muttered.

"Yes. Bombs," Aşık grinned at 'Asad. "Come here."

"Is it safe?" 'Asad hesitated.

"No."

'Asad was not comforted by Aşık's response, but knew that the lesson to be learned here would be valuable. He squatted beside Aşık and looked within the box.

"Bombs are all fundamentally the same. There is an explosive device linked to a detonator," he said, pointing to the parts. "Some are more complex than others. Simplicity is beauty; the simplest bombs are the most effective. They require less talent and components and can be constructed in more secure areas."

He pointed to one bomb which 'Asad recognized as a mine. "A pressure plate is one of the simplest triggers. Place the bomb and the enemy will unwittingly trigger it when they feel the safest." He pointed to another, more complex than the previous one. "This one uses a remote trigger. The trigger communicates to the device with a simple, shortwave radio. It requires that you observe the device and wait for the opportune moment, but this allows it to be more deadly. It also means, however, that when you stir the hornet's nest, you must be prepared to feel their stings when they respond."

'Asad was increasingly interested and grew accustomed to the sense of dread that accompanied being in the presence of such weapons. Aşık and Yasmin proceeded to teach him strategies and techniques involving the devices, assuring him that he would be put in touch with a bomb-maker once they were satisfied he had learned enough.

Some time later the three sat down to break fast at iftar at the masjid. Selim greeted them with a large smile and they shared meals with the rest of the community. It was obvious that Aşık and Yasmin were graced with curious and aversive looks from the village members.

"Why do they avoid you?" 'Asad inquired.

Yasmin frowned, glancing at the villagers. "Aşık and I are not entirely welcome here. The village accepts us because we are their guests, but they do not enjoy our presence."

"Revolution is often a thankless task," Aşık remarked.

"You are revolutionaries? Here?" 'Asad asked.

"Yes, we fight for the equality of all men and women in Sikandara," Aşık replied.

"In the world," Yasmin corrected him quietly.

"'Asad, our brother and sister are šuyūʿiyyūn," Selim whispered.

"Communists?" 'Asad said curiously, Yasmin and Aşık regarding him carefully as they gauged his acknowledgement of the information. They were no doubt worried he would not approve, and that their relationship would spoil. "Why help Selim and I? You are aware our causes are different?" 'Asad asked, passing a plate of food to them to reassure them.

"Are our causes different, truly?" Yasmin asked. "Who are the people of al-Qadim if not Muslims?" 'Asad looked at Yasmin directly, nodding his head. Her words were true. "The Quran teaches us to practice zakat, to give to the poor and needy. As Muslims, it is our tradition to share our wealth, to bring strangers in need into our homes and share our possessions with them. How, then, does an Islamic government differ from a Communist one?"

"An Islamic government does not seize from the wealthy and give to the poor," 'Asad stated the obvious, knowing Yasmin knew this would be one of several answers.

"Who are the wealthy in al-Qadim?" Aşık retorted.

The revelation forced 'Asad to relent. "Christians," he replied, "foreign infidels."

"They possess your people's lands, dictate the laws, unfairly treat your culture and faith. 'Asad, our means may be different, but our goals are the same. We, too, are devout Muslims - we see that in Allah's grace and judgement we are equal. Our causes may be different, but our goals are the same."

"Our friend Selim judges this struggle worthy, and we do as well," Yasmin assured him. "We have chosen to walk this path with you."

'Asad smiled at the two Sikandari rebels, then to Selim who shared with him a knowing wink, gesturing to the güllaç for all four of them to enjoy.

 

[Khemia]

They had celebrated Eid together, breaking fast, and many of the hours since then they had become close friends. 'Asad had come to admire the charismatic and outgoing Yasmin and even the stern and stoic Aşık. The two had come to feel that 'Asad was martially prepared for the endeavour ahead, but the most challenging aspect of the way forward was not one's own journey, but the group one could gather around themselves.

He would have to break Cadim, but he would only be able to bring the peices back together again with the help of its people. He would need to win their hearts and minds.

Word of unrest in his homeland had travelled to Sikandara - reports of a mass execution of Muslims and desecration of the mosque at the hands of the government - and in the time of Ramadan - had sent tremors throughout the community. Subsequent reports of tribal protests and an ineffective and biased investigation infuriated many.

'Asad knew that al-Qadim was tearing at the seams. But it had always been this way. Massacres were quintessentially the style of the Catholic government. The true abomination was that native-born Muslim's were granted less rights and privileges than the foreign-born Aurarine refugees who lived in the homes of forcibly evicted Badi. It was one thing for examples to be made of unruly groups - these attacks seemed isolated - but the systemic and pervasive issue of targetted oppression was untenable.

It was under these circumstances that 'Asad ad-Din was undergoing his most important training. His pen scribbled away through the hours as he feverishly studied under the Sikandari faqih. It was not bombs and guns and crucified Catholics that would save al-Qadim. It was words. 'Asad was fastidiously training the most important attribute any leader could have; the charismatic power and allure necessary to move the masses, to convince them of the strength of your argument and the power of your convictions, and to persuade them to rise up alongside you.

'Asad was naturally talented in this capacity. He was patient, fair, intelligent, spiritual, and well-spoken; when in charge, he committed to his decisions but was still capable of changing course. No matter the goal, 'Asad was always decisive - he understood the key to victory: unity. Even when undertaking the wrong decision, unity of mind and body could allow a tactically poor decision to triumph against a superior foe. In this regard, 'Asad did not tolerate insubordination.

Selim was a masterful tutor, eloquently melding history, faith, and politics into a guided and rational discussion on the validity of Aurarine Catholic power. Within a week of diligent and incessant study, 'Asad had learned enough to dissect the weaknesses of the Catholic faith itself, though few outside al-Qadim would listen to him for now. 'Asad had already been well versed in the Quran, though by no means was he a respectable hafiz or qari. His ability to manipulate the surah's to counter opposing points, however, impressed Selim. It also concerned him.