Chapter 17

He embraces the radio, clutching the only source of life he’s witnessed in months, the only companion he’s had in years.

“Several metropolitan areas have been completely wiped out in a matter of minutes across the globe,” a reporter whispers before it crackles into a drone.

He mindlessly strokes his finger across the buttons atop the radio, before his legs fall forward into a kneel.

He recalls being unable to escape his rage initially, determined to bring whoever was responsible for the death of his family to their knees. He fantasised decapitating them, the vision of decapitated heads bleeding into his dreams.

He joined an unrelenting army, an army filled with people who suffered the same token of fate as he did, people who lusted over the blood of their enemies.

They fought passionately, they fought strategically, their knowledge of the town's anatomy exceeding that of their enemies'. They lured, cornered and trapped the Israeli; it had only been a few days of fighting before Ahmad witnessed his vision come to life: their heads superbly blown apart with their handmade grenades.

Just as they thought victory was within reach, a lightning of Jericho missiles descended from above and seared the skin of his comrades. As their cries of passion turned into cries of fear, defeat and death, apparitions, headless and robed in abayas and thōbs, tear through his consciousness, ripping him from memory's grip.

Rahimahumu Allah.

A burn fills his heart for the first time in a long while.

A burn that buries his head between his knees.

A burn that sings his wails louder than the rumble of a sandstorm.

A burn that breaks open the floodgates, as rivers of anguish, relief, anger and happiness run down the cracks and wounds on his face.

His friend crackles alive once again. “There is no trace of life in Jerusalem. Our rescue team will continue its efforts to search amidst the explosions and subsequent fires.”

Alhamdulilah. Allahu Akbar.