Paul McKellips - Jericho 3

As young boys, Kazi and Omid saw their grandfather grow more extreme. Kazi was young and impressionable. He learned advanced chemistry as a very young boy and Qazvin took Kazi to several of his religious meetings to show him off. Omid was not interested in the lab, or chemistry, or science. His heart was broken over the loss of his parents. He was old enough to remember his own father explaining why the family had left Iran after the Shah was overthrown and why young Omid needed to pretend that his grandfather was dead. Omid turned to writing and literature. He studied world philosophies and the history of war. He knew more about the Middle East and the Persian Empire than any of his counterparts. Omid was a student of Aristotle and examined every detail of Alexander the Great, Darius I the Persian conqueror and Genghis Khan. He understood world religions and was particularly interested in the impact Martin Luther had on the Catholic Church.

Kazi was born and raised for revolution.

Omid was born and raised for reformation.

Qazvin was sitting at his desk, reading some papers, when Omid walked in and tapped on his door.

“Hello, grandfather,” Omid said quietly so as not to startle Qazvin.

Qazvin moved his head far enough to look over his reading glasses and see Omid standing at the door, dressed in his military uniform.

He did not answer Omid.

Omid moved in closer and leaned against the wall just a few feet from Qazvin’s chair.

“Kazi’s portion of the revolution will start very soon. I suppose you are very proud of him.”

Qazvin continued to read his papers.

“I have news for you, Qazvin. I just received word from Islamabad. My father — your son — has finally died.”

Qazvin put his papers down and removed his glasses.

“Thirty-one long years, grandfather… 31 years he suffered in that house, sitting in his wheelchair, waiting to die… that’s a long time to wait for death.”

Qazvin said nothing.

“I want to talk with Kazi… I want to tell him about my father, his uncle.”

Qazvin turned sharply and stared at Omid.

“You will not speak with Kazi… he is the gifted one. That’s why you were removed from him 20 years ago. Kazi has been blessed with the power to change the world. You have been cursed with the confusion of too much thought, too many ideas. You are as your father was… worth nothing.”

Omid felt the heat of anger flush across his face. He had almost forgotten the yelling and the beatings grandfather Qazvin had given to him when he dared to offer a different opinion, a different thought, or something he learned in a book from history.

“Perhaps you are correct, Qazvin, you are a wise elder. Still, I would like to speak with Kazi… he will want to know that his uncle has finally died.”

Qazvin returned to his papers. He had no love or compassion for Omid.

“Kazi has left… the Shoeib and the council have new concern that the Zionists will strike us first… we would have to spend years rebuilding before we returned to this same place… the plan will launch early… before the Zionists can launch their Jerichos.”

The air from Omid’s lungs was sucked out as Qazvin’s words rattled around in his mind. He was numb and powerless. He had to make a call.

“Kazi has gone to Beirut… already?”

“The Unity Festival has been moved up… the wind of torment will blow earlier… all praise to Allah,” Qazvin said as he opened a new page on his computer screen.

“Allah? Grandfather, you honestly believe that this is what Allah wants for his children? To kill the innocents, to slaughter the elderly, to bring about war so that the Twelfth Imam, the Mahdi can bring about peace? We are Persians, grandfather. Darius was ruthless when war was the only option, but he built things, he gave us common currencies and trade, magnificent buildings and art, he opened passageways for trade. We are a great people, Qazvin, look what we have built with our own hands. Look at our technology, our science, even the great universities that you and others have built. But you… look at you, grandfather… you have spent your entire life consumed with hate… you have taught Kazi to hate… and now, at the end of your life, you continue to search for ways to kill, while the children of Islam seek ways to live.”

Qazvin pulled his reading glasses down and put them on his desk. He pushed his office chair back slightly and then rested his chin on his clasped hands. Omid watched his grandfather’s eyes fill with tears.

“You sound like your father, Farid… I remember him saying these words as well… he was so different than me… his brother was so different… they both left Iran… left me… and moved to Pakistan… they dishonored me, Farid… they dishonored Islam… now you dishonor me.”

Omid moved in closer.

“Qazvin… baba… I have always loved you… I cherish my grandfather… you know the holy scriptures like no other… I still respect you… I just disagree with you… is that a sin? Am I evil because I hold a different opinion?”

Qazvin started to weep. His chest moved up and down with great emotion as his Pirahan Shalvar filled with moisture from his own tears. Qazvin tucked his fingers into the wide Kamarband belt as he tried to regain his self-control. Omid moved in and embraced his grandfather as he sat in his chair and wept.

“I am an old man now, Farid… I have done many things in my life… some good, some not so good. But I could not let my sons bring dishonor to our family name no matter where they lived… I am so sorry, my grandson. I’m sorry that your father lived so long in agony. He was supposed to die that night… just like his brother.”

Rage filled Omid as he held his grandfather. He was in total disbelief.

“You? You killed your own sons?” Omid whispered into Qazvin’s ear.

Omid’s arms moved slowly from around Qazvin’s chest and up toward his head and neck. He tried to fight the urge but he wanted to kill his grandfather.

“Yes,” Qazvin whispered as he thrust the tip of his 9-inch Pesh-kabz dagger, housed on the hip inside the Kamarband, deep inside Omid’s chest and quickly punctured his lung.

Omid gasped in utter disbelief as he heard Qazvin weep. Sharp pain engulfed his lungs and chest as his mind tried to comprehend what was happening.

With a quick twist, the Pesh-kabz turned clockwise and was pulled out as a mixture of blood, water and air covered Qazvin’s clothes. Omid felt life racing out of his body as Qazvin pushed the dagger in second time, another clockwise spin, then he pulled it out of Omid’s belly.

Omid could not believe what was happening. His hands fell down and back to his weeping grandfather’s side, then went limp. Omid bent his head down and kissed his grandfather’s cheek. The sounds of his grandfather weeping faded slowly as life poured out of Omid and finally into silence.

Beirut Luna Park

Beirut, Lebanon

An elderly woman walked through Luna Park in Beirut taking photographs of the 50 hot air balloons and flying teams that had arrived from all over the Middle East. The small, discreet camera was hidden in her hijab and triggered by a clicker in her hand. The woman was a common sight in Luna Park and throughout most of the public areas of Beirut since Mossad placed her in Lebanon 23 years before.

Most of the balloon teams were from Egypt. Three days of carnival rides, music, and food would open the Unity Festival after the Friday holy day. The balloons would race from Beirut, down the Mediterranean coast past Israel and the Gaza Strip before crossing the finish line in Port Said, Egypt. The winning team would receive 100,000 Egyptian pounds, more than $16,000 in US currency.