Kamila Shamsie - Home Fire

The soundscape changed around the central square, or perhaps Parvaiz stopped listening so acutely because of the distraction of heads of enemy soldiers mounted on spiked railings. It was curiously unmoving, something you might see in a TV show. One day, inshallah, there would be no enemy and children would play in the square, Farooq said. In the company of the other men his English conversation had become peppered with Arabic, and perhaps this was what made his words sound false. Then a different part of town, more affluent: villa-like houses, tall apartment blocks, the yellow and white paint on the facades brighter here. The car pulled up in front of one of the double-storied villas, and Farooq said, “This is our stop.”

“Who lives here?” Parvaiz asked, stepping out of the car, taking in the sprawling luxury of the house, the size of three homes in his neighborhood put together.

“One of the perks of the media arm,” Farooq said, nudging him, laughing at his disbelieving face.

Two men only a few years older than Parvaiz appeared in the doorway of the villa. One Scottish, one American. They introduced themselves by their noms de guerre, embraced him formally, greeted Farooq in the manner of friends. Cameramen, both of them, and yes, those were their SUVs in the driveway — another perk of the media arm.

Inside, the house had marble floors and faded places on the walls where once must have been photographs or artwork. There was a very large room with stiff-backed chairs and sofas with flower-patterned cushions, and beside it a formal dining room with a long table. Boxes lined the hallways—“our equipment,” said one of the men, whose names he had already forgotten, so that he referred to them mentally as Abu Two Names and Abu Three Names. It was like an icebox, the lowered blinds adding to the mortuary atmosphere. But then the two men led him upstairs, saying this was the part they actually lived in. Here it was light and airy, pleasingly informal.

The American — Abu Two Names — ushered him onto a wraparound balcony that overlooked a garden dense with color. It was still afternoon, but he gratefully huddled into the shawl the Scotsman — Abu Three Names — offered him to counter the cold breeze, “from the Euphrates,” that reached him as he sank down into the surprising blue beanbag. A man appeared from somewhere—“This is Ismail, he came with the house”—and offered him tea and biscuits on a silver tray. From up here you could make out the sounds of motorcycles and cars, hammering, birdsong, the wind through the branches of trees, fallen bougainvillea flowers dancing in the breeze along the balustrade of the balcony. Despite his disquiet at the spiked heads and veiled women, the blue skies and camaraderie of the men slumped in beanbags promised the better world he’d come in search of.

“One day you’ll tell us the story behind your name,” the American said. He was black, very tall, and had a wide smile. His friend was quieter, bespectacled, mixed-race Pakistani-Scottish. The name he meant was Parvaiz’s nom de guerre — Mohammad bin Bagram. Farooq had written it onto Parvaiz’s registration form at the first checkpoint with an air of pride at having chosen it for his friend. It was both a reminder of what his father had suffered and an acknowledgment that this new Parvaiz was born out of vengeance and justice, Farooq said — which made it impossible for him to say he hated it. And anyway he’d quickly been distracted from questions of naming when Farooq had reached into Parvaiz’s knapsack, taken out his passport, and handed it to the man at the registration desk, who had the soulless look of bureaucrats everywhere. Relax, Farooq said. If you ever need it back I’ll get it for you. But you won’t need it back. You’re now a citizen of al-Dawla — the State.

Parvaiz tried not to think about the passport and asked the cameramen how long they’d been living here. They said they’d been sharing this house for over two months, though their friendship had assumed an instant depth that told them their souls must have met in Jannah well before the will of Allah brought them back together in Raqqa. They touched each other’s arms and shoulders, unself-consciously affectionate, which made the whole thing moving instead of absurd.

“It was the same with this young warrior and me,” Farooq said, ruffling Parvaiz’s hair. “It’ll be strange not seeing him every day.”

“Where you going?”

“To the front. I’m a fighter, aren’t I?”

“You won’t be living in Raqqa?” He saw the American shake his head in that schoolyard way boys signaled to each other that too much emotion was being revealed, usually around a girl, and Parvaiz attempted to undercut the pleading tone of his voice with a chin-jut that said Huh, interesting, why didn’t you say before?

“I’m mostly away fighting the kafir bastards so you boys can be safe in your air-conditioned studios.”

“Big-talking man. If you fighters are so important, why do we get paid more?” the American said.

The Scotsman put up a hand to stop the conversation. “Alhamdulillah, we all play our part in the way of Allah. Who is better or worse is judged only by the quality of his faith.”

“Brother, you can always be relied on to remind us what’s important, Ma’ashallah,” Farooq said, in a tone that managed to sound genuine. “No, man. I’ll mostly be gone. And when I’m here, I’ve got my wife and kid, haven’t I?”

“You have?”

“Of course. They gave me a wife almost right away — these two highly paid men are still waiting to be approved by the marriage bureau.”

“You just got here earlier, that’s all,” the American said. “The waiting time is up to six months these days. Anyway, I’m talking to a girl in France. She’s almost ready to come over.”

“No, but—” He heard his own voice coming out in a whine, but he couldn’t help it. “You said you’d help me find people who knew my father.”

Farooq shrugged. “You’ll run into some of the old jihadis at the training camp. Tell them who you father was, and they’ll hook you up with people who knew him.”

“What training camp?”

“Didn’t you tell him anything?” the Scotsman said.

What Farooq hadn’t told him was that all new arrivals were required to undergo ten days of Shariah camp (“It would have been longer, but I put down your level of Shariah knowledge as ‘intermediate’ when I filled out your form”), followed by six weeks of military training. After that, assuming he was accepted into the media wing (“And of course you will be,” said Farooq, but the other two were quiet), there’d be another month of media training. It all sounded a little overwhelming, Farooq knew, but soon enough he’d be placed in a studio, earning a salary, and would have his own SUV and portion of a house — maybe he’d even have a share of this villa if the marriage bureau or the French girl saw fit to move either or both of its present occupants into married quarters by then.

It would have been stupid to say he thought he’d been brought to this house because this was where he was going to live right away, un-Muslim to say he didn’t want to go to Shariah camp, unmanly to say he didn’t want military training, petulant to accuse Farooq of anything when he had been the one who hadn’t thought to ask the practical questions about the life he was entering. He shrugged and said that was fine by him, although no one had asked.

“And once you’re settled in you can put in a request with the marriage bureau too,” the American said. “Though my advice is, try and find a European girl online. They know how to do more things than the Arabs, if you get my drift, though my bonnie friend here doesn’t like it when I speak that way.”