Raja Alem - The Dove's Necklace

“Mu’az,” called his father, interrupting his pleas for forgiveness. “God bless you, my son. The Turkish seamstress — God reward her — sent us a sheep for the poor. We shall slaughter it and divide the meat among the people we know.” Mu’az folded up his prayer rug, his father’s voice following after him: “Mu’az, don’t forget to keep the head and the tripe for us … And the skin as well.” Mu’az nodded reluctantly.

“I’ll be late for work now.” Mu’az left the mosque, his father’s blessings following him out the door, and he left his own voice to hang in the air: “I hate slaughtering.”

Whenever Imam Dawoud sensed any weakness in Mu’az, he gave him an assignment like this to strengthen his constitution. “I’m going to become a vegetarian,” Mu’az thought to himself. “I hate meat.”

Mu’az had only ever seen meat that was covered in fat and veins and pericardium, and looked like the froth of death itself, from the charity they’d been raised on and celebrated with on feast days. “Are you too good for the meat that built your bones now, Mu’az?” Mu’az didn’t want to anger God by refusing His blessings. “In the Quran, heaven is said to be full of fruits,” he thought to himself. “Whenever meat is mentioned, it’s usually birds or fish. Okay, fine, it does mention livestock, but …” He pushed aside the thought.

He untied the Turkish woman’s sheep from their front door. This was what was going to do away with his weakness and sin. The sheep the Turkish woman had donated for slaughter was large and embodied all the mystery and desire rising up out of her basement; it even embodied his own desires and sins too. He couldn’t bring himself to look into its tearful eyes; he couldn’t stand the sight of its tongue — still licking — or its teeth — still chewing. He didn’t know who it was who remarked, “They should’ve stopped giving it water last night so its veins would be ready to open.”

An idea occurred to Mu’az. He led the sheep to the spot between the two houses where the body had fallen. The ground there was dry. There was no trace of what had been. Facing the direction of prayer, he pushed the sheep onto its side and knelt down on its chest. He picked up the large knife and was instantly transported to that last attempt at toughening up his constitution. One Friday after night prayers, he and his father were sitting with al-Ibsi, the executioner. Al-Ibsi was a regular at the mosque and the other worshippers all regarded him with respect. He introduced himself to Mu’az with consummate modesty.

“I carry out executions in the western region — Mecca, Jeddah, and Ta’if,” he said. Then he introduced the delicate young man he’d brought with him. “This is my son, Mishari, my pride and joy. With God’s help, he’s going to inherit my trade. I’ve trained him well, now he just needs to be approved and examined.” Mu’az nerves were jangling. His father and al-Ibsi went off to speak in private, leaving Mu’az and Mishari to get to know each other.

“You chop people’s heads off? You’re an executioner?” Mu’az asked incredulously.

“My father’s heart is filled with nothing but care and concern when he’s removing people’s heads. That’s what he’s been teaching me during my apprenticeship. I can’t even count how many beheadings I’ve seen. I look right at the point where the sword should fall so the head comes off with one strike. The challenge is testing your fortitude — seeing whether you can keep your cool.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes, God has blessed me. I’m a newlywed.”

“And what does your bride think?”

“She married me when I was still a soldier, but when I told her about my ambitions, she didn’t object. She just asked me to think it over for a while. When I told her I was certain, she supported me.”

“Isn’t she scared of you?”

“No. She knows I’m carrying out God’s law. At home, I’m like my father: gentle. We were never scared of him, not before he’d carried out a punishment and not after. He does his ritual ablutions first and goes to a beheading in a state of purity as if he’s going to the mosque. In clean robes, with a headscarf and igal. Last time, he took off seven heads in seven seconds. Each head popped right off and he didn’t once need to strike a second blow.”

“Doesn’t he have nightmares?”

“No, because he’s a very pious man.”

“What heads do you train on?”

“The training is abstract, but the actual procedure is carried out in the square. Tomorrow’s going to be my first actual beheading assignment. You can come watch if you want.” If it weren’t for his father, Mu’az would’ve run screaming from the invitation.

“You’re going to use a real sword tomorrow?”

“God willing, the government will provide me with one. They’re very expensive. They’re usually around twenty thousand riyals. My brothers and I always sanitize my father’s after he gets back from a beheading.”

Mu’az remembered that early the next morning he and his father, the prayer leader, had taken up their spots in the square outside the Haram Mosque by the King Abd al-Aziz Gate. They saw the police shut the streets leading to the square before the execution, but Mu’az didn’t even notice the crowds that encircled them. All he could see was a man surrounded by military guards. He had no idea where he’d come from. The brute was dressed in white and his head had been shaved bald. From where he was standing, it looked to Mu’az like the man had no eyebrows or eyelashes or eyelids, or mustache, even. Mu’az knew he was one of the thirty-six terrorists who’d been sentenced. Photos of their arrest had filled every newspaper. The danger he’d once posed had been completely stripped off him now, though. He was nothing more than the vibrant quintessence of his audience’s voyeuristic impulse.

Al-Ibsi appeared beside the condemned, and Mishari quickly tied the man’s hands behind his back and blindfolded him. The scene was so horrific that Mu’az didn’t catch a word of the sentence as it was being read out by the official in the square. There was a collective shiver around Mu’az as Mishari recited the profession of the faith three times, the convict repeating after him. Mishari’s father al-Ibsi was standing nearby, watching nervously, in case his son botched his first assignment. He was ready to step in if Mishari’s nerves failed him and he was unable to carry out the procedure. For a split second, Mu’az sensed that Mishari was on edge because of the huge crowd, and remembered what he’d heard him say the day before: “My father’s determination is so immense it dwarfs even the crowd in the square.” At the exact same moment, the same words ran through Mishari’s own mind, and when the official signaled to him to proceed, he lowered the convict to his knees facing the direction of prayer, though he wasn’t in a posture of prayer but halfway between prostration and standing. The flash of the sword cut through the scene, eliciting a sigh from everyone watching, and then the slightest nick on the back of the convict’s neck. The head reared back, a blade of sunshine fell across the bend of his neck, and the man’s head was separated. The blow was so light his blood didn’t even spill out. The body remained kneeling, solid and strong, while Mishari turned away, wiping his sword with a cloth he produced from his pocket. Mu’az’s eyes were trained on something in the background, though. He watched al-Ibsi’s enchanted eyes as he traced the head falling in an arc and landing nearby; he could hear the head fall at his feet.

MU’AZ FLINCHED WHEN THE SHEEP TURNED ITS HEAD TO LOOK BACK AT HIM; IT WAS as if he’d heard the exact same sound. “In the name of God, the most merciful, the most compassionate.” He ran the knife across and the same old blood came spurting out, but not from the severed neck. It came bubbling up from the ground beneath his feet. Mu’az dropped the slaughtered sheep and ran. No doubt about it: he didn’t have Mishari’s mettle .