The Endless Golden Dunes

Chapter 17: In the Eyes of Walid

WALID

He looked towards his soldiers and observed them sparring. It was quite a disappointing sight, if he wanted to be honest. It was not as if he was ungrateful that they weren’t trying, of course. But, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that they could definitely do better, be better at what they were doing.
  
He looked towards Salman’s direction. The boy was a bright person. What he lacked in muscles, he made up with his mind. What had happened during the chess game wasn’t easily forgotten by him. Three moves was all it took for him to defeat his opponent.
  
Walid sighed. He felt guilty not telling Salman what he had been planning. Of course, he thought it would have been obvious to him, apparently not. What Walid wanted most for now was that Salman become a strategist. He knew how absurd it sounded and how strange it would be to the other commander. He could already imagine what they would say.
  
‘A fifteen-year-old boy as a strategist? Are you trying to get us all killed?’
  
But Walid knew the boy was capable of many things, things that people wished to achieve by the time that they turn fifty.
  
But slowly, the commander started to realize how the idea sounded when he began to say it aloud. It was a far-fetched idea to believe that just by looking at a chess game, he should judge that Salman could become a strategist. But he saw something in him. Twenty years being a commander, twenty years observing soldiers come and go, he had developed an eye for such people. From first sight, he could see what they were capable of.
  
But perhaps the boy was a difficult subject. Maybe he should look at other soldiers who had managed to catch his attention.
  
His eyes roamed around till he caught Umar, and he was reminded of the incident with him.
  
‘And you start attacking him? He is not in the right, but you are in the wrong in every way.’
  
‘You know nothing!’
  
A strike came and Umar’s gaunt face swelled with red. Umar looked at Walid’s scowling features.
  
‘Talk with a bit of respect, will you not?’ he asked. ‘One more of these pathetic yells, and I will strike you again. Now, explain clearly what happened.’
  
Walid groaned. It was an unpleasant memory, even for him, considering how much Umar had changed in just three months. It was good that he had experienced growth. Still, he couldn’t forgive himself.
  
‘You gave him what he deserved, do not worry.’ He said to himself.
  
Yet, he still worried. No one deserved to be hit on the face. Walid remembered a hadith of the Prophet which told that even in fights, one must not hit the other on the face.
  
‘Ya Allah, forgive me.’ Walid said.
  
The forgiveness might have come quite later than one would expect. Three months it had been since the incident, yet Walid thought it was never too late for forgiveness. Never. The fact was proven further when Walid remembered one of Allah’s names: Al-Rahman. The Most-Merciful.
  
He cast his gaze towards Abbas. As far as Walid remembered, he was a merchant. Why would a wealthy person like him willingly join the army where he could get killed? It was a peculiarity. Well, unless Abbas was actively seeking death that is.
  
Walid started to accept the fact that maybe he would never know.
  
Towards Adam his eyes went. It was a rare thing when someone from Jerusalem was to come to him. The soldiers he got were mostly from obscure villages or rather small towns. But with this batch, he was getting people from holy cities.
  
Incidentally, his eyes turned to Ismael and Ali talking. Ali. What was to be said about him? If Walid didn’t know any better, he wouldn’t have known that he and Ismael were related. Ismael was the average person who was forced to join the army. He was hesitant, nervous, and had his moments of being lost in the world. It was only natural.
  
On the other hand, there was Ali. He was also forced to come, yet never seemed lost. He always knew where he was, like a wayfinder. He always looked as if he was a caravan leader, he knew every inch of the desert, knew the name of every little grain of orange sand.
  
Walid reminded himself the first time he had talked with the man.
  
‘What is the reason you and your brother came here?’ he had asked him.
 
‘It wasn’t a choice, as there was no other option.’ He had replied.
  
‘Ah, parents forced you?’
  
‘Precisely. Apparently, all they know is that the companions of our beloved Prophet fought with the sword. Never they think about Zaid Ibn Thabit, who recorded our Scripture. But if I speak of such a matter, people will turn their ears and say: “What do you know, young Ali? Zaid was literate, while you can’t write what you speak. Shall I remind you that you were named after the Prophet’s cousin? He had the mind of a scholar, and you cannot read what is written.”. Oh how I wish I could remind them that even the Prophet was unlettered!’
  
‘You have a sharp tongue; almost as if it is a sword.’
  
‘A weapon is not what is forged, but what is made. Everything is a weapon if you are to use it in a specific way.’
  
Walid had laughed.
  
Now, the commander smiled at the memory. It was not a common thing to possess such a mystical mind. The last time Walid had seen a mind like such, he remembered, was a woman he had met in Damascus ten years ago. Walid had the opportunity to talk with her. Just five minutes he had talked with her, yet in those five minutes, Walid realized that behind the black veil, behind the skin, the flesh, the bones, behind anything materialistic or worldly, there was a soul. A soul who had found itself and was chasing after more and more wisdom.
  
Walid sighed. He wished that he could once again meet with her.
  
He then looked at Ismael and pitied him. He not only pitied him, but he pitied his parents. Jihad was a subject, Walid noticed, that was one of the most misunderstood ones. He wanted to come to those parents and say to them: ‘O you who have sent your children to die, have you not read the Hadiths? The Jihad of the sword is the lowest form of Jihad. The Jihad of the pen, the mind, and anything else are higher than the Jihad you send your children to.’
  
It was disappointing how he couldn’t do such a thing.
  
Why was he so against it? To die in Allah’s name is one of the greatest virtues one could do. But to Walid, living to utter the name of God was more greater than dying uttering it. But perhaps that thought didn’t come from objective wisdom. It came from personal experience.
  
From a line of martyrs Walid had come. Father had died when he was but six, and his father died when he was two. Walid thought about his own son. How old would he be? Seven, perhaps. A heavy stone pierced through Walid’s stomach. Seven years. Seven years he was unable to see his son. He had never seen his face, never cradled him in his arms, never whispered the azaan in his ear.
  
Walid groaned. Curse war. Not Jihad. War. It was unfair how fate had done such a thing to him. Fate had denied him to kiss his own son. Fate was cruel.
  
He sighed. It was not a good habit to complain about life. He should be grateful for the blessings his Lord had given him. He had a life, and that was the greatest blessing one could have, as it meant Allah thought you were capable of fulfilling the task he sent you for.
  
Yet, if he wooed for something, it eased his tensions and made his concerns somewhat tolerable. It was not a good method, but it was the only method Walid had.
  
Another turn of gaze and his eyes landed on Hamza. Ah, perhaps the one he pitied the most. He and him weren’t quite different. They had their families behind them and all. Yet, Hamza had seen his son. He knew what his child looked like. He knew what he had to lose. Yet, there was Walid, who didn’t know what was behind him.
  
Walid was afraid to imagine what would happen to Hamza’s family if he were to die. A widow and an orphan. The commander shuddered just thinking about it. He prayed that such a thing wouldn’t happen.
  
And then there was Ilyas. What was to be said about that other man from Jerusalem? He had sait Adam was his friend. Another duo, and again, they were different, vastly different. Adam was soft-spoken while Ilyas was an isolator. He would be present, and one wouldn’t notice he had gone away somewhere else.
  
Walid wondered what his story was.
  
Then, the commander sighed. He gazed at a few more soldiers and reminded himself who they were and their purpose of coming to war against the savages they called Mongols. There was no common theme. They were all here for different reasons.
  
Walid found that diversity smile-worthy.
  
Then his smile slowly turned downwards.
  
He thought that it was unfortunate how the world had to be riddled with evilness, splashed with unfairness, and impaled with the spear of sinfulness.
  
But then he thought that was how it should be. The world should be evil so that people know what good is. If evil didn’t exist, good will cease to continue living. If evil did not exist, what would be the value of goodness?
  
And at that moment, Walid thanked God, and asked for His forgiveness again.
  
‘Allah u akbar.’ He said.