Mujahida Al-Layl

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“Amal! Please, put on Al-Jazeera for your grandfather!” Amal’s mother told her eldest daughter.

“Yes, mama.” Amal replied and changed the channels on the television set.

“Shookran[i], Amal.” Her grandfather thanked her from his seat on the traditional mattresses on the ground.

She nodded in acknowledgment of his thanks.

“Amal!” She heard her eight year-old sister call, “Hassan won’t let me play!” She whined.

Amal laughed as she left the room towards her sister’s young voice, “Hassan,” Amal smiled when she saw her brother playing soccer with the neighbor’s son. It was nice to see him finally playing. After they found out their father had been killed by Gaddafi’s soldiers as he fought for Libya’s freedom in Misrata, Hassan hadn’t played, watched TV or acted like a kid at all. Amal would enter his room to check on him and find him writing in a notebook. He’d quickly hide it and kindly ask her to leave. It was only recent that he had been able to leave his room and now, play with the neighbor’s son.

“Let Doha play with you!” She ordered her fourteen year-old brother.

“But she doesn’t know how!” He stopped the ball with bottom of his bare foot.

“Teach her,” Amal suggested.

He let out a huge whined sigh, “Fine!” His shoulders dropped in defeat.

“Good,” She smiled, “Where’s Zeyad?” She asked him.

“Mama told him to collect the eggs,” Hassan answered as he lightly passed Doha the ball.

Amal placed a hijab over her head and went out to the farm to look for Zeyad.

She saw a flock of chickens run past her in a scared hurry.

“Odd,” She thought.

She continued in the same direction the chickens had fled from, “Zeyad!” She called out. The hot sand entered her rubber scandals with each step.

No reply.

She walked closer towards the cage where the chickens typically nested their eggs and heard laughter. However, Amal could not hear her brother’s recognizable chuckle.

“This man is not a man!” An unfamiliar voice stated, “He is a coward. A little boy.”

Amal hid behind the orange trees in the farm and peeked between the branches.

“Leave my property, Ismael.” Amal heard her brother’s confident and threatening voice, “Now!”

“This is our property now,” A man, not much older than Zeyad, claimed. Amal had never seen him before. His black hair was greased back and his face was freshly shaven. He was in jeans and a solid red t-shirt, “This property belongs to Libyans, Libyans that have fought, Libyans that have spilled their blood on this soil. What have you done, Zeyad?” He asked with a devious grin that sent shivers down Amal’s spine.

Amal saw Zeyad stare daggers into the other man, “What?”

“What have you done for your country? You did not fight in the war against the rats!” He sneered angrily at Amal’s brother who was ambushed by the man’s friends with his back against the cement fence that surrounded their farm.

Zeyad did not oppose nor agree with what was being said.

“Therefore, it is our property now.” The man declared.