Thankyou to wiresgothebestofhim for the strikingly beautiful chapter art!

Considering we had arrived at Queen Alia International Airport three hours ahead of the departure time, Marc and Nat took their time to retrieve all of our luggage from the van, which was on the government's tab. It was even more of a wonder when soldiers had handed me all of the belongings I had brought with me upon my initial arrival to Jordan. Apparently, they had gone to Umm Qais the day after I had told them my story. Upon locating Yassar and Rafaa's home, they had rummaged through the house, retrieving my things, such as my passport and official documents, which had been safely stowed away in the family's safe, as well as any sort of clue that would help lead them to Al-Tho'baan. After interrogating the neighbors, it had been concluded that Yassar and Rafaa's entire family were gunned down shortly after I had been kidnapped from there. I didn't know what to think. Maybe if I had just stayed in New York, none of this would have happened. That innocent family would not have been killed. It was my fault.

I went ahead and strode towards the entrance of the airport, relieved to have gotten away from such a suffocating vehicle. Ever since the execution, I hardly spoke to anyone and I kept to myself as much as I could. I no longer had energy to speak and I thought of myself as a pessimistic nuisance. For the past two days, I had done nothing but sleep and take medications. No matter how hard Marc, Nat, Dr. Hudson and Stacy tried to convince me otherwise, I was certain that my life was over.

Emotionally and mentally, that is.

Being physically alive just did not suffice.

As I dragged my luggage behind me, random tears blurred my vision and I wasn't quite sure why, more so because it had been terribly difficult to shed tears since Monday. Albeit under gruesome circumstances, this place had played a significant role in the past ten months of my life, ten months that I'd never be able to forget. A part of me was buried in the Middle East and it would remain there for eternity. I would never be whole.

While strolling down the entrance of the airport, I wondered when, or if, I would return. I was not even sure if I ever wanted to come back. There was nobody left here for me anyway.

"Hey."

A voice dragged me out of my bout of melancholy. I turned around to come face-to-face with a thin, weathered man, who seemed to be in his early thirties.

"You're Hayat, right?"

I nodded.

"Do you remember me?" He raised his eyebrows expectantly until they were hidden beneath the blonde hair that hung over his forehead.

My mind drew blank.

"I'm James Sweeney, a cameraman." He shuffled his feet a bit, clearly feeling the awkwardness. "It was my camera that Zaakhir had used that day..."

"Oh," I let out as the memory came to me. As horrible as it seemed, I was slightly surprised to see that James was still alive. I couldn't even fathom what he had to go through to get here. "Hi."

"Hello," he said, smiling weakly. "How are you?"

"I'm..." I struggled to find the right word. "Alive. I'm alive, physically. You?"

"Just about the same." James' eyes softened. "Where are you headed?"

"New York. You?"

"Ah, well I'm going to Washington D.C. I work for a news station there."

"Oh, I see." I paused, trying to remember details. "Your journalist partner, he was...killed, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, Harris Johnson." James sighed and ran a hand down his weary face. "They made me watch the whole thing. The image of his severed head will never leave my thoughts." He noticed that I flinched at 'severed head' and rushed to apologize. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to sound so insensitive. The memories just flowed back and I was just-"

"Don't be sorry. It's okay," I told him. "It is what it is."

James still looked guilty. "I feel like I don't deserve this life, like I don't know what to do with the remainder of my time anymore. Do you know what I mean?"

I nodded. Of course I knew.

"When I was brought to a hospital here, the American doctors suggested that I find a psychologist in D.C. But honestly, I find that nearly hopeless because hardly any of them would be able to truly empathize with us, even if they are trained to do so. They haven't seen the things we've seen. They haven't gone through the things we've gone through, you know?"

"Yeah, I agree," I said solemnly. That was the thing with people who were in the same boat. We did not have to ask each other what the other had gone through. We just knew.

A few men called out his name from a distance.

"Well, I guess that's my cue to go," James said. "Sorry for just ambushing you in the middle of the airport. You looked vaguely familiar so I thought I'd just approach you."

"It's fine," I gave him a half-smile. "Good luck with everything."

"You too, Hayat. It was nice to see you," he replied. "Take care." With that, James retreated and strode off towards where the airline ticket agents were.

Marc and Nat finally caught up with me, bickering among each other about who should push the heavier luggage cart. Knowing Nat, she had probably packed enough items for a month-long vacation. On any other day, I would have smirked at the sight. But now, I simply did not have the heart to do anything but hopelessly sulk around. Shivering, I pulled the ends of my abaya sleeves to cover my hands from the breeze. I glanced around to find nobody else affected by the cold. Perhaps it was just me and the chills I felt from within.

Just then, someone placed a gentle hand on my upper arm and warmth took over. Turning my head to the side, my heart rate skyrocketed as a familiar face came into view. The middle-aged woman hesitantly approached me, as though she was not sure she had got the right person. But when my eyes widened in recognition, she knew that she was not wrong.

"Hayat?" Ahsan's mother asked just to confirm.

I nodded gravely. "You're...here?"

"Yes," she answered, her faded red hijab made her dark circles even more prominent than the last time I had seen her. "I didn't want to believe it when I had heard about it. His face...his face was...on television for the wrong reasons. I have a friend in Amman, so I made an excuse to visit her. But really, I...I just wanted to make sure I wasn't just dreaming all of this."

Since I did not know what to say, I pressed my lips together tightly.

"They showed nearly everything on television. Everyone was so...happy."

The beats of my heart had slowed.

"Except for you. I recognized your face. It seemed that...that you felt the same way I did. I came to the airport at every hour in the past two days to see you."

She waited for me?

I closed my eyes briefly and exhaled through my nose to calm myself before breaking down for the hundredth time in the past two days.

"You...you were close to him, no?"

"Well," I began. "If you haven't thought about it, I think you seriously should. You said she was the closest parent to you and it must have made her really sad when you just packed your bags and left her to come here. Don't you think she deserves a visit, at least?"

I nodded again.

"I...I don't think that's a good idea. She probably hates me now."

"He had never visited me before...that day." She spoke in a hushed tone that I had to bow my head a little to be able to hear her. "Were you the one who convinced him to come?"

"But, she's your mother! I, myself, hurt my mother in more ways than one and you saw what she had to say about me in the interview." I fought through my blurry vision. "Moms are like that. They're so strong and warmhearted. A kid may drive a dagger through his mother's heart multiple times, but she would still only be concerned whether or not her child is okay. She'd hardly worry about herself."

"Yes," I said quietly.

"I...I was too harsh on him that day, wasn't I?" She couldn't bring herself to look me in the eye. "Perhaps if I had been kinder, he might have stayed with me. I could have helped him. He wouldn't have-"

"No, no." I shook my head slowly, clasping her hands within my own. "It...it was something he needed to hear at that time. When we went back that day, I saw him break down on the floor to cry. It was then I knew he felt truly guilty for his actions. He just...he just couldn't get out of this mess earlier."

"My boy..." She nodded over and over again, hunching her shoulders each time from the inability to face me. "I know my boy. He always learned his lessons the hard way, much too late. Too late..."

I wanted to console her so badly, but in our case, it would simply amount to one blind person leading another blind person.

"Do you know what became of Faizan? Is he...?" She let the unspoken word dangle in thin air.

I shuddered at the sound of his name and I could tell that she interpreted that her eldest son was a broken human being beyond repair. "He...died."

I couldn't bear to tell her that her younger son took the life of his brother. Even though I was not a mother, I knew that such news would inevitably break her down.

"Hayat?" Nat called out to me a few feet away. "We'll have to go through security soon."

"Just a moment," I told her over my shoulder.

"Dear," Ahsan's mother called out to me as I grabbed the handle of my wheeled luggage. "Has he ever told you anything about Du'aa?"

My whole body froze in place.

Her bloodshot eyes released tears as she continued, "Do you, perhaps, know something that I don't know?"

"Oh, Ahsan," I began, wiping my eyes. "Why didn't you just tell her? She has the right to know, it's not fair for her to be unknowingly blinded-"

"Do you know what had happened to her?"

"If you were in my position, would you tell your mother?"

"Should...should I still wait for her return, and for my husband too?"

No, my conscience had whispered. Confessing such a thing to my mother would, as Ahsan said, break her down completely. I would not be able to forgive myself if I had to watch her to crumble from hearing the news...

"No," I said feebly, trying to get the words out before I broke down in front of her. "They will not return." 

The uncertainty was her last wisp of hope, and now, I had single-handedly shattered it.

She gripped the cloth over her bosom, the veins in her hands protruded ever so slightly. "Do...do you know what had happened to them?"

Delving into details would not help her. I did not want to shift the burden of such knowledge to her, especially when she was frail and emotionally weak.

"Your husband did not cheat you." I swallowed a lump. "They went to visit relatives, but it was the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong situation..."

Some things are meant to be left at cliffhangers...

"He did not betray you. He never would."

"Thank you," she said, giving me a weak smile. "I may not be able to change what other people have said to me throughout the years, but at least I know the truth. I can live with that. Thank you."

Without thinking, I embraced her tightly and cried.

She swallowed and patted my head somberly until I pulled away. She understood. After wiping her eyes with the base of her palm, she searched through her bag and handed me a package that was wrapped in newspaper. "I can't have this at home anymore, it h-hurts me more than I can bear. I want you to have this. He would want you to have it."

I accepted the package, eyeing it briefly before looking back up at her again.

"Keep it, and please, open it when you are alone," she said, gripping my hand in her own. "So, you won't be back for a long time?"

"I don't even know if I ever will come back," I admitted to her.

"I understand." She looked over my shoulder and saw Marc and Nat waiting for me. "Go now, your friends await. May the blessings of Allah be showered upon you, dear."

Giving her a solemn expression, I slowly turned on my heels to go, feeling the sudden weight of the world on my back. There was something, something missing. Something had been left unsaid when it should not have been. I felt the features of my face contort as I tried to remember.

"Could you tell her that I love her very much and that there wasn't a single day where she didn't cross my thoughts? Could you tell her that I know that I've failed as a son and as a human being? Could you tell her that being terribly sorry for all that I've done and for all the pain that I've caused her is a huge understatement? Could you tell her all those things without mentioning what really happened to Du'aa and my father? Could you do that for me, please?"

That was it!

I spun around as swiftly as I could to tell her when a stampede of people barged in all directions.

She was gone.

No, no, no. I don't care if I miss the flight, I have to tell her!

Abruptly, I let go of my luggage and ran down the lobby, ignoring the calls of my name and pushing through the sea of people, until I spotted a faded red hijab near the doorway. I had to get her attention before she exited the airport.

But how?

I didn't know her name, and even if I did, it certainly wouldn't be proper for me to yell it out. So, I said the only thing that I could.

"Mama!"

The crowds seem to have subsided and I jogged all the way to the door, my chest heaving up and down from the strain. She paused in her tracks and turned around slowly, as though she could not believe her ears.

How long has it been since a daughter has called her that?

She gazed up at me expectantly, her tears betraying her yet again.

"A-Ahsan...Ahsan loves you more than you can imagine," I panted out, taking a step closer to her. "He said he's sorry for all the unforgivable pain he's given you. He knows that while he can't change anything n-now, he wants you to know that he knows he has failed as a human and as a son." I paused when I gave in to my own tears "He...he has thought about you every day and he has always spoke so highly of you. He once told me that the two of you were incredibly close and that he misses you so much. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you, and h-he wanted you to know."

I made sure to speak in present tense because I was not ready to welcome past tense so soon.

With each sentence that left my lips, her eyes glistened more than before and she gripped me in a tight embrace. "Hayat," she whispered, placing her hand on the back of my head. "Thank you."

Her few words of gratitude meant more to me than she will ever know.

"If Allah wills it, perhaps we can meet again. I would like to spend more time with you." She let go, keeping me at arm's length, and bit her lip to stop it from trembling. "Take care of yourself, dear. You survived this for a reason that only Allah knows. Take good care of yourself."

Judging from the way she closed her mouth suddenly, it lead me to think that she had more to say. I guess I would never find out. With that, she gently held my face in both hands and kissed the top of my head. She then turned around slowly and I watched as she pushed the glass door, and walked away.

In a way, we were the same person on either side of the spectrum. The two of us were stripped away from our happiness, and neither one of us knew how we should live the rest of our lives. I stood there in silence, wanting to get a last glimpse of her even if that meant her worn red hijab had become a small dot, blending with the horizon.

Who knows, perhaps this would be the very last time I'd ever see her again.

***

Having the window seat gave me the liberty to pry open the window shade just to get one last glimpse of Amman in all its nightly serenity. My journey began here, and so it has ended here as well.

While tugging my blanket from under Nat's arm, my eyes flickered to Marc's head resting on Nat's shoulder and the latter rested her head on top of his own, both very much asleep. Instead of smiling at the small gesture, I suddenly became bitter. It pained me to witness something that I'd never be able to have.

Tearing my gaze from the two of them, I rummaged through my satchel until I grabbed hold of the package Ahsan's mother had given me. While she did tell me to open it when I was alone, and sitting on a plane full of people didn't exactly constitute as being alone, curiosity got the better of me. I craned my neck slightly to get an overview of all the passengers. All individual lights were turned off and everyone was fast asleep, save the few air attendants who were much too absorbed in their own conversation from some feet away. I carefully tore off the newspaper wrapping, wincing at every crinkling sound that resounded because of my actions. I slowly pulled away the frayed ends, revealing an awfully familiar book: a dark green Quran with gold trimmings at the corners and golden calligraphy on the front.

The same Quran I had seen back in Ahsan's home!

But why would she give this to me?

With my heart thudding within my chest, I opened the front cover. A sealed tan envelope fell out and I ripped off one of the short sides until the contents spilled out on to my lap.

Photos.

Photos of him.

My hands trembled and it took a few moments for me to compose myself enough to hold the first photo with a steady grip. It was a black-and-white photograph of an immensely chubby and completely naked baby boy with a mop of black hair and dark eyes. The baby was seated upright on the floor and toothlessly beamed at the camera without a care in the world. His chubby hands were placed on his thick thighs and his feet were spread out slightly, leaving no room for imagination.

I turned the photo over and attempted to read the handwriting that seemed to have been written in haste.

Baby Ahsan

1st Birthday - 19th October 1989

Flipping the picture over again, I grinned.

I can't wait to shove this in his face! I can finally use something as payback for the times he's seen me barely clothed!

The sinister part of me was in the midst of plotting an evil scheme when the cold reality slapped me across the face.

His first birthday was on October 19, 1989, which means that...

Ahsan was hung on his 27th birthday.

I shoved the picture to the bottom of the pile.

The next few photos of Ahsan were similar in expression and there was at least one photo for every year of his life. At age two, baby Ahsan was posing in a sailor outfit that nearly every child has worn at some point in their early years. At age three, little Ahsan hugged a lamb. At age four, toddler Ahsan was scurrying about, grabbing pillows to make a fort with his older brother. At age five, Ahsan leaned on Faizan as the latter read from a children's book. At age six, Ahsan cradled a tiny baby girl, and both boys were looking absolutely thrilled with the new addition to their family. At age seven, Ahsan made a sand castle and Faizan had Du'aa on his lap. At age eight, Ahsan and Faizan made a tower of building blocks while Du'aa watched them curiously. At age nine, Ahsan was given a certificate from school for having the best behavior in the whole class and Du'aa hugged him around his ankle. At age ten, Ahsan high-fived his brother for scoring the winning goal at a neighborhood soccer game and Du'aa was seated on her mother's lap, clapping. At age eleven, Ahsan and Faizan were in the middle of an intense board game when Du'aa had tossed all of the pieces to the side, frustrated that she was not included in the game. At age twelve, a six year-old Du'aa was perched on top of Ahsan's shoulders and Faizan stood nearby, keeping a hand on her back to steady her.

As shocking as it was, these photographs captured Faizan when he was just a normal boy growing up. He was just like any other boy his age, whose world revolved around his younger brother and sister. It completely baffled me that this young man would someday grow up to cook children, to rape women, to be a contender in the organ black market, to take lives, to become one of the most notorious extremists the world had ever seen...

How did this all happen?

At age thirteen, the entire family came together alongside the imam at their local masjid. The imam stood behind Ahsan, clasping his hands on the child's shoulders, and everyone smiled brightly. I brought up the photo to my face and squinted, and then flipped the photo for a description to confirm my guess.

Masjid Al-Fatimah, 13th May 2001: Salima, Faizan, Khayri, Ahsan, Du'aa and...him.

Did this family ever imagine that Sheikh Zaakhir, a greatly respected and seemingly pious individual, would ever fuel the fire within two boys among others, thereby leading them astray from Islam and even further from humanity?

How dare he.

How dare he touch Ahsan. How dare he corrupt the brothers. How dare he brainwash them enough to forget their morals. How dare he take advantage of their helplessness. How dare he coax them and others to join forces with him for his own greed. How dare he, and people like him, spread a false message of Islam so that the world turns their backs on their own people. How dare he be the main reason why Muslims fear and are feared. How dare he target those who do not share his beliefs. How dare he kill people left and right as though he is the ultimate authority.

How dare he. How dare he. How dare he.

With all my bottled up frustration and anger, I nearly tore the photo into shreds. I wanted to pull him out from the picture, rip out his throat, and feed it to dogs.

But then, with such thoughts, I'd be no different from the likes of Zaakhir and of an adult Faizan.

I had to be the bigger person, whatever that was supposed to mean. Before I got even angrier, I flipped through the remainder of the photos, only to notice a common link.

There were no smiles.

At age fourteen, the scene shifted to an airport where Ahsan gripped onto his luggage. There were no smiles from Ahsan nor from Faizan because Du'aa was no longer there. The brothers, who normally did not leave each other's side in previous pictures, posed awkwardly with a distance of a few feet between them, their faces grim and sullen.

That was the last picture of Ahsan and Faizan together.

At age fifteen, the Syrian backdrop was replaced with an American boarding school setting. Ahsan made sure to send photos to his mother at least a couple of times a year, as though he knew that photos would be all that would remain to serve as a reminder of what life used to be like and how life should be like.

From the photos that went from age sixteen to early twenties, Ahsan never smiled at all. He never smiled once, not during his high school and college graduations, not during his white coat ceremony upon entrance to medical school, not during anything.

Then, the photos came to an abrupt halt at age twenty-four.

My throat went ablaze as it struggled to gulp down the pain. I neatly piled the photos, watched as they slid down the envelope, and shifted my focus to the Quran. A tattered letter was folded into the crease of the front cover. Upon opening it, I graciously thanked nobody in particular that I was able to decipher the faded Arabic script.

Gifted to: Ahsan Khayri Abdul-Tawwab Razak for completion of the Quran.

Mash'Allah Mubarak on becoming Hafiz-e-Quran at the age of thirteen!

My jaw dropped. Ahsan had fully memorized the Quran at merely thirteen years old!

As narrated by Sahih al-Bukhari 4653, Sahih Muslim 798: A'isha (may Allah be pleased with her) reported: The Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, said, "The example of one who recites the Quran and memorizes it is that of one with the 'righteous and noble scribes' (80:15), and the example of one who recites the Quran and he is committed to it and it is very difficult for him is that of one who receives a double reward."

In Sha Allah you will experience nothing short of Jannah. Baba and Mama are so very proud of you and we thank Allah daily for bestowing us with such a son, as hardworking, intelligent, sweet, and thoughtful as you are! Once again, congratulations on your achievement for the sake of Allah!

This was too much.

My heart could not take it any longer.

I immediately closed the Quran and stuffed it back into my satchel, along with the envelope of photos, and brought the blanket up to my chin. After closing the shade of the window next to me, I leaned against it and wept in silence, hoping that doing so would ease the ache in my heart.

But deep down, I knew it would not.

Not ever.

The pain in my heart only grew more immensely when I was forced to come face-to-face with the most unexpected welcome in JFK International Airport in New York.