A Dirty, Dim-Lighted Place

Bashar Moutassem, a skinny 22-year-old Arab man, walked into his ragged tent. He took off his stocking cap and scratched his messy black hair. Through the darkness, he saw his wife and 4-year-old daughter sleeping. They were shivering, so he picked up another blanket to put over them. He wanted to wake up his wife and give her the good news, but figured it could wait until morning. He quietly walked over to two large black trash bags in the corner and opened them. In these bags were the last of their belongings. The rest of their pictures, clothing, and mementos were destroyed 2 years ago in bombings from their own country’s tyrannical regime. Bashar reached into the bottom of one bag and pulled out a large amount of money and a small clear bag of pale yellow pills. He looked over his shoulder making sure his wife was still asleep. Then, he reached into the other bag and pulled out a loaded Glock 19. He tucked the pistol in his pants, put the cash and pills inside his brown leather jacket, then walked back out into the night.

The refugee camp was alive. Engines roared, people were shouting and laughing, gunshots were being fired in the distance for either a wedding celebration or some firefight between terrorist factions. He jammed his hands in his pockets, kept his head down, and walked past a row of tents for a hundred yards until he reached his destination. He looked left and right to ensure no one watched, then tapped on the tent’s entrance.

“Abu Zayd,” Bashar said. A few moments later, a fat middle-aged man with long black hair and a cigarette hanging off his lips peeked his head out.

“Bashar, please come in.” Abu Zayd said. Bashar followed him inside. A diesel stove heater sat in the center with its flue rising through the tent’s ceiling. The stove combined with a few lit candles gave the tent a dim glow. The floor was covered with large rugs. In the right corner, there were cushions organized to look like a giant sectional. In the opposite corner, there were two black Adidas gym bags filled with clothes lying next to a case of bottled water. The wind whipped the tent as Abu Zayd walked to the diesel stove, picked up his charred teapot and poured Bashar and himself a glass of tea. “Ibrahim will be here in a few minutes.” Both men walked to the cushions and sat down.

“I brought something else besides the money that might interest Ibrahim.” Bashar reached into his jacket, pulled out the small bag of pills and set them in front of him. Abu Zayd examined the pills for a few seconds.

“What is this?” Abu Zayd asked.

“Captagon,” Bashar replied.

“Why would Ibrahim want Captagon?”

“He can sell it. The rebels fighting the regime eat them like candy. They say it makes them fearless.”

“Ibrahim is not a drug dealer, Bashar. He is a devout Muslim. If he even gets so much as a whiff that you’ve been selling Captagon, he won’t take you, or your family across the border.”

“Okay. So, you keep them. They’re easy to sell.” Abu Zayd gave the bag of pills back to Bashar.

“Do me a favor. When the meeting is over, go outside and bury them in the dirt. Don’t screw up a good thing over something this stupid.” Bashar rolled his eyes at Abu Zayd and put the bag back in his jacket. A few seconds later, the tent door opened and in walked a tall, thin Arab man. He had on blue jeans, a beige winter coat, and a brown kufiyah tightly wrapped on his head. There was a large scar from the corner of his mouth down to his chin, which he tried to cover with a goatee.

“Ibrahim, please sit down,” said Abu Zayd. Ibrahim walked over to the cushions and took a seat by Abu Zayd. “Ibrahim, this is my friend Bashar.” Ibrahim stared at Bashar. There was an awkward silence before Ibrahim spoke.

“Let me see the money,” Ibrahim told Bashar. Bashar reached into his pocket and accidentally grabbed the bag of pills along with the money. As he pulled the money out, the bag fell onto the floor. Bashar quickly set the cash down in front of Ibrahim and then put the pills back in his jacket.

“What was that?” Ibrahim asked. Bashar searched for a word inside his young, dumb head. Fear had tied his tongue and he couldn’t muster so much as a noun, verb, or adjective. He just sat there and stared at Ibrahim with his mouth agape.

“Medication,” said a nervous Abu Zayd breaking the silence. “They’re…for his knee.” After a few tense moments, Ibrahim shrugged, picked up the cash and began to count it. Bashar and Abu Zayd looked at each other both realizing the bullet Bashar had dodged. Ibrahim finished counting the money and was satisfied. He put the money in his pocket, stood up and walked over to the teapot. “Do you mind?” Ibrahim asked Abu Zayd.

“Help yourself,” Abu Zayd replied. Ibrahim poured himself a glass of tea, sat on the cushions, and locked eyes with Bashar.

“Tomorrow at 10 A.M. you and your family will meet me inside the large white UNHCR tent closest to the DMZ. Leave your personal belongings behind and bring only what you need.”

“Do I — , “Bashar tried to speak before Ibrahim cut him off.

“I have given you all you need to know. This meeting is over.” Bashar looked at Abu Zayd puzzled. Abu Zayd moved just his eyes to the tent’s entrance. Bashar got the hint.

“Okay…I’ll…see you tomorrow.” Bashar got up off the cushions and walked outside. His adrenaline was still pumping from the bag of pills falling on the floor. He took a few deep breaths to calm down, then put his hand back in his leather jacket and felt the pills. He knew he could sell them. Just one more deal, he thought. He took a couple steps when Abu Zayd’s words rose up like a wall in his mind. A wall he couldn’t break through. He felt the pills again in his hand and thought of his family. He closed his eyes, let out a sigh, and walked to a quiet place in the camp. There, he got down on one knee and dug a small hole with his hands. He dropped the bag in it, then reached down and pulled out his timeworn pistol. Before setting it in the hole, he analyzed every scratch and scuff mark, each with a story of its own. He filled in the hole, and as the last spec of sand nestled into its new home, a chapter of his life was over. He stood up, looked around the camp and couldn’t believe tonight was his last night. Finally, he thought. Then, a tired Bashar walked back to his tent, laid down next to his family and fell asleep.

The morning sun came and Bashar woke up his wife, Saira, and their daughter, Maryam. They gathered their essentials into a backpack and left their home. They walked through the camp and stopped at a small café to get breakfast. Saira hardly touched her food.

“He said the time was 10 A.M., right?” Saira asked.

“Yes.” Bashar replied.

“And you’re sure he said the UNHCR tent by the DMZ?”

“Saira…relax…”

“I just don’t want to be late, or in the wrong spot.” Bashar smiled, then gently grabbed her hand.

“We’re leaving today…I promise.”

“Daddy, what are we late for?” Maryam asked. Bashar looked at his daughter and his smile turned to a laugh. He looked at his wife.

“She’s going to be just like you, eh?” Saira laughed and shook her head. After an hour, they finished eating and walked to the UNHCR tent just before 10 A.M. There was a large truck parked outside. Workers were carrying supplies from the truck into the tent. They had the entrance rolled up for convenience, which made it easy to see everything inside. Bashar could see Ibrahim and stopped his family about fifteen feet from the entrance.

“Stay out here while I go in and deal with this.” Bashar told Saira.

“I thought you said he wanted us all inside?” Saira asked.

“Do as I say. I just want to make sure it’s safe,” Bashar replied. A displeased Saira waited outside as he walked into the tent and met Ibrahim.

“Good morning, Ibrahim,” Bashar said. Ibrahim looked at Bashar for a couple seconds.

“Where is your family?” Ibrahim asked.

“They’re outside.” Bashar turned around and pointed to Saira, standing with her arms crossed, and Maryam, who was sitting on the ground throwing sand into the air. The sight of Maryam caused Ibrahim’s stone face to soften.

“You have a beautiful family,” Ibrahim said.

“Thank you,” Bashar replied.

“We’ll wait until they finish resupplying the tent, grab what we need, and then we’ll start our journey.”

“Great. Can my family come inside?” Bashar asked.

“Of course. I don’t know why you left them outside,” Ibrahim replied. Bashar made eye contact with Saira and waved for them to come inside. Saira picked up Maryam off the ground and began to walk towards the entrance.

In the distance, 2 men sat on a motorcycle. Their faces were covered with ski masks and dressed in oversized black coats. On both of their noses were the remnants of a pale, yellow powder. The driver revved the engine and stared at the large white UNHCR tent. The man behind him wrapped his arms around the driver’s chest and sandwiched the 50lb. home-made explosive device between them. He white-knuckled the detonator in his right hand with his thumb over the switch. They began to pray to their God. When they were finished, the driver dropped the motorcycle into gear and drove as fast as he could towards the tent. As he approached, he let out a final battle cry.