The Brotherhood

"You have been chosen for a historic mission,” announced Walid, to the seven Jihadist trainees clustered together in the Yemeni desert north of the Hadramaut. Two trusted brothers flanked him, men proven in battle against the infidel. As the intense summer heat radiated up from the sand, they listened intently. “…It is a mission that will put you to the test, in the land of the American infidel!”

Mustafa, the youngest of the Arab fighters, perked up. ‘Could this signal the end of their training? Could this mean they’d finally see action?’

A wave of euphoria surged through him, realizing he would finally embark on his Jihad against the Crusading Americans. After all the time he’d suffered in that depraved country, after the countless months of training here and in Afghanistan, he was finally going to strike a blow against his enemies. He was going to kill Americans!

The men congratulated each other, laughing jovially and slapping each other on the back. They speculated on their mission, where they would be going, who they’d be fighting. None of them had paid the slightest attention to how Walid, a slender, lithe man of five and a half feet tall, had maneuvered himself behind Mohammad who was resting comfortably against a small outcropping of rock no more than ten feet away. None of them had noticed the Czech-made Makarov pistol Walid had eased silently from its holster. None of them had recognized that moments before, his two instructors, Ridhouan and Karim, had quietly positioned themselves behind the group, their fingers poised on the triggers of their Kalashnikovs, ready to quash any dissent.

Without warning, without emotion, Walid raised the Makarov to the back of Mohammad’s head, and fired one perfect killing shot into the back of his skull. The Jihadist’s face exploded before their eyes, spattering blood, shards of bone and brain all over them. His head slumped forward, the body, seated right where Walid had unceremoniously ended his life. Karim and Ridhouan stood silent throughout, their eyes scanning the seven trainees for indications one of them might oppose Walid.

And then, almost simultaneously, Mustafa and Kamal stood from their places in the sand. They each trained their Kalashnikovs on Walid. Neither of the two men could explain why they’d stood; it was an instinct deep down inside each man that urged him to stand up for his fallen comrade. Karim and Ridhouan sparked to attention, training their weapons on the two dissenters, prepared to kill them in a hail of automatic weapons fire. Walid waved them off. Mustafa, puzzled, glanced quickly behind him, and saw the two instructors covering them.

‘Something was wrong here,’ Mustafa thought to himself.

Kamal spoke up first, rising indignantly from the sand. “What are you doing?!” Kamal screamed at Walid, demanding an explanation, his hands now clearly at his side, away from his weapon, tears welling up in his eyes. “Why did you do that? He was the best of us! He was the most committed of us!”

Mustafa let his hands fall to his sides as well, his Kalashnikov hanging by its shoulder strap, his body trembling with fear. He realized he’d just put his life at terrible risk. He’d stood up to oppose Walid, but after a moment, he shrunk back away in fear, subconsciously signaling to Walid that he was no longer a threat.

Walid responded instantly to the uprising and fired one more shot from his Makarov in the air just over Kamal’s head. Mustafa could feel the pressure wave in front of the bullet burst against his eardrums. Walid had efficiently and cruelly reestablished control over the shocked trainees.

"Sit down! Both of you, sit down, and shut up!” Walid ordered.

Timidly, Mustafa and Kamal eased themselves down to the dirt, submitting to his domination. The horrified men were stunned, staring silently at Mohammad’s lifeless, faceless body, a massive flow of blood soaking into the front of his desert camouflage tunic. They didn’t know what to think. He’d been the perfect trainee. He’d followed every order, and had learned every lesson. He was committed to the Ikhwan. He was committed to the Jihad. He was a good friend. He had been a good friend. If he could be singled out for this kind of punishment, what could happen to them!

"This is a lesson for you all!” Walid emphasized with his booming, commanding voice. “The Ikhwan Al-Jihad, the Brotherhood for the Jihad, will not tolerate anything less than total submission! Your brother did not comply! He suffered God’s wrath!”

What they couldn’t know was that Walid had singled out Mohammad specifically because he was the faultless trainee, because he was committed, because he was willing to give his life. He’d done everything he was commanded to do. He was the perfect object lesson, and that lesson was:

‘No matter who you are, no matter what you do, you do not matter! You are a pawn in the great struggle between Islam and the Infidel! You will sacrifice yourself as needed for the cause. No more, no less!”

The seven disheartened Ikhwan trainees trudged back to their desert training camp with their commander and instructors, as the midday heat reached its zenith. The temperature soared well over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit in this sun baked, inhospitable desert, as the men begrudgingly left Mohammad behind. It wouldn’t be long before for the buzzards identified the body slumped over in the sand. There would be no Muslim burial for him, rather the dishonor of dying alone, unwashed and unmourned on the edge of the Rub Al-Khali, the infamous Empty Quarter.

"Get up! Move out! We have a long march ahead of us! Get up! Move out!” commanded Walid repetitively.