Someone Has to Die: Peace Trilogy, #1

Praise for Someone Has to Die

"Where has Jim Baton been all our lives?! This is one of those rare 'first novels' that demands another. There are many academic books outlining the tensions and differences between Christians and Muslims, but beyond a riveting story, this book enables us to enter into the existing deep emotions, convictions, and inherited prejudices which otherwise elude us. The Batons know it because they've lived in the center of it for decades. I couldn't put it down.

...and I don't even read novels!"

Greg Livingstone, Founder, Frontiers

Senior Associate, World Outreach, Evangelical Presbyterian Church

Hatred, persecution, fear, terrorism—just daily life for millions around the world. This book takes us through it all to the other side, to the hope for peace. I highly recommend it for peace-lovers everywhere.

U.S. Congressman Mark Siljander (ret)

President, Bridges to Common Ground, Author of A Deadly Misunderstanding

It’s easy to demonize those different from us. It’s a bit harder to research facts in order to understand them. It’s even more of a stretch to step into their world and to walk in their shoes. But Jim Baton has gone one step further: he’s told their story. The story is about conflicts between Christians and Muslims in Indonesia, a country where Baton has lived for many years, but it is more than that. It’s also a story about us, whether Christian or Muslim. It challenges us to look at the truths about ourselves, about the prejudices, ignorance and anger that are in each of us, and that, if left untouched by God’s love, can spill out to ravage nations, communities and families. Yet there is hope. God can and does change hearts, as Baton so beautifully testifies to in this warm and uplifting story.

Dr. Rick Love, President of Peace Catalyst International

Consultant for Christian-Muslim Relations

Author of Peace Catalysts: Resolving Conflict in our Families, Organizations and Communities

SOMEONE HAS TO DIE will make you squirm, cry and smile. You will squirm as you realize that we are all fraught with stereotypes about Christians and Muslims. You will be confronted with the hypocrisy of your own faith, regardless of what side of the chasm you find yourself. You will cry as you are confronted with the ugliness of hate and the gentle power of self-sacrifice. You will smile because love is stronger than hate, and evil doesn't have to win.

Erik Lincoln, Peace Activist

Author of the bestselling series, Peace Generation

An incredibly realistic portrayal of relationships between our Muslim and Christian friends with fascinating lessons for peacemakers.

Rob Rice, Executive Director, Community Based Rehabilitation International

"I believe there is a grace that God sends with this book that goes beyond the words on the page; a grace for reconciliation, healing, and bridge-building. I have many beautiful, peaceful Muslim friends on the one hand, and on the other hand, Christians I know have experienced profound loss and violence because of terrorist Muslims. After reading this book, I HAD to go and pray about it. I had to connect with God and see what he felt and thought about what happened to my friends and about my own experiences with violence in an Islamic country. And what I came to was the COMPASSION Jesus has for the most misunderstood people; a compassion so beautifully displayed through the characters in this book, both Christian and Muslim. I had to go beyond the understanding of my experiences and think about what God feels about the conflict that happens between Christians and Muslims.

And then, not only that, I was up till past 4AM reading it and couldn't put it down. You cannot fall asleep reading this book."

Lola, American Christian woman living many years in the Middle East

SOMEONE HAS TO DIE reads like a classic novel like Uncle Tom's Cabin, Ramona or Ivanhoe as it has the effect of changing public opinion.  I feel that this is a very important book for our times.

Jill Davis, Frontier Ventures Resource Center

"SOMEONE HAS TO DIE ably weaves narratives of individual lives of Muslims and Christians within the context of events that could be the leading story of tomorrow's news or echoes of yesterdays. Love and light transcends religion in this novel, as do unforgiving hearts, regardless of religious - who use religion as a cover for their self-centered deeds. SOMEONE HAS TO DIE reminded me of something C.S. Lewis wrote ‘All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other destinations...There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, art, civilizations—these are mortal...’

I read this book during travel flights this week - the hours went fast. I wanted to dance in the most gracious Creator’s pleasure after I had read this novel."

John, American military personnel involved in the Middle East

Thanks, Jim Baton, for this gift of a book. It's better than a text book in how Christians and Muslims can live together and honor and love one another...or not, as sadly, some of the characters in your book choose to do, causing much pain and heart ache. The very real characters along with their personal dramas, global issues, and the suspense of a terrorism attack make SOMEONE HAS TO DIE a thrilling read. Set in a city village of Banjarmasin, Indonesia, using local language interspersed with details of life and culture in a Muslim majority country not only makes the story really interesting, but also thought provoking, poignant and sweet at times. I laughed at some of the characters’ antics, I cried, I held my breath but I couldn't put it down. I've also bought a number of hard copies to give to friends and family as I know it will help many on their journey in 'loving our neighbors as we love ourselves'.

Chrissy Van, Christian expatriate living in Southeast Asia

In SOMEONE HAS TO DIE Jim Baton eloquently writes a beautiful story clearly depicting a paradigm-changing message on how relational healing is what will bring Muslims back into the Father's House. I highly recommend this book.

Ché Ahn, Founding Pastor, HROCK Church, Pasadena, CA

President, Harvest International Ministry

International Chancellor, Wagner Leadership Institute

SOMEONE HAS TO

DIE

JIM BATON

Someone Has To Die by Jim Baton

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations are from The Message: The Bible in Contemporary English, copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group.

Unless otherwise noted, all quotations of the Al Qur’an are from The Holy Qur’an: English Translation of the Meanings by Abdullah Yusuf Ali, copyright © 1987 From a version revised by the Presidency of Islamic Researches, IFTA, Call and Guidance. Published and Printed by the King Fahd Holy Quran Printing Complex. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

The poem in chapter 95 is The International from Selected Poems, by Goenawan Mohamad (Katakita, 2004).

Design Director: Bill Johnson

Cover design by Nathan Morgan

Copyright © 2012, 2016 by Jim Baton All rights reserved

Visit the author’s website: www.jimbaton.com

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data: 2011931526

While many of the historical accounts of terrorism in this book are factual, and actual locations are used to add believability to the story, all characters and events in the story are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Second edition

Acknowledgments

Thank you, Katherena Higashi, for understanding the message of this book and telling me I needed to write it! Erik Lincoln, thanks for believing in this project and for your whole family’s insights. Thanks, Maren Mauvais, for your medical expertise. Jaci Miller and April Frazier, your editing and mentoring were invaluable. Mark Siljander and Rick Love, your lives are an inspiration.

And special thanks to my wife, whose dream-life with God continues to take me places I never imagined I’d go.

List of Characters

Louis Staunton – U.S. Congressman and international peacemaker

Saifullah – Indonesian terrorist recruiter

Abdullah – former terrorist hiding from his past, married to Siti with sons Iqbal ("Bali") and Syukran

Aaminah – leader of the neighborhood women’s group

Kristiyana – Christian minority single mother living in a Muslim neighborhood with daughter Mayangsari ("Sari")

Susanna – pastor of Kris’s and Sari’s Christian minority church, with youth pastor David

Nina – Sari’s childhood friend

Hafiz, Juki, Udin, Fani, Kiki – Abdullah’s students at the Islamic School ("pesantren")

Bill Rogers and Dante Prince – US Secret Service Agents

PROLOGUE

June

––––––––

Washington, D.C.

It wasn't the first Presidential Prayer Breakfast Louis Staunton had attended, but it was by far the most interesting. The third-term Congressman from Michigan had been intrigued when the DC gossip-mill had exposed the secret that the President had invited a Muslim cleric to open the meeting in prayer. What was it his esteemed colleague from Alabama had commented? It'll be a cold day in hell before I share my bacon and grits with 'effen Akmad Jihad! Louis couldn't help smiling at the image of the Imam explaining politely to the Senator from 'Bama that he couldn't touch the bacon since it wasn't halal.

It turned out to be a perfect day to announce summer’s arrival, with both sun and a light, cool breeze welcoming everyone to the outdoor spread elegantly fitted for a breakfast. The cherry blossoms cheerily responded to the sunshine and ignored the cold shoulders of many Senators and Representatives, faithful attendees in previous years, who were conspicuously absent this year. And yet a couple of the more right-wing Representatives, who ran in the pack of alpha-wolf Pastor Tim Thompson, head of the Christian Conservative Alliance, pleasantly surprised Louis by coming early. He was planning to thank them for their gesture of support after the breakfast. However, when Imam Khalil Jailani was introduced, Pastor Tim stood from the table, dramatically shuffled his feet as though wiping off the dust of this travesty, and marched out with posse in tow. Imam Jailani seemed less bothered than the President, whose stony face matched the color of the strawberry parfait set before him. Louis felt bad for them both, but felt no ill-will toward the dissidents; he had once been in their shoes, and many of his constituency still were. Most Americans had no problems with the Muslim world—as long as they stayed far away and used their bombs on themselves. But with the growing number of Muslim immigrants seeking a new start in America, even in freezing Michigan, Louis knew it was better that people like himself and the president become their first friends in America before the Islamophobes or terrorist recruiters came knocking at their doors.

Imam Jailani's brief remarks were excellent bridge-builders, as Louis knew they would be. He had met Jailani years ago at the dedication ceremony of the Islamic Center of America, the largest mosque in the U.S., built in Dearborn, MI. They had stayed in touch over the years, and as Michigan's Muslim population grew to sixth largest amongst the fifty states, Louis had relied more and more on advice from friends like Jailani on how to represent them effectively.

Louis had heard Jailani pray publicly before, and liked the simplicity and sincerity with which he addressed the Almighty. Today was no different. Other than opening his prayer with the Arabic phrase Bismillah irrahman irrohim, in the name of God the Most Merciful, Most Compassionate, the Imam had prayed in English as Louis had recommended. He had stuck his neck out suggesting this idea and this man to the President, but he knew the Imam would come through. Khalil radiated the same passion for peacemaking that Louis did, and was willing to face some rock-throwing to make an enemy into a friend. Finding same-hearted Muslims used to be Louis's hobby—now it consumed more and more of his time. Men like Khalil held the keys to world peace. Islam needed a reformation and Louis believed new leadership from within would be a thousand times more effective than wiping out the Taliban or removing a dictator.

But any disappointment at the anemic turnout was wiped away by what happened after the breakfast ended. Louis had stayed behind to watch the U.S. Secret Service whisk Imam Jailani safely away, avoiding the angry demonstration at the main entrance to the White House. He thought the President had also disappeared when a USSS agent tapped him on the shoulder, The President is hoping you have a few minutes to chat.

The President had the tall and lanky body of a basketball player, a good four or five inches taller than Staunton. The man's chiseled jaw and steely gaze could be on posters titled, DETERMINATION. Louis was working on a double chin inherited from his mama who deep-fried everything and his eyes were more soft than steely. His dark bald head brought back images of Louie Armstrong, though he was named after Joe Louis the boxer. Yes, Louis was still standing in his namesake's ring, but facing opponents far more difficult to knock down, much less knock out—prejudice, religious radicalism, hatred—yet Louis was as determined a man as the President in his own peace-loving way.

Mr. President, I appreciate what you did today. I'm sorry about my colleagues' inappropriate reactions.

The President waved his hand in dismissal and smiled, Don't worry, Louis. I know what we're getting into here. I'm in this for the end game—for my children, not my polls. Right now we need every friend in the Muslim world we can get.

Yes, sir. Khalil can open doors for us. He's connecting me with several key leaders around the world right now.

Actually, Louis, that's what I asked you here to talk about. I've been informed you're planning a trip to Indonesia in October to meet a presidential candidate.

Yes, sir. We just set this up two weeks ago—you've got good intel.

The best. The President smiled again and drew closer to Staunton's ear. You know I like you, Louis, and I'm behind what you're doing. That's why I'm asking Secret Service to send six agents to watch your back—I can't afford to lose an ally like you in this fight.

Thank you, Sir, that's very kind.

But here's the deal: the current president of Indonesia may be more of a man of war than of peace, but right now he's at war with terrorists and doing a bang-up job flushing them out. This candidate you're meeting, from what I hear is a sweet-talker, but I don't know if he'll carry a big enough stick. You know what I mean?

Yes, sir, you want me to stick to peacemaking and stay out of politics. The President nodded ever so slightly and added nothing else, so Louis guessed this meeting was over.

Honestly, Sir, I'm looking forward to the day when that's exactly and only what I'll be doing.

Camp Hudaibiyah, Moro, Southern Philippines

A fist like a hammer pummeled Saifullah square on the jaw. His martial arts skills had mostly kept the younger man at bay, but his own punches and kicks felt like they were connecting with a rock wall. I can't afford another mistake like that one. Come on, focus! Find his weakness!

Saifullah licked the blood from his split lip as if it were coconut milk. He locked eyes with his opponent and stretched his lips in a wide grin, exacerbating the bleeding on purpose. He circled with cautious steps, feeling the loose rocks with his bare feet for slippery ground he might lure the larger man onto. A patch of larger stones felt more tenuous than the smaller pebbles around it, and without breaking his stare, he curled his two fingers calling the man forward while himself inching backward.

"Where did you learn to fight, little brother, from some kafir woman in a brothel? Did she leave you in as much pain as I'm going to?"

The giant grunted and lunged at Saifullah who didn't sidestep, but waited till he knew the man's foot was in his trap. Then he suddenly dropped under the flying right aimed at his head to a crouch on his left leg. He swung his right leg out away from the man, then in a circle brought it back with a thud behind the giant's right knee. The man's forward right leg lost its footing, extending forward violently leaving his left leg far behind in a cheerleader's splits. The sound of ripping pants and the sight of the burly man grabbing for his crotch sent a howl up from the crowd.

Saifullah raised his hands in victory just for a moment, to remind them all who he was. Then he offered his hand to his groaning comrade who was not yet ready to stand.

It's not about size, strength or speed, Saifullah spoke loud enough for all the new recruits to hear. Keep your focus, control your emotions. Anger, fear, these are just as much our enemies as the cursed Americans. Don't attack until you find your enemy's weakness. If you die, die for glory, not because you were stupid.

Isy kariman au mut syahidan! The martyr's cry rose from the crowd. They might have all broken out in spontaneous sparring right there if Umar hadn't strode into the clearing. War cries turned to silent salutes, and when Umar lifted his chin towards the barracks, everyone hustled off. Saifullah barely had time to grab the arm of his defeated foe and whisper, Don't forget you owe me a pack of clove cigarettes!

When only the two of them were left, Umar and Saifullah sat on a log at the edge of the clearing. The evening breeze rustled the palm trees, cooling this humid paradise for a few hours. A foot-long lizard paused to stare at them. Neither man paid it any attention.

Umar began. What do you think of this new boatload of Indonesian recruits?

Saifullah's eyes had that far-away look. I miss the old days.

What do you mean?

"Remember back in '98 when Noordin was here? We'd spend all day memorizing the Duras Afghan training manual, learning guerilla tactics, bomb-making, and we always had enough energy for simulations at night. We had passion. These new recruits come in hardly knowing the principles of Mausuah Jihad Afghan. Sure they're bigger and stronger, but they give up too easily. For the last week I've whipped the butts of these kids half my age for cigarettes and not a one has come back the next night wanting to fight me again. Not a one! Noordin would have fought me every night till he won or died trying."

Yes, it's true. Most of these recruits will never become like Noordin, or a hero of any kind. But we still need foot soldiers in this army. And who knows? Maybe hidden in this pile of rubble is a diamond in the rough.

Have you heard what these kids talk about at night before they sleep? They talk about mosquitoes, sore muscles, Filipino girls. Is that all they care about? Remember the debates Nasir Abbas would challenge us with? Hambali arguing we should bomb churches, Zulkarnaen countering that the Prophet never attacked a house of worship. I never agreed with Hambali when he carried out those Christmas Eve church attacks in Jakarta, and I know Zulkarnaen never forgave him because he set us back maybe ten years. But aren't those the kind of discussions you want to hear? I'd take one Hambali over one hundred of these spineless whiners any day.

Umar said nothing. Saifullah wondered if he'd gone too far bringing up Hambali, knowing how close Umar was to Zulkarnaen, a leader of mythic proportions in Jamaah Islamiyah—the visionary who supported the attacks on the Jakarta Stock Exchange, Bali Bomb I, Marriott Bomb I and the Australian Embassy. Though in deep hiding, Zulkarnaen was more active today than he had been from '99-'04 when Indonesia first received their calling to Holy War. But soon the hiding would be over. And Saifullah was destined to lead JI to even greater glory.

Umar pulled a water bottle out of his camouflage vest pocket and took a swig. Saifullah thought how in the old days they would have passed the bottle around. But now Umar was careful and shared his water with no one. Umar was also still alive—Noordin, Dulmatin, most of his brothers were not.

Umar wiped his mouth on his sleeve and met Saifullah's eyes. It's time.

It's time for what? Saifullah asked cautiously.

It's time for redemption.

Could it really be? After over a year of hiding in Moro, hiding from his failure, could his day of redemption finally be here? No one at the camp but Umar knew. But he knew.

Talk to me.

In four months’ time there will be an event in Jakarta. An American congressman, a Christian, will be meeting with that swine traitor Ramadani. Other foreign diplomats are likely to be present. And hear this—the event will be held in the very building of your previous...disappointment.

Failure. Just say it, Umar. My previous failure.

Am I in charge of the operation?

Yes, we have a sleeper in place, and a safe house with all the...necessities. All you have to do is coordinate the mission and recruit the bride."

This isn't much time.

I know, but because of the location, this is too good a chance for you to miss. We just got word on this today, and I've already arranged a pump boat to standby for you in South Mindanao. 15 hours to Sangihe, on to North Sulawesi, and by the end of this week you'll be recruiting a bride already. My suggestion is you recruit in Sulawesi—Java is too hot right now. Densus 88 has spies everywhere. Bring in someone from outside Java and they'll attract less suspicion. Of course all this I've arranged assuming you'll say yes.

Thanks, Umar. I've waited a long time for this.

Redemption, my friend.

Redemption.

Al-jihad sabiluna.

Al-jihad sabiluna.

July

Banjarmasin, South Kalimantan Province, Indonesia

Chapter 1

He's sitting at a table with his family eating meatball soup at Bakso Mawar, his wife Siti's favorite restaurant. His boys Iqbal and Syukran are smiling. Everybody's happy.

Until the waiter comes with the bill. He recognizes the waiter's face. An old comrade from Afghan. He tries to hide his face, but the waiter recognizes him, Hey, aren't you... but before the waiter can say his name he jumps up, knocking his chair back, pulls his wife and kids out of there yelling, Get out! Get out!

Outside a group of men run by carrying machine guns. A bomb explodes. He considers pushing his family back in the restaurant to be safe, but fears the waiter will talk about him, so he pushes them into the ditch. Siti screams. He looks down to see that he pushed her onto the corpses of dead bodies. Stay down! he orders and he runs, and runs and runs. His legs start to feel like lead. His sandal breaks and its flop-flop against the asphalt is drowned out by his pounding heart. He feels the hot breath of his pursuers. He even thinks he hears them calling his name, but he's too terrified to look back. He sees a wall ahead and knows he'll be safe on the other side, but he's slowing down, he'll never get there.

At the foot of the wall they catch him. They start beating him mercilessly. Suddenly he's a baby, dressed all in white, powerless, and he knows he's going to die. He sees the first red blotch splash on his clothes, the red of his own blood. He cries out for the last time...

Abdullah sat up in bed, his chest pounding, his eyes wide open. The dreams were getting worse. He looked at the clock. Four a.m. Soon he'd hear the call to prayer from the neighborhood musholla and be up anyway.

He leaned over to whisper into Siti's ear: "I'm going to sholat at the musholla." No response. Abdullah dragged his forty-year-old body out of bed and put on some blue running shorts and a white tank top. He wasn't really going to morning prayers like the other neighborhood men his age, but his wife preferred that fantasy to what Abdullah did most mornings.

He downed a glass of water and grabbed his running shoes off the shoe rack by the door. He'd need the hydration. Banjarmasin could get down to the low 70's each morning, but the high humidity meant you sweated buckets no matter what time of day you exercised. He stretched his back and legs briefly, then he was off.

Abdullah always started with half-length strides at a slow pace till his muscles warmed up. At this speed he had more time to look around as he turned right out of his tiny front yard and headed up the alley toward the main street, Kelayan B. Later he'd lengthen his stride, and might see nothing while he ran except the ghosts of his past.

Only Pak Zaini's light was on between Abdullah's house and the musholla. He was probably getting ready to open the musholla up for morning prayers. Most people preferred to pray there in their own neighborhood. Only Friday worship drew them to the larger mosque.

He looked for the night watchman the neighborhood had hired, who sometimes sat on a bench in front of Pak Fachmi's house, but the bench was empty. Probably sleeping off his booze on someone's porch. But at least he has a job.

As he turned right on Kelayan B heading toward the intersection with Gerilya St. he remembered the Banjarmasin Post stating that Kelayan's unemployment was over forty percent and he believed it. This southern region of Banjarmasin was nicknamed Texas because of the high crime and rough-and-tough mentality of the men here. In a city where buying and selling alcohol was illegal, liquor was a staple of Kelayan life. Gambling, thievery, prostitution, murder—many of the cases around the province traced back to Kelayan. The police were very careful how they handled themselves here. Thank Allah for small favors.

He kept his slow pace traveling south, picking his way in the dark carefully around the road construction. Kelayan B Street was barely wide enough for two cars, but one third of the street was torn up to fix a leaking water pipe. The people on the left side of the street didn't need a water pipe—their homes were built on stilts four feet over the river, which functioned as their bathing facility, dishwashing water, and with neighborhood outhouses built on a short platform out over the river, their sewage system. But the people on the right side of the street had been clamoring for years for water piped into their homes so they wouldn't have to bathe or carry their laundry across the street every day, and a couple years ago the city government actually put pipes in. Of course, every so often muddy water would come out of the faucet and a construction crew would have to tear up the street to find where the leaky pipe was letting swamp water mix with the city water. But that's what happens when you build a city on a swamp.

It was 4:15 when he reached Gerilya Street peeling off to the right. Today he decided to stay with the river and continue south through Teluk Kubur, or Grave Cove. The Japanese had brought hundreds of suspected Indonesian resistance fighters here, made them kneel, then shot them through the back of the head and pushed them into the river. Abdullah tried to block that image from his mind, afraid of where it might lead.

More people were up now. He could see them taking their morning mandi in the river. Men squatted on small platforms behind their river houses scooping water over their underwear-clad bodies. Women did the same, side-by-side with the men, but covered with a sarong stretching from armpits to ankles. Some children jumped into the river playfully; others screamed as parents poured scoops of frigid water over their naked bodies. Though the water color was more chocolate than blue, a city ruled by river life exhibited its own unique charm.

Abdullah never tired of the scene. He had not grown up here on Borneo, Indonesia's largest island, but in the hills of Java. He had played in a little stream as a boy, but hadn't learned to swim till he went to boarding school in Malaysia for a year at age fifteen. His little village wasn't as densely populated as Kelayan, and he liked the crowds. Crowds meant anonymity.

He felt his feet pick up their pace naturally. His strides lengthened, more befitting a six-footer. His shaved head began to glisten with sweat. His breathing was calm and steady, for he was in nearly as good a shape now as he had been in Afghanistan. Of course then he was running for a different reason.

Stop it! Block it out! Run!

He focused on his breathing, letting it come in through his nose and out through his mouth. The sound was soothing, relaxing. He'd learned this from a counselor: regulate your breathing to calm yourself. That's about all he'd learned. Four years of chronic fatigue and depression and nightmares had been conquered by running in the mornings and returning to his silat exercises, teaching the Indonesian martial arts form to his pesantren students on Saturdays. Well, he was doing much better except for the nightmares.

He crossed a footbridge over the river and turned left, now heading back north up Kelayan A Street. This area was quieter in the early morning than Kelayan B. Famous for being the stolen-motorbike-center of Banjarmasin, most men went to bed after midnight and slept through their morning prayers. Both Kelayan A and B were practically one hundred percent Muslim neighborhoods, but that didn't mean everybody would faithfully do their five sholat prayers each day; it just meant you’d better not insult the Prophet Muhammad or you'd have a knife stuck up your gullet.

He rarely felt afraid here. Everyone knew him as a pesantren teacher. And Kelayan guys, no matter how violent or drunk they were, they took care of their own. He wasn't a Banjar, he was Javanese; yet these were his people now. His old life was over.

He jogged toward a group of men headed for the Subuh prayers at their neighborhood musholla. He thought he recognized a man who had sold him a goat last year and he raised his hand to wave, then suddenly put it down and ducking his head, crossed to the other side of the street. Who was that other guy with the bin Laden beard? Where have I seen him before? Was he in JI? Was he in Afghan? Did he recognize me?

Abdullah