Rashad was scared. Not only was his mother and sister recently killed, but now he was being dragged into a place he had never been to before with total and complete strangers who viewed him as an asset rather than as a human being. He knew what they wanted out of him. Mama would always tell him that these men meant trouble. But as of right now, these men were the only people willing to lend him a helping hand—even if the helping hand must be paid back with two hands and probably a foot or two.

The camp was in a valley shaded by the towering cliffs surrounding it. Water was drawn from a lagoon nearby in the mountains. The lagoon drew its source from a river the men roughly called, "Trickle-Down River" or the Trickle for short. The river sourced its water up in the mountains and the lagoon was the last spot it reached without evaporating in the heat. The Trickle used to reach the valley and stop at what's now a dusty crater. Rising temperatures evaporated what little water was left in the crater. Originally the settlement could count on the water being there at least during late fall and into early spring, a short period since Yemen never really had a winter. In reality they barely got away with three seasons. That has now been cut down to two—spring and summer, where the temperature varied from 120 degrees Fahrenheit in the summer to 80 degrees in the cooler spring.

To retrieve the water from the lagoon, young children and women climbed the cliffs with buckets and came back down with water for the settlement of over 300 people. The children did this to train. It built endurance, dexterity and swiftness. The women did it as part of their task in maintaining the household and the family. Meanwhile, men either hunted whatever game was in the valley, developed weapons that could easily be concealed, and some instructed the children in education and trained them to become soldiers for Allah.

Rashad saw the places they called homes in the settlement. He already could begin making class distinctions. The best people got their homes carved into the cliffs, the peasants—well they lived in tents and some just slept out in the open. The hooded man led Rashad across the settlement. For a small village, where people should take note of any newcomers, few even acknowledged Rashad's existence. 

There were two reasons Rashad could think of to explain this lack of introduction. The first was the companion he was traveling with; Rashad feared the man, and although he was only 14, what teenagers usually fear also scares adults as well. This hooded man commanded respect. His brown robes seemed to be made of hardened wet sand. The wind made his robes crackle, like thunder itself was booming through the settlement. Rashad could see why no one would pull him away from a man who looked like a walking storm.

But then there was the other option, the option that scared him even more than the man next to him. The settlers refused to acknowledge him because they knew he would never become one of them. A young boy recruited from another village, like Rashad—well they didn't usually stick around long enough to make any friends. They are quickly trained and shipped off on an assignment—almost all of them never return—if they know what's good for them. Better to die for Allah then to return having disappointed Him.

So either the settlers fear the man he walks with or see him as a dead man walking already. Either way this appeared to be a solitary stay. Good, he thought. Rather be left alone then to have to deal with people right now. Yet deep down inside Rashad knew he needed comfort. After all, it was in search for solace that he took the hooded man's hand. He sought people to fill in for the family he had lost.

The hooded man stopped at a tent. He pried it open for Rashad to enter and followed behind him. Once inside he withdrew his hood and opened up his dark brown robe. Underneath Rashad saw a sling around his shoulder. He whipped the sling around and revealed an assault rifle, the AK-87. Rashad knew little about the gun other than it was the choice weapon for soldiers across the country.

The hooded man removed his hooded robe, and noticed Rashad staring at the weapon. "Have you ever held one of these before?"

Rashad shook his head. The closest thing he's held to a weapon was a butcher knife while helping his mother prepare lamb.

The man beckoned him. "Go on and grab it."

Rashad was hesitant at first. Was this a trick? Would he see him grab the rifle and then pull out another weapon to attack Rashad thinking he was going to kill the man?

The man saw Rashad hesitate and the hooded man walked over to a withered wooden chair in the corner of the tent. "I won't move. Go ahead and hold the gun."

Rashad still didn't wish to grab the gun, but he motioned forward slowly. Rashad had no clue as to what this man was planning. All he hoped was that he didn't end up dead within the next few minutes because of this stunt.

Rashad grabbed the rifle and held it up, aiming at the flimsy wall with the man sitting behind him.

"Turn to me," the man ordered.

Rashad turned to him with the gun resting at his side.

The man pointed out at the gun. "I didn't say to lower your weapon."

Rashad raised the weapon back to shoulder length aiming at the air above where the man was sitting.

"Lower the aim."

Rashad vacillated. Was this man mad? He wants me to aim his gun at him?

After a brief delay, Rashad did as he was told. Surely he wouldn't ask him to...

"Pull the trigger."

"No," Rashad finally spoke. "I will not kill you."

The man pinched his black beard with his right hand. He wore poorly made sweats, with the wool sticking out as if the sweats were reaching up for something. His shirt was cotton white. The man's curly hair rolled down his shoulders like a slinky down the stairs. Rashad noticed the man turn his neck around, almost in disapproval of Rashad's kindness. While he shook his head, Rashad noticed the two scars on both sides of his temples: the one on his left was the mathematical pi symbol, and on the right was the Greek Omega symbol with a line splitting it in half. Rashad had no clue what those symbols meant.

"The boy I met three years ago would've strangled me for laying a hand on his mother. What happened to him?"

True, Rashad thought, but right now you're all I got.

The man must be a mind reader. "Sometimes you have to sacrifice those closest to you in order to achieve greater things for the common good."

Was this man implying that he was close to me? No, not at all. I hardly even know his name. Then what is he trying to say?

Then the man clarified. "Even those we love can impede us on our path to paradise. Lose the distractions, and you'll be born anew."

Was this man crazy? Loved ones encourage us to take on new challenges; they don't impede us. Cutting off loved ones was cutting off our reasons for living. Rashad was battling this man's philosophy in his head. With his mother and sister gone, he had lost another reason to live, not a reason to move on. He didn't sacrifice his family because sacrifice was a choice. He lost his family because loss was a decision made for you.

The man snapped him back into the moment. "Now pull the trigger."

Rashad's mind was racing. He will not kill another person, not now, not ever. If he wanted him to pull the trigger, then fine.

Rashad turned the assault rifle against his own temple. "Still want me to pull it?" he said with tears in his eyes.

"Yes," the man studied Rashad.

Rashad closed his eyes, his heart beating its way out of his chest, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Rashad pulled the gun away. He was breathing rapidly as he studied the gun; then he turned to the man who stood up. The man walked over to him, grabbed the gun and held it with one hand in front of him.

He demonstrated. "Safety's on." He clicked the safety off and fired a shot across the tent and the bullet tore a hole in the tent and disappeared into the wilderness. A draft of dust and sand filled the hole along with the whispering of the wind.

The man turned the safety back on and placed the gun back down on the table. He headed back to his seat and sat down. "A man willing to kill himself rather than his own family—maybe you are the boy I met three years ago. You have much to learn, but you are as capable as anyone. If your father were here, you would have made him proud."

For Rashad, the world paused for a moment at the mentioning of his father. "You knew my father."

The man leaned forward. "Look at me Rashad. Really look at me."

Rashad realized that he never told this man his name, but then again he might have—his mind was simply on the fritz right now. Rashad leaned forward and studied the man, and he noticed some minor resemblances. His eyelashes curved upwards, just like his, and his eyes were the same almond color. His skin was as rich as mocha.

Rashad stuttered. "You're—you're not my father—are you?"

The man smiled, "Smart," ignoring the inflection that made Rashad's response more of a question than a definitive answer. He continued. "But there's something, right?"

Rashad knew there was something familiar about this guy, even if he had never met him before. But he was lost. "I'm not sure."

"I'll hand you the fish this time only. I'm your uncle. My name is Jaheim Hani. Your father Kalheim was my brother."

Immediately a million questions ran through his head. He began spitting them all out like a printer with a millions tasks at hand. "What happened to him? Does my mother know? Why haven't I seen you more often? Where am I? Why are you trying to recruit me? Why am I here? Why? Why? Why?"

Rashad ended his sequence of questions in anger and then collapsed into tears within the palms of his hands.

Jaheim stood up and patted Rashad on his shoulder and repeated. "Sometimes you have to sacrifice those closest to you in order to achieve greater things for the common good." He paused for a second, as if dwelling upon his own sacrifices. Rashad couldn't help wondering: was my father one of these sacrifices? Did Jaheim witness his brother's death like I saw my sister and mother crushed to death?

Jaheim extended his hand and called to Rashad. "I will try to answer all of your questions soon. You have already made the sacrifice, now let me show you how you'll contribute to the common good."