Mohammed, the man I killed, wakes me.

“It is quiet, Johnny,” he says.

“So?” I look at his eyes,

the only bright spot on his body.

“Much too quiet.”

Mohammed is hard to understand but

I can see his thoughts.

He’s worried that something

is about to explode.

“Insha’Allah,” he says, “things are changing.”

“Like Allah will make us less dead?”

Mohammed’s been in denial since we got here.

“May Allah give us more to see than fighting and

killing when we look upon the earth,” he says.

“Don’t count on it,” I tell him; “there will always

be another war somewhere to watch.”

His expression withers so I ask him, “What

could make this infernal watching bearable?”

“Hassan’s face,” he replies with a broad smile.

“Wouldn’t that make you more miserable?”

“No, Johnny, no. When I see Hassan, then

somehow, I will make my son hear me.”

“What good will that do?”

“I will tell him I am fine.”

“Fine? Mohammed, you’re fucking dead.”

He places his hand over his heart.

“I will tell him I love him.” Again he looks

hopeful. “We should be friends, Johnny.”

“Why?”

“Because for eternity you may be the only

person in Paradise for me to talk to.”

“Getting chummy won’t change anything.”

“Yes, but for Hassan I must put hatred

aside and become a better man.”

“By forgiving me for killing you?”

This man is incredible.

Mohammed shrugs. “You shoot me,

I shoot you. We both die. Friends now?”

“Why the hell not,” I say to stop him from praying.

“Do not make fun of me, Johnny.”

“Look at my thoughts if you don’t believe me.”

Mohammed protests, “Never would I

“violate you in that way.”

“For Christ’s sake, why not?”

“Is it not wrong to take your

Lord’s name in vain?”

A fool and his sermons.

And Mohammed thinks this is paradise.

“Johnny,” Mohammed pulls on my arm.

“Look, down there.”

Soldiers pour from their tanks, shouting,

Women emerge, laughing and singing,

coaxing the soldiers to dance.

Mohammed waves wildly at a boy

who is looking straight at us.

An officer raises his fist as he calls out,

“It’s over.”

“Thank God,” I cry as I grab Mohammed.

“I am a fool my friend,” he says, “but praise

Allah you are not the infidel you try to be.”