Saleem felt very much like an outsider at the moment.
“What’s going on?” Hakeem called out.
“Get Akbar!” yelled one of the men. “It’s Naeem! He was killed at the port today! They are bringing his body back.”
CHAPTER 43
Saleem
AKBAR WAS NOT A REAL MULLAH. HE HAD NEVER BEEN FORMALLY trained in religion, but he was one of the oldest in the camp and had a decent repertoire of suras committed to memory. More important, he had a soothing, convincing tone that filled the gaps in his qualifications.
Only when the body was brought back to the camp did Saleem realize Naeem was the one under the truck, the boy who urged Saleem to find a different truck.
Naeem had nearly made it onto the ship before he lost his grip and slipped from the truck’s undercarriage. The exhaust fumes had likely dizzied him. As the truck rumbled toward the ship, the driver felt a grotesque thump under his tires and the hollering of voices in the distance. He had let out a bloodcurdling screech to find Naeem’s mangled body under his bloody tires.
The few Afghans who lingered watched from a distance and saw the boy fall, roll, and twist under the tires. They were too far to do anything but fall to their knees and cry out. By the time they reached the truck, there was nothing left to do but gather his body.
Naeem hung limply, carried by two men. As they neared, the gruesome details came into focus. His face and body were purple with massive bruising. His left forearm dangled absurdly from the elbow.
Saleem looked away. He felt his stomach reel and closed his eyes. He walked slowly, then quickly, then ran to the latrines on the outer corner of the camp. His stomach emptied once, twice, three times. He breathed deeply and remembered the determined look on Naeem’s face. He had nearly made it. Nearly.
Akbar gave out the instructions. He would be buried that very evening. Haste was dictated both by Islamic guidelines and by the hushed concern that the local authorities would step in. They washed Naeem’s still form and wrapped him in a white sheet, as was done back home. They chose to bury him in a wooded area near the camp, thick with trees.
There was a hum through the community that the police might come into the settlement but they never did. They had no interest in walking through the tarp-covered shacks. They cared only when the chaos spilled out into the rest of Patras.
Akbar instructed the men to stand side by side. They faced the direction of Mecca, Naeem’s body laid out before them. Saleem joined the others, though he wished he could be anywhere else. Ali stood at his side, tears running down his face. Solemnly and in unison, they followed Akbar’s lead. They formed three rows, about fifty men total, heads lowered and hands folded just below their navels, their elbows tucked at their sides. Akbar led the incantations. They whispered the verses together. Fingertips moved to their ears and back in synchronized motions.
Saleem had not prayed since his father’s death, but the dua rolled off his tongue naturally. It was a whisper he’d said a thousand times as a child, sounds that spoke of a shared experience, a common path to healing. He felt supported by the strangers standing around him. Prayer was a journey in itself, taking him home in a quiet verse. He moved with the others and he understood. There was nothing but a single breath between them and Naeem. A single devastating moment could return any of them to the dust from which they came. Naeem was close enough to touch and yet irrevocably unreachable.
Saleem prayed over the young man’s body out of respect. Out of guilt. Out of fear. It could have been him under that truck. It could have been his body lying here before strangers.