The first thing he heard when he entered his apartment was his mother's admonishing, "Aadil, you were out there again, weren't you?"
It was a silly thing to ask, really, because the evidence was with the kaffiyeh around his face and rifle slung over his shoulder. She took them from him and set them aside as if they were as harmless as the bag of fruit Aadil had put in the cob of his djellaba.
"You know your father doesn't like when you go around with those radicals. There's no point in their animosity," she clucked, taking the fruit to put in the cold drawer. She returned with an intricate blue and white taqiyah that she gave to her son. Aadil put it on without fuss.
In reality, he preferred the kaffiyeh. There was something comforting in the patterned scarf giving him anonymity. That being said, he did feel the entire purpose of these 'radicals' (honestly one of the tamer things they've been called) was rather... well, stupid.
"I know you don't believe in their cause," his mother went on saying as she made a small snack for the boy, "and our family is more than able to live comfortably." She paused to give her son a knowing look and a small smile, "And I know you are not as devoted a Muslim as your father, let alone like your radical friends. So why do you keep going to that dangerous place?"
Aadil sat himself in a chair, kicking his legs out like the child he still was. As his mother placed a leafy omelet bocadillo and sweet yogurt drink in front of him, Aadil thought about that forgotten brick house half buried in the sand. He thought about the sun that was too bright and desert wind that stung. He thought of the familiar weight of the rifle and the feel of taking it apart, the smell of cleaning it, of firing it, the way the clips were too big for his still-growing hands. When everyone gathered together in a group, focused on a talk, a mission, on training. They pressed in shoulder to shoulder, body heat making the day all the hotter.
He looked up at his mother with his mismatched eyes and told her, "It's comfortable."
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timeasmymeasure
Roadbuster - 13
Date: 2009-09-06 06:37 pm (UTC)---
The first thing he heard when he entered his apartment was his mother's admonishing, "Aadil, you were out there again, weren't you?"
It was a silly thing to ask, really, because the evidence was with the kaffiyeh around his face and rifle slung over his shoulder. She took them from him and set them aside as if they were as harmless as the bag of fruit Aadil had put in the cob of his djellaba.
"You know your father doesn't like when you go around with those radicals. There's no point in their animosity," she clucked, taking the fruit to put in the cold drawer. She returned with an intricate blue and white taqiyah that she gave to her son. Aadil put it on without fuss.
In reality, he preferred the kaffiyeh. There was something comforting in the patterned scarf giving him anonymity. That being said, he did feel the entire purpose of these 'radicals' (honestly one of the tamer things they've been called) was rather... well, stupid.
"I know you don't believe in their cause," his mother went on saying as she made a small snack for the boy, "and our family is more than able to live comfortably." She paused to give her son a knowing look and a small smile, "And I know you are not as devoted a Muslim as your father, let alone like your radical friends. So why do you keep going to that dangerous place?"
Aadil sat himself in a chair, kicking his legs out like the child he still was. As his mother placed a leafy omelet bocadillo and sweet yogurt drink in front of him, Aadil thought about that forgotten brick house half buried in the sand. He thought about the sun that was too bright and desert wind that stung. He thought of the familiar weight of the rifle and the feel of taking it apart, the smell of cleaning it, of firing it, the way the clips were too big for his still-growing hands. When everyone gathered together in a group, focused on a talk, a mission, on training. They pressed in shoulder to shoulder, body heat making the day all the hotter.
He looked up at his mother with his mismatched eyes and told her, "It's comfortable."