“A candle appearing in a dream is a good sign, especially if it is brightly lit,” Sufyan explained, enthusiastically assuming the role of a mufti, and gesticulating wildly. “For a bachelor it means a wife is on the horizon. For a married man, it means children. For someone lost, it means divine guidance. And for the poor, it means wealth. But if the flame is dim, that is evidence of weakness, but it will still lead you to the right path.”
“Sufyan, what book did you read this interpretation in?” Ibrahim asked in a sleepy voice, hoping to show interest even though he already knew the answer.
“The Interpretation of Dreams by Ibn Sirin.”
Sufyan’s reply to Ibrahim was authoritative and gruff, and he immediately turned his attention back to Driss, probing him as if pushing him to confess to something he wasn’t comfortable with. This was the third time in less than a week that Driss had asked for the explanation of the candle dream. Sufyan wondered if he was trying to tell him something. Was there some secret causing this repeated inquiry? Sufyan crossed his arms, a position he adopted only when he was about to give a prognostication.
“Be honest with me, Driss,” he said, tightening his lips and coughing. “You know there is no shame in faith. Are you playing with yourself?”
Ibrahim couldn’t hold back a smirk, but a stern look from Sufyan paralyzed him. Driss turned around, pretending to spit in the corner. He had to answer, but he was always pitiful when talking about anything personal.
“What do you mean, Sufyan?”
“I mean, are you masturbating?”
Driss was clearly frustrated, but he tried to seem calm. It was just as hard for him to tell a lie as it was to confess. Driss remained silent, and then Sufyan started in on his legal opinion, like he was reading straight from a book.
“Masturbation, brothers, is prohibited in the sharia for men and women, the married and unmarried, due to its unhealthy repercussions. If semen is produced, proper cleansing must follow. The best way to rid yourself of this habit is abstinence, and then by seeking marriage, through God’s guidance. We need to understand that it is prohibited and resist these urges, just as we need to constantly remember our own mortality.
“Resist the urge, and stop this altogether,” Sufyan said, laying a hand on Driss’s shoulder.
Ibrahim tried to hide his smirk again. He was concerned that Sufyan was going to begin questioning him, so he beat him to it, by speaking up quickly to change the subject. Ibrahim asked about the war in Iraq and Syria, a topic Sufyan never tired of, and asked how his travel preparations were coming along.
“I received orders to be extra cautious,” Sufyan said, answering him curtly. “There are spies all over the neighborhoods that send fighters to Syria and Iraq.”
Driss spat in the corner. “Death to traitors, spies, and state security!” he proclaimed heatedly.
“I will depart soon, inshallah, with the help of our brothers,” Sufyan said quietly. “When I arrive I’ll get my mission, along with the brothers arriving from all over the Islamic world.”
“I’d love to die as a martyr in Iraq or Syria,” Driss said, looking at Sufyan with admiration.
“Your turns will come soon, inshallah,” Sufyan said, patting Driss on the shoulder and gesturing toward Ibrahim.
“True Islam won’t be achieved,” Sufyan said passionately, “until the Islamic State, with its capital of Baghdad, is established. Islam is an all-encompassing system that governs every single aspect of life, and is intended for everyone. Islam guides the individual, the sword conquers and subjugates, and the tank and warplane kill those who renounce Islam while coercing others to embrace it. Islam is a faith that supersedes other faiths present in this world, and therefore there is no use in considering interfaith dialogue or peacefully coexisting. The mujahideen are striving to eliminate all political systems because each is an embodiment of the false idols the Quran commands us to destroy. Jihad is the only way we can establish God’s kingdom on earth, and martyring yourself by blowing yourself up allows you to reach the highest rungs of heaven. Because of that, I’m looking forward to death and meeting my divine maker. I’m going to cross the borders and join the mujahideen. I won’t be taken prisoner. I’ll enter Syria by God’s will and I’ll transform my body into a bomb that blasts the enemy into pieces! I’ll make their heretical brains—”
He suddenly stopped talking. They’d heard noises, which turned out to be a car parking not too far away. Was it the secret police? After the most recent terrorist attacks that had rocked Casablanca, this neighborhood had been under close observation by the authorities. The three friends froze. The hair on the backs of their necks stood on end as they watched a young woman get out of a Mercedes and slam the door. They made out a gray-haired older man shaking his fist and yelling unintelligibly before racing off.
Nezha raised her head, frozen in place. Her heart was pounding. Standing there with her breasts spilling out of her shirt, wearing a short skirt, and eyes swollen and red, she seemed out of place. She stared at what looked like ghosts under the lamppost. She had not anticipated seeing anyone. She had never returned at this time before, nor in such a scandalous way. Normally when she was out at night she wouldn’t return until the next afternoon, with groceries or other necessities in hand, getting dropped off by a cab right in front of their house—and then disappearing inside in an instant. But right now, she was completely exposed in the early-morning light, and there was no turning back. She had no idea what would come of this. She lowered her head, pulled her dress down—it barely covered half of her thighs anyway—and tried her best not to stagger. She had no choice but to pass within a few steps of them. She smiled in an attempt to drive back the fear that coursed through her, and walked past them. Had she been able to look up, she would have seen her brother Ibrahim. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets and burning with rage. His face was ashen and he was short of breath as sweat began to bead on his forehead. The feelings of shame were more than he could bear. His muscles tensed and all the emotion paralyzed him. Nezha continued walking in her high heels. Sufyan and Driss didn’t stop watching until she disappeared into the house.
Ibrahim remained as still as a statue.
Sufyan cleared his throat and tugged on his thick beard, as if he wanted to pull it out.
“Before we think about jihad in Iraq and Syria,” Sufyan said in a calm voice, “we need to wage jihad in our own neighborhood. This just confirms that we have been right all along. And now you’ve seen, Ibrahim, with your own eyes, the state of your sister. And the nerve of that driver! Dropping her off like that in our neighborhood.”
“If that was my sister, I’d kill her,” said Driss, shaking with rage as he looked at Ibrahim.
Ibrahim said nothing. Despair and depression were written all over his pale face. How he wished for a cigarette right now, despite having quit years ago. His friends’ words felt like nails being hammered into his head, and he couldn’t change the subject this time. He opened his mouth to say something but Sufyan cut him off sternly, as if he had no right to speak.
“How many times did I warn you, Ibrahim, to keep an eye on your sister, to tell her to stop wearing makeup and force her to wear the veil?”
Ibrahim looked up, still unable to believe what had happened.
“Kandahar is one of the most virtuous neighborhoods in the city, and one of its women returns drunk and half naked at daybreak? By God, the All-Powerful, who will rid this neighborhood of its filth?” Sufyan kept repeating himself and pacing, beating his chest feverishly. Then he glared disapprovingly at Ibrahim. “Do you know what a diyouth
is, Ibrahim?”
“A diyouth is someone who sees evil in