The night is dark, as if the world, in mourning for the death of Peace, has taken on sackcloth. The pre-dawn sky is littered with stars, like pinholes of hope piercing the robe of mourning. I have stepped outside for a breath of relatively fresh air before meandering to my tent and cot for a too-brief nap between tilts at the dragons that have populated my days as of late. It is 4:30 am, and in another 3 hours I will be expected to return to battle, refreshed and renewed, while the dragons, never sleeping, breed and multiply overnight.
The night is quiet. Or, rather, the night is quiet if you don?t include the unceasing roar of the generators. It is a quiet much like that of the sea, in that the constant sound, by virtue of its own constancy, silences itself to the mind, until you are only aware of it when it is no longer there. In that way, the generators are like love, or friends, or family, or freedom itself. I am acutely aware of all of these as of late.
I hear a sound.
It is a wailing, and I instantly dismiss it as the cry of a jackal under the sliver of moon. ?He is mourning, too,? I think to myself. ?The combat and the generators have scared away the game, and he must move on, starve, or find his way into our rubbish. I mourn with you, and would that it were otherwise.? I put the thought aside, one of ten thousand images I may one day weave into one story or another poem when the dragons have fallen and the world no longer mourns.
But the sound is persistent, and is soon joined by another voice. I move closer, as if a few steps away from the generators will suddenly bring me outside of their ceaseless roar and I will have clarity. Were I not in a place of rockets and mines, I would swear the sound was a duet, perhaps two friends with wine in their bellies and song in their hearts. Gladdened by each other?s company and emboldened by the vine, they are expressing joie de vivre to counterpoint the jackal?s plaintive cry. Here, though, one would be a very great fool indeed to openly express such verve, as it would solicit the wrath of the Military Police, if not the assiduity of the sniper.
But this is not the song of the drunkard, either. There is an earnest quality to this song. The voices don?t seem to be trying to synchronize. I begin to recognize the call.
?Ash-hadu anna Muhammadar Rasulullah
Hayya alassalah
Hayya alassalah.?
?I testify that Mohammad is the Messenger of God.
Come to prayer. Come to prayer.?
I know, now, that somewhere nearby, there are people gathering to give honor to their God. I am not of their culture, and I do not practice their ways. Were I to walk up to where they are, I would not be welcome. It would be considered a grave insult if I were to be so bold. I do not know if they will be petitioning for my protection, or my destruction. I am certain that, among them, there are some that would rejoice at my death, and a few that would actively participate in it.
And yet I find comfort in the sound, alien to me as it is. There is something within me that echoes the need to cry out to the Almighty. And in spite of the differences in language, and in practice, I feel that, were all men to spend time calling out to God, and perhaps listening as well, the dragons might, indeed, grow quiet at last, and sackcloth of the world might be cast off.
I listen a bit longer, and then make my way through the gravel to my tent and cot. Somehow, even before I sleep, I am feeling renewed. Perhaps it is the hope that one day, if I am smart enough, and strong enough, this place will be at peace, and others may come and hear the call to prayer, as I have tonight. Hope is a strong tonic, indeed.
As I take a last glance at the night sky, it seems the stars are just a little brighter.