Chapter One: Encounter
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Regardless of the circumstances that led me to this café brimming with silence, I sat staring into emptiness, my pupils resting on the dark color that adorned the table. I didn’t shift from that posture until the café owner came over as a guest. I felt compelled to repay his kindness, for he prioritized comforting his customers over his nightly efforts to earn a raise from his boss.
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His boss, as he described with stern intensity, made no distinction between a hard-working employee and a stray dog; the few pounds earned were, in his eyes, no more than a crumb tossed generously to the latter.
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When he finished his rambling—oscillating between “what can we do in this short life” and “curse that master’s degree! It landed me between drunken tables!”—he wrapped me in a gaze filled with expectation and curiosity. Likely, when he widened his gaze to include the ornate ceiling and narrowed it to cover the “drunkards” with their juices of the land and sea, he was trying to deflect the accusation of intrusion.
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So I aided his effort by confessing:
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> “War... and what do you know of war... fierce, it overturns thoughts into things no calm homeland can fathom.
You, sir, are not surrounded by drunkards, but by others like you—those who see in life only labor and sustenance.”
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Then I bowed my head in a way that urged the viewer to leave.
I suppose Sahwanda is a land rich with fruit, including a strange one: cold in summer, but heats instantly when it touches boiling water, dissolving into the depths without releasing steam. Truly, a perfect metaphor for a despairing soul like mine.
But before I could drown in metaphors, I shouted my order—for if you are the last in line seeking something, you must roar louder than a dinosaur to have your voice reach the front—asking for a new drink without a hint of heat.
Then I cloaked myself in a sweater of metaphors, wearing it devoid of emotion. Yes, the sweater is imagined, but doesn't imagination leave traces? Why won’t my tears fall? And just as I was about to analyze my pain, he returned, the air now fogged by food steam. He handed me a photo of his grandfather and took a seat, launching into a tale of olden times—of the Tulankalua clan’s valor against the Sidi Talutulu tribe. Then he whispered:
> “Come, I’ll show you some memorabilia.”
Though I firmly believed his clan’s heroics were nothing but empty boasts—half a squad of arrow-throwers attacking ships they didn’t know who manned, let alone assuming they were another tribe—I believed more strongly that history is written by the victors.
And with that—though I hesitate to call it “usual” since it was the first time someone invited me to a museum—I followed my new companion to the memorabilia of events witnessed by Sahwanda.
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Chapter Two: Purpose
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As soon as I stepped into the museum, barely had I begun to marvel at the medals and weapons hanging in every corner when the door slammed shut. A masked figure revealed himself, exchanged sly glances with my companion, and approached dramatically, repeatedly accusing me in a twisted tongue:
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> “Coward… Cowaaaard… COWAAARRD…”
He continued until my companion gestured for him to stop.
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I asked politely, arms folded like a teacher witnessing a breach of decorum:
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Then he straightened and declared:
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> “From now on, I will teach you courage! And before you question me, know this: I know your story. You’re a runaway, yet your conscience haunts you. I know you plan to return—to be a hero!”
I replied, my gaze returning upward, drawing tears back:
> “If I were a cat stronger than its mouse enemy, I would take on the nature of a tribe more numerous than its foe.
He laughed awkwardly, masking discomfort, and said:
> “Still convinced our tribe isn't a victim of any flood?”
> “Spare me your tribe, spare me all these lectures that ignore the horror witnessed by two nearly-blinded eyes. You don’t under—”
> “I understand well… The past isn’t far. The bottom line is—I want to train you. Believe me, I have what it takes. I’m not just a waiter!”
Strange, how just a minute ago I feared change—maybe due to loneliness, or because I’d never heard words like my companion’s that lit a fire within me. A fire that burned away weakness.
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What matters is I stood with youthful defiance. The last time—no, the first time—I stood like that was when I buried the wreckage. Was I wrong to bury it?
I never got the chance to bury those under it. No matter. The sound of tanks doesn’t differentiate between kind words and tradition.
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And with my declaration, “I’m all in!” a new chapter of courage began.
Chapter Three: Training
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> “I won’t look at your woman even if her face is veiled.”
“Conservative, then. I respect conservatives.”
“Even if I were a scoundrel, I wouldn’t peek.”
“Out of fear of punishment, of course.”
“No. Because a scoundrel needs repentance more than the honorable.”
“And how do you know it’s a woman in the first place?”
“The veil couldn’t hide her gentle voice. Every voice I heard before fleeing was female. The occupier loves no sight more than a woman—and their second favorite is her unborn child crucified.”
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This short debate crystallized into the moment he took the shield from her and sent her to the kitchen, drops of feminist displeasure in the air.
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I composed myself, clawed at the ground like a charging bull. At the signal from the man who was a waiter, then friend, now trainer, I lunged like a spear, slightly denting his shield.
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> “Is a shield made of wood scales too much for you?” he mocked my failed attempt, as I rubbed my head and braced myself.
> “Zarward bark is tough. Beautiful, like most of this island’s plants.”
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You may think it was I who made this excuse—I who stood mouth agape at Sahwanda’s green miracles—but that was actually my companion’s own reflection. No sooner did he finish speaking than he snapped his fingers with a new idea.
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Chapter Four: Turning Point
Training shifted—now more spiritual than physical. My companion lit a candle, directed its light toward the lone window, and said with sarcasm:
> “Silly me! I, even with my cunning, expect a man to flip a tank, burn a plane, and save a baby at once? But an idea came to me... see that barren tree? It only produces wooden cubes!
Do you know why?”
> “It adapted to a hostile environment. Let me guess: it used to be harvested out of season, so it evolved a survival trait—bearing only wood.”
> “Close. In truth, people ignored its bright fruit and cut its trunk without care. So it biologically adapted.”
We both fell silent under the moonlight. Just as I was about to leave, he looked at me with a pity that could be felt from a mile away and confessed:
> “I’m nothing more than a waiter. My master’s in agricultural engineering was shredded by the employment bureau. But I comfort myself: it’s fate’s sweetness. And the sweetest sweetness is moderation.
Even the tree, oh—sorry, I didn’t ask your name?”
> “Fadi.”
> “Even the tree, Fadi, rebelled. A kind of civil disobedience. So why not you? Please… let me be the reason you flourish!”
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I wasn’t shocked as much as deeply moved by this farce destiny had paved for me. I came seeking nothing but a cold drink—now I’m reborn, a phoenix from a rooster in no time! A powerful lesson indeed.
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I bade him farewell with a smile full of sincerity and appreciation, my lips answering his plea without needing to move.
> “As long as I won’t be tortured or killed, I’ll play your game until you’re satisfied with yourself.”
That’s what I thought—unaware that truth was about to pour into my wounded soul.
And truth… isn’t served on a silver platter. Blessed is the seeker.
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Chapter Five: The Flash-Ender
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He walked, slouched, head down, through the streets. His eyes had grown too weak to see clearly—and he considered that a blessing, not a curse. For over two hours, all he had seen was destruction and ruin in every corner his eyes touched. Even when he reached the city center, every shape of suffering—emotional and physical—greeted him.
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When his exhaustion reached its peak, and his spirit teetered on the edge, he began to imagine.
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Before the war, he used to dream of cartoons, games, and paradise. But after the child's wondrous imagination disappeared, what remained was fire and wreckage.
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He looked at a towering building ahead and imagined a missile grazing it, bringing down its tightly stacked structure. As the image played in his mind, the same vision unfolded before him—real, destructive—and he could no longer tell the difference between imagination and its physical manifestation, not until he was met by a storm of sharp metal shrapnel.
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> Author's Note: The narration here is not autobiographical, because the hero is still a child.
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Chapter Six: A Light at the End of the Tunnel
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The first life lesson I learned came from Uncle Shukri while he was treating my shrapnel wounds. That was nearly 20 years ago. Yet his words still echo sweetly as I now sit on the nearest flight returning to Falston:
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> "God granted His servants minds, and inspired them with knowledge, so they could be a support for one another."
You were right, Uncle Shukri. If your pure soul hasn't yet left your body, then you will be one of the witnesses—witnesses to the new Fadi!
To the defiant savior!
And to a tree that bears fruit beneficial to all.
Chapter Seven: Final Word is News
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> “Trees! Trees!” her husband shouted like a madman. She, terrified, responded:
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“Trees? What madness are you on about?!”
> “That boy we kidnapped like misguided philanthropists—he… he got an idea from… points that wooden tree… an idea for a bomb…
A tree… a weapon of liberation…”
> “Damn it, look at the newspaper!”
She put on her hat with the attached glasses (not for sight—just fashion, as she believed), pulled them down, and was stunned by the headline:
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> “A man-made agricultural weapon annihilates the colony of Srael.”
"سلاح زراعي من صنع رجل يُبيد مستعمرة سْرَئِل"
The End.
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