Diyala

Introduction
Written some time in 2005, before Abu Musab al-Zarqawi was killed in a US air strike. Only minor changes such as spelling have been made since.

Diyala
By Zay

Diyala Governate, Iraq, just south of Baqubah.

Three Toyota pickups sped down a road toward a farmhouse kicking up plumes of dust into the air behind them. The pickups drove with a restrained hurriedness; Abu Musab al-Zarqawi rode in the second vehicle. They did not want to attract any attention to their convoy.

The three pickups stopped inside the farmyard and al-Zarqawi and his advisors got out. The door to the farmhouse opened to admit them and they disappeared inside.

“Ah, Mr. Zarqawi! We’ve been waiting for you!” smiled the man at the door, showing him into the living room. Mats had been placed on the floor and a low-lying table sat prepared with hummus and pita.

“It took us longer than we expected, Aziz, my friend,” replied al-Zarqawi. “The Americans have setup a checkpoint since our last meeting. We had to take a detour through the back roads to get around it. It added a good hour and a half to our journey. I hope the hummus is not cold.”

“Alas, Mr. Zarqawi, but we in Baqubah do not heat our hummus,” smiled Aziz and gestured towards the mats. “Please, take a seat.”

They sat down cross-legged on the mats. Al-Zarqawi took a piece of pita bread from the basket in the middle of the table and sliced it in half with a knife, pressing on either side to open the pocket.

“Aziz, the pita is not risen. Have you been buying it from the store?” asked Al-Zarqawi, giving up on trying to open the nonexistent pocket. “I much enjoyed your homemade pita during our last visit. I was hoping we could have it again.”

“It is homemade, Mr. Zarqawi,” replied Aziz apologetically. “My wife spent many hours preparing them. I do not know why not risen. I admit they are of low quality, yet it puzzles me. Sharifah usually makes pita that even Allah might find worthy of praise.”

“Perhaps the yeast was old,” suggested al-Zarqawi.

“Perhaps,” nodded Aziz.

“Do not worry yourself, Aziz,” smiled al-Zarqawi, placing his hand on Aziz’s shoulder. “I shall eat it like as a taco.”

Aziz smiled in relief and al-Zarqawi heaped a spoonful of hummus onto his pita bread and slowly spread it out. His eyes searched the table for a moment.

“Pray, do you have any olive oil?” asked al-Zarqawi.

Aziz nodded. “Sharifah!”

A woman in a full-body black burqa scuffled into the room. She paused for a moment looking at al-Zarqawi then quickly averted her eyes.

“Sharifah, our guest would like some olive oil for his hummus,” explained Aziz.

She stared at Aziz uncomprehendingly.

“Sharifah?” asked Aziz inquiringly. “Olive oil...?”

She nodded hastily and hurriedly backed out of the room into the kitchen.

“Much apologies, Mr. Zarqawi,” said Aziz, looking at al-Zarqawi. “My wife has not been acting normal lately.”

Meanwhile in the kitchen Sharifah was leafing through the Lonely Planet — the Middle East she had just pulled out of her burqa.

Tentatively al-Zarqawi took a bite out of his hummus and pita taco. He tested the flavors in his mouth and reluctantly swallowed. From the other side of the table Aziz stared at him apologetically.



Suddenly there was a loud spleking sound. All heads turned to see Sheik Abd-Al-Rahman, Al-Zarqawi’s spiritual adviser, had collapsed face-first into the bowl of hummus.

Aziz leaped up from the table and pulled Rahman’s head out of the bowl of hummus and frantically listened for his heartbeat and felt for his pulse.

“He’s dead!” screamed Aziz. “Sharifah! What have you put in the food?!?” Suddenly he looked back and froze.

Sharifah was standing at the head of the table with an AK47. “Say hello,” smiled Isaiah, ripping off his veil, “To my little friend.”

Unfortunately at that moment there was an American air strike.



Epilogue

Al-Zarqawi’s spirit rose through the mists.

“You have done well, my friend,” said a voice.

“Allah?” gasped al-Zarqawi.

“It is I, Allah,” replied the Voice of Allah.

“Where am I?”

“You are in the Garden.”

Time passed in silence. The mists rose and fell.

“You have served me well,” said the voice. A hand appeared out of the mist. “Come, and receive now your reward.”

Al-Zarqawi stumbled forward and cupped his hands under it. The hand let fall seventy small white objects and receded into the mist.

“What—what are they?”

“Raisins.”

“Raisins?” frowned al-Zarqawi.

“Yes, raisins. What’d you think they were?” asked Allah.

“Well, er, um,” al-Zarqawi’s eyes darted back and forth.

“You have read the Koran. Does it not say, He who gives his life in the name of Allah shall live in the Garden after his death, and Allah shall give him seventy white raisins?”

“…I thought that you meant… er…”

“And you shall stay forever in the Garden in companionship with your raisins to the end of time?”

Zarqawi tugged at his beard, looking frantically back and forth in the mists.

“Allah?” whispered Zarqawi at last.

“Yes?”

“Um, you see, I kinda thought you meant, er…” he coughed and raised his eyebrows, gesticulating. "Virgins."

“Don’t be ridiculous. Houri has a clearly Syro-Aramaic root, and,” sighed Allah, “if properly interpreted with dialects spoken at the time of prophet Mohammed it's just a kinda weird name for a type of raisin. Like, uh, extra virgin olive oil or what have you.”

Zarqawi tore at his beard, his eye twitching uncontrollably.

“Oh, come on!” grumbled Allah, indignantly. “Have you even tried the raisins?”