Chapter 5: The Rock

“Gibraltar’s really a wonderful place,” the Uber driver said. “You lot will enjoy it.”
The SUV was big enough to take all five of them. They went through periods of speaking all at once and saying nothing as they drove through town. Suleiman looked out the window. He noticed that the pubs, university students tossing around rugby balls, English signs, and buildings that gave off the impression of a British town abruptly gave way to tea houses, kids making a football pitch out of an alleyway, Arabic letters, and buildings that looked more typically Mediterranean. To his surprise, he even noticed various versions of Insaani flags hung across this area. He pointed to one when they reached a stoplight.
“What’s up with that?” he asked. Their driver waved dismissively.
“Unionist flags. Just the mark of 3rd and 4rd gens that don’t want to assimilate.”
The teenagers all rolled their eyes, blushed or turned away. In England and France, they had heard similar statements growing up and were frankly tired of them. The light changed and the SUV turned the corner. It drove on for a few minutes before finally stopping at one of the better looking houses on the block.
“Here we are,” their driver said. Nurallah pulled out his phone and Venmoed him the money, and he was on his way. Not sure what to expect, they went up to the front and knocked on the door. No answer. They knocked again. This time, a man opened the door. He resembled Davud a great deal, but was much bulkier and stern-looking. He had the face of a hardened and bitter soldier. He took one look at the kids and turned around, walking back into the house.
“Ao,” he said. Come.
They took off their shoes at the front and followed him into his home. He lay down on a couch and motioned towards the other couches and the floor. He called out for “Fatima”, an evidently Maghrebi woman with a kind face. “Please get some atay for our guests”, he said. To the surprise of the children, he said it in Modern Standard Arabic. The woman nodded and went into the kitchen. “Yusuf, come down!” he called out in Pashto. He turned back to them. “What is it you want?” he asked them.
“We need—“ Malika, Davud’s daughter, began.
“No English!” the man ordered. “We don’t speak the tongues of Crusaders in this home.”
Malika frowned and said in Algerian Arabic, “Uncle, we need your son to help us free the world from the curse being put on it.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Are there any Maghrebis left,” he asked, “that know any Arabic other than that street language, Darija?” It was evident Malika’s feelings were hurt by the man’s cold words. They enclosed her like bars, a prison door slamming, it’s creak crying “You people will never be like us. You shall never be real Arabs.”

“Aziz!” came and angry voice from the kitchen. “What have I told you about speaking ill about how Maghrebis speak? Our Arabic is as valid as any other.”

He rolled his eyes again. Footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs. A curly-haired, dark brown-eyed, olive-skinned boy of about their age came appeared. He raised and eyebrow. “Who are they?” the boy, apparently Yusuf asked his father in Urdu.
“So,” Aziz said, “you need my son to help the world?”
“Yes,” Maryam replied. “Desperately. For the sake of Allah and His Messenger, help us.”
Aziz looked down. It seemed Maryam’s wording was something he couldn’t say no to.

“All right,” he said. “If it’s a righteous cause, he can go with you.”

“Dad, who are they?” Yusuf asked, still confused.

“They are my cousin’s children,” Aziz told him, “Which makes them like your brethren. They are Muslims and your relatives, treat them well. They have a jihad for you to embark on, so don’t screw it up.” The boys jaw dropped. He stammered, trying to find a response, when his mother came it.
“The Atay is ready,” she said. Setting up teacups for everyone, she poured it directly into the tiny glasses from an impressive height. Apart from Malika, who was Northwest African (and obviously Aziz’s family) the others had never seen anything like it. They drank the tea. It was different from chai masala. Not better, perhaps, but they was something intrinsically different about the drink, something pure and exhilarating in its taste and exciting in its aroma. Yusuf drank the most of it out of all of them.