Prayers for Teyaba

The old man counted his beads as he looked out across his dusty yard into the littered street. With each bead that passed through his grasp he silently chanted a short prayer. After the last bead he fidgeted in his seat and glanced blankly about the empty room. The room was bare save for the cushions lining three of the walls, a single inn table on which tea was served and his plastic chair. It was not common to sit in chairs as opposed to lounging on cushions but the old man preferred his chair. His gaze shifted back onto the dirty street and he began his count anew.

He was very old. None of the strength of his youth remained and this pained him more than any of the other changes that accompanied growing old. His skin was very dark from a lifetime spent under the sun. He had a large nose which dominated the landscape of his face and bright, weary eyes. His beard was close shaven and neat. He wore a tan tunic and a white headdress.

The house was the same one he lived in his entire life. His wife had passed away shortly after delivering their fifth child leaving him with two sons and three daughters. The daughters each left upon marriage to live with the family of their husbands. He was now joined in the house by the families of his sons. His eldest son Abbas had five children. The younger son was killed four years prior by the Shias. He had named that son Ibrahim in hopes of him fathering a large family. He had instead been killed while his wife was pregnant with their first child, a daughter named Teyaba. She was a girl of four years who had all of her mother's physical features except for the large nose of his family. He had fifteen grandchildren but she was his favorite.

As he counted his beads he would sometimes hear his grandchildren playing in the street and let his mind wander to thoughts of when Ibrahim was a child playing in the same streets so many years ago. He had his strength then and his wife. There were plans of taking the Hajj and praying at Mecca but war broke out and his unit was sent to the front. His leg was badly wounded when his platoon assaulted a machine gun position and he stepped out in the face of a volley of fire to instill courage in the younger soldiers and then felt his leg rocked as if by a sledgehammer and spent the next few moments writhing in agony until he lost consciousness. When he awoke he saw he had no right leg and knew his opportunity to make the Hajj was lost along with his leg. His fight was holy and just but he still regretted not making the trip when he had his strength. His leg, like his son, was taken from him by Shias and he hated them for this. Hated them for taking away his Hajj; hated them for taking his strength and mobility; hated them for killing his son. And most of all he hated them for making Teyaba grow up with a crippled old man for a father.

But then his mind was jolted back to his beads and with it the soothing calm brought on by repetitions of prayer. Teyaba presently ran in, jumped on his lap, and nuzzled into his chest. He felt her soft breathing on his tunic. She looked up at him with her dark eyes and smiled. She was a happy child unburdened by the fact that her father died before she was even born. He gave her a squeeze and she hurried off his lap and disappeared into the house with a laugh. In a moment she was back out the front door and into the street where the sound of her laughter was lost in the chorus of shouts of the other children at play. He felt sorrow for Ibrahim never having the chance to play with his daughter. He was all one could ask for in a son and the old man was sure he would have made an exceptional parent. Teyaba would have been the joy of his life.

From the Mosque beside his home the early afternoon prayer sounded and with great effort he worked himself out of the chair and knelt on the ground. He caught a glimpse of a car passing his home just before he started to pray. The car was not one he recognized and the man driving was also unfamiliar. He tried to call for his eldest son but his throat was too dry. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as he began clawing his way up using the chair for support. He cried out as the chair toppled to the ground. His fear drowned out the prayers from the mosque and the sounds from the street. He heard nothing.

The explosion was sharp and sudden. The street was lost in his view and in its place a cloud of dust entered through the gate and billowed towards his home. He began crawling towards the door to get to Teyaba. He longed for his strength back for just long enough to find his granddaughter. The sounds of shouting and wailing were the first he heard. His son rushed from the back rooms and grasped him by the arms and lifted him up onto his chair. He forced out Teyaba's name and pointed towards the front door, his finger trembling. Abbas ran out into the street to find her. The old man fixed his eyes on the street as he rocked steadily in his chair, sifting the beads two at a time in earnest.

He saw his son run towards the front door with Teyaba in his arms. Her clothes were badly torn and covered in blood. She was laid on his lap and to his relief he found her soft pulse. Abbas hurried to the back of the house in search of bandages. The old man took off his white headdress and put pressure on the wounds on her stomach. Her red blood soaked into the cloth and he began frantically tying the other end of it onto her shattered leg to stop the bleeding there. He felt his son's hand firmly on his shoulder. He looked down at his innocent granddaughter and she looked peaceful. He handed Teyaba up to his son. The old man's prayer beads fell to the ground beside his stained white headdress as he buried his head in his hands and started to cry. The sounds of prayer emanating from the mosque filled the room.