The Purple Iris
Aaron Schnoor
It seemed as if the bombs would never end. Each day they rained down, striking the earth with their cold, metallic bodies and sending tremors through the entire city. One moment the city would be quiet, with people lying on their beds or gathered around a table as they ate a meal. Then, in the next moment, people would be screaming with pain as the windows shattered and stone walls caved in around them. The lucky ones would be killed instantly. The others would have to bear the pain of their injuries until death overtook them. The dusty air would be filled with their shrieking—an inhuman, tortured sound, filled with the despair of a life escaping a body. And after death overtook the injured, their screams still seemed to echo against the walls of the crippled city.
For Jana, the bombs were a way of life. She had known of nothing but chaos for the past four years, and as a thirteen year old she could barely remember a time when the bombs had not been striking her city. Death was no longer a stranger that was to be feared—it was a neighbor now, a familiar presence that walked the rubble-strewn streets to determine the house that it would visit next.
“There is no tricking Death,” Jana’s father had often said. “One can merely hope that Death will be merciful when it comes.”
Two months had passed since Father had died, but the pain was still fresh on Jana’s heart. Death had been merciful to him—he had been killed immediately by an explosion when walking on the street—but that was only a small comfort to the wife and daughter that he had left behind.
Jana blinked back tears as she stared out the window. The city was a place of ghosts now—few decent people dared to walk the streets, for murderers and thieves crept boldly in every shadow.
“Jana.” Jana heard her mother’s voice but did not turn.
“Jana.”
“Yes, Mama?”
“It is time. Gather your things—we must hurry.”
Jana nodded. “I have already packed. I am ready.”
“Good.” The worry was evident in the lines on Mama’s face. “We should go. There are people who will help us escape. We will go to them.”
The mother and daughter left their home quietly and began walking quickly down the center of the street. Jana fought the tears, but they came anyway. How could she leave her home—how could she leave Father? Soon she was sobbing, trying unsuccessfully to smother her grief in the shawl she wore around her head.
Her mother pulled Jana close. “Shhh, Jana, shhh—do not worry. Allah will protect us.”
Jana wanted to scream and push against her mother’s embrace. Allah? Where was Allah when her father was killed? Where was Allah when her school was destroyed, with many of her classmates crushed inside while she had been lucky enough to survive? Where was Allah when the leader of the country used chemical weapons against his own people? Where was Allah when terrorists beheaded hundreds of citizens, just because the citizens refused to join a group of violence? No, Allah would not protect them. There was no such thing as a God. Jana wanted to shout these things at her mother; she wanted the whole city to hear her feelings.
But one could not dare to say such things.
***
Isaiah walked along the dusty street slowly, taking care to keep the heavy basket upright. He winced with each step he took; sand had gotten between his sandal strap and heel and was now scraping into his skin.
Isaiah groaned and set the basket down, then sat down next to it. He sighed heavily. His mother had sent him to the market to pick up fruit and vegetables for dinner and would be expecting him back soon. And that was not the only reason he had to hurry. The Muslim school got out later than his school, and soon the boys would be—
A shadow fell across Isaiah’s feet. He looked up into the sunlight, momentarily blinded by its brightness and unable to make out the figure that stood in front of him.
“Hey,” Isaiah began, “what—“
He fell backward as a hand jabbed into his chest. The person—a boy the same age as Isaiah—laughed loudly.
“Look,” he roared, “the Jew went shopping for his mommy.”
Isaiah sat up quickly, his face hot and sweaty. “Not a Jew—a Christian. Go away, Ahmed.”
Ahmed ignored him. “Come on, guys! Come look at the Jew crawling in the sand!”
Isaiah pushed against Ahmed and rose to his feet. He saw the other boys circle around him, but he didn’t care about that.
“I’m not a Jew,” he growled, “I’m a Christian. Now why can’t you leave me alone?”
“‘Now why can’t you leave me alone,’” The Muslim boy mimicked. “Perhaps we’ll leave you alone for a small price. You give us half of what’s in the basket, and you can go.”
“What? That’s not fair—that’s robbery!”
Ahmed snorted. “So?”
“So…well, you can’t steal!” Isaiah was spluttering now, trying desperately to break out of the circle of boys. He knew that they wouldn’t stop at taking the food; they really wanted to hurt him, wanted to see him cry out with pain.
The Muslim boy grabbed the handle of the basket. “Too bad. This is mine now.”
“No!”
Isaiah wrenched the basket from the boy’s grip, then swung it around to hit the boys who crowded around him. The boys toppled onto the sand, crying out with surprise and anger.
“Grab him!” Ahmed yelled.
Frantic, Isaiah tried to brush off the hands that clutched at his clothes. Someone was punching him in the face, blurring his vision as they pelted his face with blows. A surge of anger swelled in Isaiah—he wanted to fight back, but he knew what the consequences of that would be. Any policeman or adult who tried to break up the fight would automatically favor the Muslim boys and look down upon Isaiah. That was just the way it was in Jordan, and Christians had to recognize that or pay the price.
Dizzy, Isaiah hunched down and covered his face with his hands.
“Go away,” he moaned. “Please! Go away!”
Ahmed stepped back, grabbed the basket, and turned to the rest of the boys. “Okay, he’s had enough. Come on, let’s go!”
The sound of the boys’ footsteps faded in the busy street. Isaiah sat up slowly, feeling the stiffness in his bones. The basket was gone, and with it were the fruit and vegetables for his family’s meal. Isaiah wanted to cry, but such an action was not acceptable for a thirteen-year-old boy. Sniffling, he stood up and began to make his way to his home.
Isaiah’s mother was standing in the kitchen as he walked through the doorway.
“Did you get everything…” she turned and paused, seeing the bruising on his face. “Oh dear. Was it those boys again?”
Isaiah sat down at the table heavily. “Yes.”
His mother sighed. “Oh, son.”
“Why?” Isaiah cried, “Why do they hate me so much? I’ve never done anything to them!”
Isaiah’s father walked into the kitchen, hearing the conversation from the living room. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a dark beard and heavily tanned face.
“It is because we are Christians,” he said, answering his son’s question. “It is because we are different.”
Isaiah wiped away the tears from his eyes. “But it’s not fair! I can’t do anything to them, and yet they can bully me as much as they want!”
“My son,” Isaiah’s father said softly, “we are not called to fight back. We are called to turn the other cheek. You must forgive the boys who bully you, for they do not know that they sin.”
Isaiah nodded, fighting back his anger. He knew that forgiveness was the right thing to do, but how could he be willing to forgive? There was no forgiveness in his heart, and he doubted that there ever would be. Not for those bullies. Not ever.
***
“Hmmm,” Isaiah’s father said two days later, as the family was gathered around the living room, “one thousand more Syrians are coming into our land.”
He set down the newspaper, folded it across his lap, and removed his glasses. “Can’t say I’m happy about that. Can’t say I’m surprised, either.”
“Why are they coming to Jordan, father?” Isaiah asked, looking up from the book in his lap. “Why can’t they just stay in Syria?”
“They know that they will be safe here, my son. For many years, they have had to live under the rule of men who claim to want peace. But the men do not want peace; they want power, and what better way to gain support and power than to suppress the people of the land? There will never be any peace in Syria—not as long as the country is ruled by men who do not seek God.”
“I saw some Syrian refugees in the market yesterday,” Isaiah’s mother said. “Those poor people look like they haven’t eaten anything decent in years.”
“Speaking of eating,” Isaiah’s father said, “we need to get food for supper tonight. Isaiah—will you go to the market for your mother?”
“But…” Isaiah began. “The boys—“
“Do not worry about the boys, my son. Show them that you are not afraid, and they will leave you alone.”
Isaiah doubted that this was true. But a few minutes later he found himself standing outside, a woven basket in his arms. He sighed heavily, beginning the short walk to the market.
“Father means well,” he muttered to himself, “but he doesn’t understand! Why would the boys stop bullying me?”
Isaiah stopped, groaning to himself. Ahmed was lounging in the shadows of one of the alleys next to the street. A few other shadows marked the outlines of his companions.
Isaiah continued walking, hoping that the boys would not see him. As he passed by he could hear their footsteps echo his; he stopped, knowing that there was nothing to do except to turn and face the bullies.
Ahmed scowled at him darkly. “I thought you would have learned your lesson by now, pig.”
Isaiah held up the empty basket innocently. “I don’t have anything for you to steal, Ahmed.”
Ahmed’s foot shot out and connected with the basket, sending it rolling down the dusty street. “There? What do you think about that?”
“I’m not afraid of you, Ahmed.”
“Come on—let’s get him,” the Muslim boy snarled at his companions.
A flurry of blows pelted Isaiah’s body; he turned, saw he was trapped, and hunkered down onto the sand. Someone—Ahmed, he thought—was kicking him in the side, knocking the air out of Isaiah’s lungs with each painful jab.
“Say you’re afraid, swine!” Ahmed demanded.
Isaiah struggled to breathe, fighting against the choking, burning sensation that swept through his body. Dust filled his eyes and mouth, and he gagged against its gritty, bitter flavor.
“I forgive you, Ahmed,” he managed to say.
Ahmed paused. “Forgive? You are a fool.”
“Someone’s coming,” another boy said. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”
The boys ran back into the alley, leaving Isaiah hunched over on the ground. Isaiah sat up slowly, blinking as he saw his rescuer.
He had expected an older man or woman to come to his aid. The person who stood in front of him was not an adult but was a girl about the same age as himself. She was wearing a red scarf over her head, the frayed ends tucked underneath her chin. Her brown eyes were large and vibrant in her small, timid face.
“Here,” she murmured softly, extending a hand, “let me help you.”
“Th—thanks,” Isaiah stammered.
He stood up, brushing the dust off his clothes as he cast sideways glances at the girl. There was something different about her—something different than anybody else who lived in Jordan.
“You’re not from around here,” he said, almost accusingly. “I mean, well—you’re different.”
The girl handed Isaiah his basket. “I’m from Syria.”
“Syria?” Isaiah’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Wow, I’ve never met anyone from Syria before.”
The girl nodded. “I do not think I have ever met a Jew before.”
“Jew? Oh, I’m not Jewish—I’m Christian.”
“Christian?”
“Yes…” Isaiah began uneasily. Religion was always a difficult topic for him to discuss with other people; although Jordan was a Muslim country that tolerated Jews and Christians, most Muslims found it surprising that any “infidel” would not live in Israel. Jews and Christians were not mistreated in Jordan, but they were not well-liked either.
“I’m Jana,” the girl said.
“I’m Isaiah.”
The girl was silent for a moment, then her brown eyes flashed with anger. “Why were those boys beating you up?”
Isaiah frowned. “Well, I suppose it’s because I’m different.”
“But why don’t you fight them back?”
“Well,” Isaiah began, “my father says that it’s better to love your neighbors than to try to hurt them. Instead of fighting back, we’re supposed to turn the other cheek.”
Jana blinked at him slowly. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Isaiah shrugged. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. But that’s what I’m supposed to do. My father says that if everybody acted that way, all wars would end.”
Jana was silent, thinking about her home city and the turmoil in her country. “Perhaps. Your father sounds like a very wise man. Is he a rabbi?”
“No. He just knows a lot of things. What does your father do?”
Jana’s bright expression instantly clouded, and she seemed to withdraw back into herself. “My father is dead.”
“Oh.”
Isaiah could think of nothing else to say. He stood there awkwardly, rubbing the handle of the basket in his palms.
Jana seemed to forget that he was there. Then, suddenly, she gave a little shrug and looked at him.
“Do you want to go to the market together? We have only been here a little while, and I am not yet sure where to buy food.”
Isaiah nodded, unsure of what had brought on this unexpected change in the girl’s attitude. Without saying another word, the two began to walk side by side to the marketplace.
All great friendships must have a beginning, and no friendship blossomed as quickly as the one between Jana and Isaiah. Most days they would meet up in the market, walking together as they bought their wares. And sometimes, as the orange sun began its descent and the stifling earth started to cool, Isaiah and Jana would walk to the top of the hill outside the city. There, they could see the entire city behind them, and they could look ahead and see the desolate valleys on the other side of the hill. Purple Iris, the national flower of Jordan, dotted the landscape where streams trickled out of crevices. To the east lay Israel, and beyond that the Mediterranean, from which a scent of salt carried and lingered despite the great distance.