“Sit down.  Please,” urged the imam, who circled the bed and took a seat on the opposite side.

Uncertain, the woman stepped over to the empty chair and eased herself down.

After an uncomfortable silence, she introduced herself in a polite tone, unsure how well the man could hear.  “A ‘Salaam Alaikum.  My name is Mona Baraka.  I am a journalist—”

The religious leader interrupted with a reassuring gesture of his hand.  “It is okay.  He knows who you are.  He is the one who asked for you.”

With some difficulty, the patient raised a hand and pulled the oxygen mask from his mouth, briefly licking his lips and inhaling before speaking in a low, raspy voice.

“Thank you,” he said weakly, “for coming.”

“You’re welcome,” Mona replied, glancing briefly around the room.  “What, exactly, am I here for?”

With a heaving chest, the man glanced at the imam to his left, who answered for him.  “Tawbah.”

Mona blinked and turned back to the old man, studying him.

Tawbah was the Islamic word for ‘repentance.’

“My name is Abasi Hamed,” he began, inhaling between sentences. “I was born and raised… in a village outside Kharga.”

Mona’s brief hesitation went unnoticed by both men before she reached into her handbag to retrieve a small audio recorder.  “May I record this?”

Hamed, the older man, nodded.

It wasn’t the first bedside confession for which she’d been summoned.  Quite the contrary—though rarely did they prove to be newsworthy.  They were often little more than an unburdening from the person facing the certainty of the great beyond, even from some of the most ardent and faithful believers.  It was something to help them feel at ease with their indiscretions or regrets.  While these deathbed confessions were critical in helping another human clear their conscience, it was hardly justification for Mona to suddenly drop whatever she was working on.  Regardless, she gave a polite smile and offered no hint of annoyance, quietly pressing the small round button on the handheld unit and setting it on her lap.

“I am,” the old man corrected himself, “was a captain in the Egyptian Air Force from 1963 to 1995.”  His eyes rolled and peered at the ceiling as he spoke.  “Accepted when I was twenty-four years old.”

Mona thought for a moment.  “You are now 82?”

The old man didn’t respond, instead using his energy to inhale again.

“Yes,” confirmed the imam.

Hamed nodded.  “I served for thirty-two years. I flew F-16 Falcons and later MiG-23s.”

Mona was impressed.  “That is admirable,” she said, but to her surprise, the old man merely shook his head.

“I have served my country,” he replied.  “Faithfully.”  After another short breath, he added, “Mostly.”

He watched while she glanced at the imam.  “There are many things of which I am proud,” he whispered.  “But some of which I am not.”  Another pause to breathe.  He was staring at her now.  “By not proud… I mean ashamed.”