He told the story of how fierce enemies had an experience they couldn’t explain when a ball of fire exploded in the desert and left them alive. It set each of them on a path to find the source of the fire from the sky, and the mystery of its effect on them that had changed their hearts. And they went in search of each other—in search of an answer that would bring them, and many others back together, from a long ago time.

The boys leaned in. Nazir knew the power of story. He knew the power of lies and how they could persuade. He knew the power of truth and how it resonated with the heart. He also knew the power of mystery and how that could capture and hold attention. How to serve all these and not get killed was the dangerous undertaking before him.

He thought of what Jhana-Merise had told him, about the awakening of a spiritual DNA. It gave him an idea to plant in the story he was telling. And he spoke of a young girl from a land far away who awoke one day with the knowledge of how to bring these once enemies together. She knew it was Allah who’d brought the fire to the desert. Fire that would burn the hate. But it was a quiet fire, lit from inside these strangers that would lead them to what Allah called The Greater Jihad. The jihad of love.

Nazir’s grandmother’s voice coursed through him, and he said aloud, “Blood for blood is not God’s way.”

The boys’ attention turned to the back of the room. And Nazir saw Mariam standing in the doorway.

Class was over. The boys were gone. Mariam confronted Nazir about what he’d been teaching. “Blood for blood is not God’s way?”

“We need to open their hearts before we can fill it with jihad,” Nazir replied.

“Is that what Hashim taught you?”

“Yes. Hashim said, ‘when the heart is open Allah will find a place.’”

He was telling her the truth, but for him the place Allah would find was love, not one of blood.

He wondered if the questioning look in her eyes held a seed for her transformation out of the violence, or maybe it was a look that questioned his loyalty. He couldn’t tell. But he needed to address it. And to do that he told her about his life, in hopes his passage to jihad would quell whatever doubts of his loyalty might be lingering in her mind. Doubts she might not be aware of, but which could rise and be used against him. He knew gossip could be a plague. Lies were his salvation in this.

“My grandmother called me Shaheed,” he said.

“Martyr. She wanted you to be a martyr?”

“Yes,” he said lying, silently asking his grandmother for forgiveness for using her this way.

He could see Mariam was caught off-guard.