She thought of the poem Hashim had given her, the tender poem he’d written when he was a boy. And she remembered what Dominique had said to her about first seeing Nazir in the warehouse—that if jihad was attracting young men this sensitive it meant there was much more to fear than anyone could imagine. What was it about their sensitivity that turned them to violence, and gave way to this mistrust? Wasn’t the ability to feel deeply a deterrent from cruelty and doubt, not a catalyst?

“How can you be suspect of someone this close to you?”

He folded his arms and turned away. She could see he was shamed by the question.

“I’m not judging you, Nazir. I want to know. I want to understand.”

When he stood she saw a shift in him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. But she wasn’t going to be afraid.

“My mistrust of Hashim feels like betrayal. Because what he taught me was the opposite of what had come before—that we young are lost, humiliated, alienated, and looking for a place to put our rage. Hashim came from love. That is why so many of us followed him.”

“But that love killed.”

“Doesn’t the God of your faith allow people to die horrendous deaths? And doesn’t that same God come from love?”

His words pushed her right back into the mournful memory of her son, and his harrowing death.

She cried.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“It wasn’t you.”

She reached her hand out to him.

He held it.

“You’ve been kind to me. But I can’t stay. This is not where I belong.”

“Where will you go?”

“Allah will show the way.”

72

72

Nazir walked in the dark chill of a D.C. morning. His thoughts of finding a mosque for refuge evaporated in the fear of being recognized and caught. So, he sought refuge inside a church.

Morning Mass was in progress.

He crossed a border into a new land, foreign and forbidding.

He slipped into a pew to not draw attention.

An invisible pressure on his shoulder made him look across the aisle. A young girl smiled at him. She was sitting alongside an older man and a woman. Nazir thought he’d been discovered. Panic flushed through him.

“Stay,” Jhana-Merise whispered from across the aisle. Nazir looked around for signs of danger. All he saw were worshippers, heads bowed.

Jhana-Merise tiptoed to him and sat by his side.

Arama touched Vincente’s hand. It stopped him from motioning his daughter back.

“You’re safe with us,” Jhana-Merise said, nodding in the direction of her father and Arama.

Nazir was still unsure.

A sweet perfume hung in the air. He searched for the source of the thick smell.

“It’s incense,” she said. “It’s not the same as the roses.”

“You know about the roses?”