Backstory, Pt. 1!
His family was originally from Iran. His mother had grown up in the Old City, she and his father had met during his pilgrimage to the Dome of the Rock. His mother had been nineteen, his father twenty. They had kept in touch, and his mother had run away from home and across the border in order to marry, chancing being disowned or worse.
His mother thought her own parents were too liberal with their views of the West. His parents were radicals and in love. It worked. For them.
He had been their only child, and they had high hopes for him from the start. He was to be the next Great Man. He would lead their people out of the dark imposed by the liberal and lazy believers, out of the corrupting influence of the West, and the revolution would be something beautiful to behold.
He had been devote in his belief in Allah and His teachings. He believed, blindly and entirely. He loved, he followed, he embraced. When he was very young, he thought ten, he would sit on the steps leading into their entrance way with the neighbor girl, Farah, and she would trace the lines in the Qur'an. "Tell me what it says," because she was seven and still had to take long pauses as she deciphered all the different meanings. And he would whisper to her, keeping perfectly still, with his head bent over her covered one. He knew it was wrong. The reading was an art form, and he should never have read to a girl like this. He didn't know how to teach, not yet. But she had such innocent brown eyes when she asked.
He was 13 when his parents sent him away to Rome to study with the rich, British, well to do. He cried and begged because he wanted to go to school with his cousins and Farah. He wanted to learn English, not Italian. He wanted to stay with mummy and daddy, please don't send him away. His father told him it disgraced him to think that his son was not proud to embrace the life his father had made for him, and all the money he had spent on his son's education.
He kept his head held high when his parents put him on the airplane, and smiled when the European boys butchered his name. "Call me 'Salla'."
He only had to give one black eye to make them forget about the 'Sally' jokes.
His mother thought her own parents were too liberal with their views of the West. His parents were radicals and in love. It worked. For them.
He had been their only child, and they had high hopes for him from the start. He was to be the next Great Man. He would lead their people out of the dark imposed by the liberal and lazy believers, out of the corrupting influence of the West, and the revolution would be something beautiful to behold.
He had been devote in his belief in Allah and His teachings. He believed, blindly and entirely. He loved, he followed, he embraced. When he was very young, he thought ten, he would sit on the steps leading into their entrance way with the neighbor girl, Farah, and she would trace the lines in the Qur'an. "Tell me what it says," because she was seven and still had to take long pauses as she deciphered all the different meanings. And he would whisper to her, keeping perfectly still, with his head bent over her covered one. He knew it was wrong. The reading was an art form, and he should never have read to a girl like this. He didn't know how to teach, not yet. But she had such innocent brown eyes when she asked.
He was 13 when his parents sent him away to Rome to study with the rich, British, well to do. He cried and begged because he wanted to go to school with his cousins and Farah. He wanted to learn English, not Italian. He wanted to stay with mummy and daddy, please don't send him away. His father told him it disgraced him to think that his son was not proud to embrace the life his father had made for him, and all the money he had spent on his son's education.
He kept his head held high when his parents put him on the airplane, and smiled when the European boys butchered his name. "Call me 'Salla'."
He only had to give one black eye to make them forget about the 'Sally' jokes.