The Insurrectionist (26 page)

            “But you get my point. What does it take for people to stop the atrocities? What does it take for people to pay attention?” Deni asked.

            “Sit down!” she yelled and Deni obeyed. “The problems of the world are not your burden to carry. Your brother’s troubles were not yours. You are not responsible for everyone’s pain.” Marsha stood up and stared down at Deni slumped in his seat. “You had the means to make a real difference; a positive difference and that’s a damned shame. Imagine what the world could have been if Deni Daudov used his talents for good instead of evil. Sadly the world will never know.”

            Marsha gestured for the guard to get Deni. Deni shuffled back to his cell in his shackles. Just inside his door, he was freed of the cuffs and then the steel door was closed on him. It was an uncomfortable sensation realizing that he was being dragged through the media without having the opportunity to defend himself, or even to know what they were saying. He sat down on his bed and dropped his face in his hands. “The whole world seems to know more about me than I know about myself,” he muttered.

            He stood up and paced around. “How can that be? How can they know so much, when I know so little about myself? It doesn’t matter now, does it? I am a nobody.” He looked around the confines of his cell. “What purpose does a man in solitary have to find his soul? What is the point of defining oneself if never to be a part of normal existence?”

            Deni chuckled. “I don’t even like the spot light. I never did.”

 

            His body felt completely discombobulated from last night’s hit. It was his senior year and the opening home game against their biggest county rival—Wilson High School. Sure he caught the game-winning touchdown, but it came at a price. He hit the ground on his tailbone and his entire back compressed. This morning he was laid out on the trainer’s table with rotating hot and cold compresses.

            “Hey Daudov, did you see this morning’s Reading Eagle?” said the trainer.

            “I don’t read that shit,” said Deni with his cheek resting on his palm.

            The trainer held the paper for Deni. “You should. You’re on the cover of the sports page. You’re a real cover boy.”

            “Put that away,” said Deni. “Game’s over, time to move on.”

            “Spectacular catch and worthy of a little pride, Deni,” said the trainer.

            Deni turned his head to the opposite side. “It’s a team sport; it was a great throw. Where is Alex’s picture?”

            The trainer curled up the paper and smacked Deni on the butt. “I’m sure Montoya is asking the same question this morning.”

            That damned picture haunted Deni through his entire senior year. It was hung in the front trophy case at the entrance of the school for months, and Heather had it taped inside her locker all year long. One day, Heather made a photocopy and covered his history book with the copy. It was amusing for about two seconds and then Deni ripped it off.
Football is a game, I did what I was supposed to do
—
score a touchdown and that’s all there is to it
. He certainly was not comfortable with the glory that came with being a star athlete
. Let that be for the T-Bone’s of the game
, he thought.

            Memories of Hector filled Deni’s mind.
It must be horrible dying in the winter, the ground is so hard and cold
.
Looks like the police finally caught up with me
,
or maybe
I died and this is my hell
.
Who could tell in this light?
It was Hector who introduced Deni to America, by being his first buddy and it was his mother who welcomed his family into her home. He simply couldn’t imagine the pain and sorrow he caused Hector’s mother; she was always so kind.

 

            Nine-year-old Deni and Hector, sat side-by-side in front of the Ramirez’s couch playing a race car video game. Neither Deni or Hector spoke a word to one another. They just laughed, cheered, and groaned with every turn of the game.

            “Oh please come in,” Hector’s mother said as she opened the door. “My name is Maria, Maria Ramirez.” She extended her hand to Kamiila and Bashir. “It’s nice to find a boy in the neighborhood for Hector to play with. Everyone is either so much older or too young. Deni is such a sweet boy. He and Hector play so well together.”

            Kamiila shook Maria’s hand and then glanced around the corner to see Deni seated on the floor next to Hector. She didn’t quite trust Mrs. Ramirez and certainly did not understand the game they were playing on the television.

            Deni turned around and noticed his parents. “Ma, I’m fine. You can go home,” he said in Russian.

            “Deni, here we speak English,” said Bashir in English.

            “I’m fine. Go home ma,” Deni said in English and then turned his attention back to Hector and the video game.

            “Mom, you’re interrupting our game,” said Hector in Spanish.

            “Hector, you need to respect our guests,” she replied in Spanish and then turned to Bashir and said, “It’s like a little United Nations in here, isn’t it?”

            Bashir nodded and then took Kamiila’s arm. “We should be going.”

            “If you’re that uncomfortable, you can stay,” Maria offered. “I have some leftover casserole from last night’s dinner if you’re hungry.”

            “Thank you, but we have other children at home,” said Bashir. “Deni, I’ll be back to get you in an hour.”

            Deni nodded, but didn’t look up at his father.

 

            The food slot opened and dinner was slid through. Deni didn’t even care what it was; it was dead—a dead chicken, and corn kernels that would never sprout. He could barely eat, but focusing on eating distracted his mind from his memories.

            Before he could finish choking down his dinner, his cell door opened and the guard stood rattling the shackles. “Shrink time.”

            “Really, I haven’t finished eating,” he said.

            “Well if you like we can wrap up your leftovers and serve them to you later,” the guard said sarcastically.

            Deni shoved as much food in his mouth as he could, while the guard shackled his wrists and feet. The guard tugged Deni by the arm, guiding him through the hallway to Dr. Sodhi’s office. Deni entered and took his seat, feeling more exposed than ever. He leaned back in his chair and said, “Yeah, so? I guess Marsha told you. No doubt you two gossip like school girls.”

            Dr. Sodhi crossed her legs under the table and nodded. “Yes. She had to. It is her job to defend you. You’re emotional and mental state play a big part in this case.”

            “Now you know; I’m a mental case,” said Deni.

            “You do realize that was not your fault?” she asked.

            “How? How can you say that? It was all my fault—all of it,” he said.

            “How is it your fault?” asked Dr. Sodhi.

            “Because I knew my brother’s suffering. I could have helped him. I could have been a better Muslim¾a better man and then he would not have gone to such extremes to protect me,” replied Deni.

            “The only person you needed to be a better Muslim for, or man for, was you. You don’t need to better yourself for anyone,” replied Dr. Sodhi. “You had everything going for you; why did you feel you needed to be better? Whose standard were you trying to live up to?”

            Deni leaned back in his chair. He thought for a moment and then grinned. “Everyone. Everyone had a different standard—my parents, my brother, my friends, my professors, coaches, and the fucking world. Everyone wanted me to be something; they wanted me to be what they wanted me to be and I tried. I tried real hard. It was getting exhausting trying to live up to everyone’s expectations.”

            “What about your expectations? What did you want to live to be?”

            Deni laughed. “Did I have an option?”

            Dr. Sodhi nodded. She understood; she had heard the same thing from so many other people struggling to find their identity in a world that wanted to peg people into specific holes. It was a great time of strife for many, especially the young.

            Deni got out of his seat and shuffled around the interview room. “To Allah we belong and to Him do we return.” He turned to face Dr. Sodhi. “All of us are born; all of us will die. We don’t know how. We don’t know when, but it will happen. The thing is, death is not something to mourn, because we have simply been called back to God. Everyone and everything dies; it’s all a matter of time.”

            He walked around the room. “Unfortunately many are called back due to some injustice, by the hand of another. Who’s to say whose life has more value—Hector, his brother, the folks at the fairgrounds, the innocent civilians of illegal wars in the Middle East? After Hector died, many said it was because they dealt drugs; it was just a matter of time. Some said he was a lowlife and deserved his demise. No one cares about the nameless civilians in the Middle East, but when Americans die, the whole world’s supposed to mourn. Who quantifies the value of someone’s death?”

            “No one. We’re all equal in God’s eyes, even in death,” Dr. Sodhi replied.

            Deni paced and then he stopped. “My brother came to see me at Temple shortly after Hector’s death. He carried with him these pictures, horrible pictures of mutilated children in the Middle East, children maimed by war, disfigured by chemical warfare and testing. It was horrible and who was protesting for these children? Who was standing up and defending these children?” He turned to Dr. Sodhi, “Somebody had to.”

            “But murder, Deni? An eye for eye brings on more violence. It doesn’t solve anything,” said Dr. Sodhi.

            Deni nodded. “Yes, that’s what I thought.”

 

            Deni headed back to his dorm room after an afternoon of walking the streets. He found Mikail waiting for him in the lobby of his dormitory. He stopped a few feet away. Mikail was the last person he wanted to see. “What are you doing here?”

            Mikail stood from his seat. “I was worried about you.”

            “You need to get a life and stop getting involved in mine,” said Deni.

            “Look, don’t get so hot. I’m sorry. I was thinking a lot about you, us, the family,” said Mikail.

            Deni could sense something was wrong. “You want to come up?”

            “Yeah, thanks,” said Mikail.

            Mikail followed Deni up to his dorm room and looked around. It looked just like the dormitory room he imagined—small, cluttered and messy. It was hard to tell where Deni’s mess ended and his roommate’s began.

            “How can you live in all this disorder?” asked Mikail and then sat on Deni’s roommate’s bed.

            “I’m not here that much. I’m usually at class or studying somewhere,” said Deni.

            “Lot of girls visit?” asked Mikail.

            Deni couldn’t lie. “A few.” He sat down on his bed across from his brother. “What’s going on Mik?”

            Mikail reached in his jacket, pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Deni. Curiously, Deni unfolded the paper. His face showed the horror of its contents.

            “Those are children mutilated and maimed in the illegal US war in Iraq,” said Mikail and then took the paper from Deni. “Every time I see it, I think of Elena.” He looked up at Deni. “I think of you. Remember those nights in Grozny. Remember how scared you were?”

            “I wasn’t scared,” said Deni.

            “Is that why you crawled into bed with me every night?” Mikail asked. “Pop used to come home covered in blood from helping recover victims in the streets. He never said a word, but I could see it in his eyes. He would look at me, fearing one day it would be me, or you, or Lulii or Eliiza. Ma used to get so mad how he’d lock us up in the apartment. He wouldn’t allow her to leave. He gave strict instructions not to let anyone inside.”

            “I don’t remember much,” replied Deni.

            “You wouldn’t; you just wanted to play with your toy trucks. That’s all you ever wanted to do, was play. It used to make me so mad, so much violence in the streets and all you wanted to do was play.” Mikail grunted. “You haven’t changed, you know. There is so much chaos in the world and all you want to do is play.”

            Deni sat forward and gazed down at his sneakers. He didn’t realize they were untied, so he leaned over and tied them. Looking up at Mikail he said, “I’m sorry.”

            Mikail stood and walked around the room. He inspected both Deni and his roommate’s photographs and flipped open text and notebooks. “Don’t be. I wish I could be like you, so careless and carefree. How can you party and pretend innocent people are not dying around the world? They are people like you and me, but they weren’t fortunate to be able to move here.”

            “I am not blind, deaf and dumb, Mik. I know what’s going on,” said Deni.

            “And yet you sit around smoking dope and doing whatever else you do,” said Mikail.

            “What can I do? What can anyone do?” asked Deni.

            “Sitting around doing nothing is worse than those who commit the atrocities. You are just as guilty,” said Mikail.

            Deni stood from his bed and stared at Mikail. “You drove all the way down here to have a philosophic, political discussion with me?”

            “I came here to ask for your help.”

            “Help with what?”

            Mikail stopped pacing Deni’s room and turned to face him. “Protesters carry signs, but who really reads them? It’s just a waste of paper and ink. Peaceful protesters are arrested and sprayed with tear gas. Fearing more police brutality the protesters stop. People are being massacred in the streets simply for speaking their mind and for wanting their freedom, yet who bothers to care and notice? Many here criticized the revolution in Egypt, fearing how it will affect American lives—selfish! They mock those who lost their lives in the struggle, saying they deserved it. It’s futile you see. No one pays any attention, everyone is caught up in their own little lives of lies,” said Mikail.

            “So, what’s your plan? What do you intend to do?” repeated Deni.

            “I want to make a point. I want to get people’s attention. I know people who can offer help, but I need you to carry it through,” replied Mikail. “Will you help me?”

            Deni knew he didn’t have a choice; Mikail would hound him until he agreed. He had been bonded to Mikail since he was a child and now even more so as a young man. His fate was sealed and he knew his time on earth would be short. Soon, he would be called back to God. “Okay, whatever.”

 

            Deni stared at Dr. Sodhi. “I really didn’t know much at the time about his plan, only that it was so important to him. To see Mik with a purpose and a goal was a good thing. He had been such a miserable wretch for years; suddenly there was a twinkle in his eyes. I thought it was my duty as his brother to get his spark back.”

            Dr. Sodhi nodded, but said nothing. There was nothing to say. She heard it from Deni before, sacrificing his own needs, desires and goals for others. He was remarkably absent from his own exceptional life.

 

            Later that evening, Deni went through the motions of solitary hygiene rituals—he showered, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and changed into a clean pair of underwear. He sat on the corner of his bed and thought of his life in contrast to all those around the world living in war zones and hardship areas.

            He couldn’t imagine waking up and not knowing if you’re going to eat or die that day.
Even in prison, I am guaranteed a meal and place to sleep. I am safer and more secure here in solitary than in some parts of the world
.

 

            After seeing Mikail’s pictures of atrocities, Deni did his own research. As a journalism major, he had a selection of international sources to review and study. Everything he read had to be taken with some skepticism; every nation had their propaganda. Russian papers liked to highlight the misdeeds of the United States, yet not being as forth coming with news from the Russian government. Middle Eastern news was pretty much completely anti-American with total praise of the regimes in power. Journalism was all propaganda; the only difference was the perspective from which a person views the truth.

            Deni stretched back in his chair and contemplated the truth.
The truth, if there is such a thing, is entangled in the minds of men, cultures and countries. To unravel it, would be the work of a madman
, he thought and then sat forward in his seat toward the computer screen. “Perhaps I am that mad,” he said.