The Connector

mad_scientist“In a land of extremist shape shifters, your father is the purest and wisest of souls I have ever come across with.” said Souzan in her usual shrieking voice as the turbulent wind blew in her face. The wind that usually blew in their area was not just turbulent, dissonant or harsh; but it was something cruel. At times, it brought the scent of blood and faded sounds of shrill cries. Makhdoum had usually heard this statement about Baba from his ailing mother quite alot of times. Usually after anything happened that his father had already predicted. By occupation, he was a scientist and so the people called him. Others called him a ‘ghabi’ i.e a psychopath. But he had always protested to these titles. He called himself a connector, and God knows what he connected! Mumbling numbers after numbers and names of politicians. He drew charts of various numbers and had the world map nailed to the already fissured main wall of the deplorable wreck they called a home. They lived in one of the suburbs of Damascus, Syria. Souzan told Makhdoum that when the terrorists attacked their lands in 1949, it had also been forseen by his baba. The year now is 1986. “So, you might as well live in this era, mother. Not in memories of some pagan hand-grenade invasion that baba saw in his dream and screamed of the next morning in 1949! Haha!” said Makhdoum in his haughtiness he called humour. Out came baba yelling: “The Muslim Brotherhood! The Muslim Brotherhood! You mark my words Makhiye, people will die.” Makhdoum left the room saying, “It’s not a normal day if he doesn’t get one of his pagan attacks.” Baba’s rage in inflicting his ideas to the general public became uncontrollable when he would go out on streets with and a loud speaker that he built; and would herald to the people of the commune to seek shelter of the attack the Muslim Brotherhood will execute here. He had it all connected, on his world map. A red line he drew, all the way from Egypt; crossing the Mediterranean Sea to Damascus. Nobody batted an eye and gave an ear. One day, it did occur. When the air had gone stiff at the dead of midnight and all the sound that was audible was the chirping of the night insect. The brotherhood commenced it’s raid and the blood of many innocents was shed. Makhdoum woke into consciousness with horrific screams as his alarm clock. He went out in the corridor and saw Baba with his throat slit and a parchment lying on his chest. Instinctively, he picked it up with eyes so watery that there was a collosal blur infront of him. It said: “We killed him first because he knew we’d visit and you we will kill last; because you least expected our arrival.” Makhdoum grabbed his mother as soon as he heard footsteps on the wooden floor of their house and escaped through the back window. They ran to a station and sat on a bus to Tartus. All the money they had were 80 qirshes and teary-eyed pleas to the bus conductor. At the coast of Tartus, they boarded a yacht and fled to Egypt; made a merry living there. Makhdoum lived to be a 35 year-old Egyptian National Resident with a son Mousa. Makhdoum was mercilessly killed in his sleep by Hozain Al Wahab, skilled incendiary assassin of the Muslim Brotherhood. In these brutal turn of events rose a wave of rebellion years later. Mousa Makhdoom grew up to the gorvernor of Cairo and became the first man of honorable political gentry to declare a ban on the Muslim Brotherhood, namely terrorist organization.


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