Change of Heart

        The sun beat down fiercely, sending waves of heat ricocheting back into the endless cerulean sky. The oppressive heat was customary for the locals of the region, but the foreigners had yet to acclimate to the harsh climate. They huddled in the meager shade provided by a transit shelter, fanning themselves with papers and cleansing their parched throats with bottled water. They acted refreshed as though it were fresh from a clear mountain spring, though it was surely tepid by this time. From some of the faces they made, she thought that the heat might make them explode.

        Abruptly, one of them did.

        He had already removed his sport jacket and rolled up his long silk sleeves to the elbow, but the heat had penetrated his being, and his stomach could no longer withhold its contents: he spewed a thick, yellowish vomit on the wall of the shelter and down his front. The smell traveled quickly through the roiling hot air, and there was a frantic exodus from the plastic box of the transit shelter. A lone woman -- an older American, around 50 -- remained to make sure that the man was okay, to help him clean up.

        The bus pulled up: time to go.

        The foreigners jumped quickly onboard, and the locals filed in behind. The observer boarded near the middle of the pack, just an average passenger, no different than the rest. She took her seat in the middle of the bus, remaining quiet and unremarkable. Hunched over a little, she stared at her feet planted on the dull brown floor. She was wearing her favorite sandals – her only sandals, actually, but they were still her favorite. She frowned, remembering how much her littlest sister had always prized them: she should have left them behind.

        Why had she been so selfish?

        She opened her eyes, watching as the last of the passengers jostled onboard. The bus heaved forward, and it was on its way. The regular chatter began, a multitude of languages trading the latest news and gossip. She tried to block out the few conversations in her own language, but it was difficult. No matter how she tried to isolate herself from the others, she could not: the atmosphere was so oppressive, the bus so crowded. There was no escaping the feeling of compression, no isolating herself from the group.

        We are nothing alike

        She tried to focus on the seatback in front of her, but something caught her eye: the pallid face of a woman, shrouded by dark locks. She sat in the seat across the aisle, her eyes darting about anxiously, as though trying to escape some horror inside her head. She grasped some small, unseen object in her hands, wringing it tightly as though it might slip away at any moment. There was great anticipation and great fear in her manner, though it was impossible to tell why she was so restless.

        She had better be afraid

        The man sitting in front of her let out a somewhat obnoxious chuckle that drew eyes to him. When he realized that he had made a sound, he developed a sheepish look, gave a half shrug to anyone looking at him, and then returned to the letter that he was reading. A small grin was still spread across his face, and his eyes squinted in a somewhat loving joy.

        He does not know the true joy of Allah

        A small child who had been watching the driver up front tottered through the aisle, brushing against her leg. She closed her eyes, wincing as though a great pain had just shot through her. In her mind she saw her own younger brothers, sisters, cousins. They frolicked in the innocence of youth, worrying only about lessons and chores. They did not yet know the bitterness of the world. The child took his seat at his mother's side, clenching her hand tightly.

        They are not innocents: they are casualties of war

        Finally, a baby began to cry. She felt such a rush of tenderness in her. All her sisters would go on to have families and children. She would never be so blessed.

        I am blessed, more than they could ever be.

        She would never bring life into the world, only death.

        They do not deserve to live.

        They did not deserve such a fate: clearly they all had purposes still for which to live.

        Infidels. They are not Allah's: they are nothing.

        They had desires, losses, loves, angers, passions -- so many feelings no different from her own!

        The bus shuddered to a halt.

        She pulled back the sleeve of her robe, checking the time at her wrist. Looking up to the front of the bus, she saw the driver's eyes watching her in the mirror. Somehow he knew. As tears began to spill down her cheeks, she shouted a warning. Anywhere else in the world there may have been the hesitation of disbelief, but not here. The passengers frantically scrambled off the bus to a safe distance, herding bystanders and stopped vehicles out of the vicinity. The bus driver was the last to flee. He stood and turned to look at her.

        "Thank you."

        She smiled sadly as he spun and slipped out through the door. The timer ticked down the last seconds. A fiery ball of heat shot outward, unleashing a wave of destruction which had been denied its original purpose, taking but one life. In that final instant of pain she was cleansed: there was only the bliss of forgiveness.


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