Middle Eastern tyrants

Interlude to Chapter 67: "The Ballad of Ataba"

Under the scorching sun on the Gobi Desert, Hassan and Leila rode on the back of old Mawoz, dust billowing beneath his hooves, and Leila's veil fluttering in the wind.

Hassan could feel the old horse beneath him panting heavily, and his newlywed wife's arms around his waist were trembling slightly.

Behind them followed a squad of Zion soldiers, trailing behind at a leisurely pace, as if on a picnic, occasionally firing a few shots into the air while laughing and uttering vulgarities.

"Woz is no good."

Hassan looked into Leila's young and beautiful eyes, then shoved the small pistol from his waist into his wife's hand: "I swear to God, I will protect you with my life, but if I die, please don't hesitate."

Because falling into the hands of Zion scum will be a hundred times worse than death for you.

“I understand.” Leila nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

However, the people of Zion clearly don't want to give this ill-fated couple any more time to express their feelings to each other.

A gunshot rang out, and the bullet landed not far from them, creating a small crater.

"Come on, old buddy! Give us another ride!"

Hassan tightened the reins. He saw the reverse slope not far away, which gave him a glimmer of hope. Perhaps this was his last stronghold for a counterattack.

Old Mawz used the last of his strength to carry him down the slope. Hassan helped Leila off the horse and gestured for his wife to hide in the pit behind.

The Zion soldiers, who were not far away, saw the couple disappear behind the slope and quickened their pace by cracking their whips.

Hassan skillfully cocked his shotgun, lay prone on the sand, and aimed the muzzle at five figures in the distance, distorted by the heat waves.

His father was a traveling merchant in the desert, and Hassan grew up on the back of a camel. Because he often encountered bandits in the desert, he also developed excellent marksmanship skills.

When Hassan grew up, he enlisted in the army, hoping that his shooting talent would come in handy and that he would become a great commander like Saladin who recaptured Jerusalem.

But the Zionist tanks and cannons were like a nightmare on the battlefield, taking away his comrades whom he had only recently met.

On the battlefield, Hassan lost his gun and changed his clothes, which is how he survived.

Zion's soldiers were rapidly approaching. Once they were within firing range, Hassan held his breath, aimed, and blasted the leader's head open with a single shot.

"bingo!"

This successful shot greatly boosted Hassan's confidence.

"The other side has a gun!"

Upon seeing their comrade fall from his horse, the Zionist squad immediately dispersed and moved to encircle Hassan's location.

Hassan remained calm, unloading the bullet and reloading it.

He used a shotgun, which could basically kill someone half a life if it hit their limbs, but the downside was that it was relatively slow.

"boom--!"

The second shot hit another Zion soldier in the right eye, and the soldier fell backward to the ground.

But then bullets rained down, and Hassan was forced to turn his head back, allowing the other Zion soldiers to flank him.

"There are three more."

Hassan silently counted in his mind that the Zionites did not ride horses and their aim while on horseback was relatively poor.

He seized the opportunity, waiting for a lull in the firing, and peeked out again, removing the badge from a Zion soldier who was almost flanking him.

The body rolled down the slope like a gourd and was quickly covered by sand and dust.

Hassan saw the remaining soldiers gesturing, and then a round thing flew over, making his eyes widen in surprise.

Grenade!

With a deafening roar, the explosion sent up a sand column several meters high, and shrapnel grazed Hassan's arm, leaving a trail of blood.

But what was even more critical was that his vision was obscured, and his hearing was also impaired, so he was unable to confirm the Zion's movements in time.

The remaining three Zion soldiers immediately raised their guns and fired, and the other side of the slope finally fell silent.

Just when they thought they had finally killed Hassan, an old horse suddenly emerged from the dust, carrying a man whose shoulders were covered in blood. "He's still alive!"

The Zion soldier's smile froze instantly, and the next second, he saw the muzzle of a shotgun pointed at him.

With a gunshot, the warhorse fell to the ground, and the Zion soldier tumbled from his horse.

Old Horseworth neighed and crushed the chest of the wicked executioner with his hooves.

"There's only one left!"

Hassan felt his blood boiling, his heart pounding with excitement, and he couldn't even feel the pain in his body.

He thought of his aunt, who lived far away in the city and whom he could no longer reach by phone overnight; he thought of Washe, the fastest runner from the next village, who returned with only one leg; and he thought of the black smoke that hung in the gray sky on the day of his wedding.
"Perhaps I can take care of them all here."

Once the idea took hold, it spread like wildfire, overshadowing despair.

Hassan gripped the gun barrel tightly with his five fingers. He was determined to wash away the humiliation of being a deserter today, and he was determined to avenge his dead relatives and comrades!
Just as he was about to reload, he found that his ammunition pouch was empty.

The last soldier in the distance happened to witness this scene, rode his horse towards him, raised his gun and shouted, "Put your gun down!"

At that moment, Hassan suddenly had a bold idea. He patted Old Ma on the neck and whispered, "Charge!"

He then raised his empty gun and aimed it at the Zion sergeant.

With a gunshot, Hassan fell to the ground.

The Zion soldiers, believing Hassan to be dead, lowered their guard.

But as the two warhorses passed each other, Hassan's "corpse" suddenly sprang up, drew his scimitar from his waist, and plunged it into the soldier's neck!
The soldier's eyes were wide open, but only the gurgling sound of blood flowing from his throat could be heard. Finally, his eyes lost their luster, and he fell silent.

"Laila!"

Hassan staggered to his feet, spitting out a mouthful of bloody saliva.

He hadn't expected to actually fool the Zionist devils. The joy of victory surged through him like strong liquor, and he shouted, "Lyra!!"

He wanted to take his wife away from this land, preferably to the south.

He could start over in his old profession, or simply become a farmer, raising a few camels and a few sheep.

At that moment, he thought not only of the joy of surviving the disaster, but also of the hopeful life ahead.

Hassan stumbled to the cover where his wife was hiding, but the sight inside froze his smile.

Lyra lay on her back on the ground, clutching the pistol tightly in her hand.

She thought Hassan had been shot dead during the charge.

For the sake of his reputation;
To remain faithful to her husband;

She shot herself in the temple.

Hassan slowly knelt down, overwhelmed by immense pain.

At that moment, a folk song seemed to ring in his ears:

"The desert rose only blooms for one night."
Our love burned for only a moment.

If you return someday

But I have become nothing but bones.

Let the sandstorm bury me.
"By the roadside you passed."

Hassan's body was like a puppet whose spring had been pulled out, kneeling motionless on the ground.

As the view slowly widens, the songs of Ataba seem to echo under the setting sun.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

P.S.: The war is about to begin, but let me organize my thoughts and post a short interlude to transition.

(End of this chapter)