They hang together, these al Kafir, cling to one another as flies do when they discover a carcass, setting about tasks with tremendous attention and then scattering at the slightest disturbance.
Their skin bakes an unwholesome red in the sun, and despite their mastery of machines and firearms they are helpless as children, especially when alone.
This is perhaps why we seldom see them so.
A man alone in the desert has only his soul between himself and Allah.
He is a moving shadow against the curtain of infinite stars that map the terrestrial world as clearly as a line drawn in the sand, only to vanish with the coming dawn.
The desert is Allah’s country.
When from its barren wastes life springs, it is all the more precious because of its rarity.
All the more fleeting.
All the more ridiculous.
These meat-faced al Kafir will never understand this.
They do not know silence.
They cannot know Allah.