The Puppets of the Marionettes

Chapter 1

Not all are equal, and neither are societies run equal. But one cannot feel an unexperienced ordeal.

Thus were the ruminations of our wretched hero as he closed the last chapter of his favorite novel, Les Misérables. Describing Omar as a hero might be too superior for his actions. For the prevalent image of a hero in our minds is one of courage, superior standards, and a change of circumstance for the better; perhaps reading a novel without a hero is better suited for one's virtue. Mind you, at this point in his life Omar was not wretched, not yet to say the least. On the contrary, he was ecstatic.

The novel found favour in Omar's heart way before he could comprehend it, it was merely for how the events played out-he was a child after all. Now, five years shy from thirty, he understood it well, but to what extent? While the adversaries of the French pre-revolution era were evident, he could but only sympathize for the characters as heroes and heroines. Societal degradation, disparaging governments and suffering were of the past as far as he was concerned. Verily, that was what he believed indeed.

He closed his book and returned it to his notorious bookshelf. "Yes, I read, and I like to read," was his usual response to skeptical visitors who questioned the presence of what they call "rubbish" in his room. "Don't waste your time with foolish ideas, these books ruin a person's brain!" Said his uncle to him once when Omar was about twelve. It was that same night, after the guest had left that Layla turned to her son and said, "From the outside, societies differ immensely Omar, but it is in greatness and insignificance that they meet. Remarkable nations are the result of their focused effort on all that is remarkable while futile nations are the result of their focused effort on all that is futile. Unfortunately, we belong to the latter, so don't let anyone lead you astray with their false ideas."

He found himself recollecting this memory as he subconsciously walked down a narrow path. He had left his home behind him and took the right lane from the fork. The left lane led to a small pond which he looked out to from his bedroom window every night. Just a thirty-minute walk down the right lane was the cemetery.

The cirrostratus clouds were weak shields against the sun's hot rays aimed at him as he walked, causing droplets to drip down from his dark oak hair, onto his forehead and down his cheeks and finally landing on his mahogany-cotton shirt. But it was not perspiration that poured on the sand pile which Omar now stood upon.

If I had grown up with memories of you, losing you would have been much more difficult. That's how I console myself father, perhaps never seeing you was more merciful on my soul. I wish you were here with me dad. You would have been proud of me and even happier to call Layla your wife and the mother of your child.

His ruminations were halted when a soft voice from behind him spoke, "I knew I would find you here."

"Mother? How did you come here?" he quickly wiped away his tears in an effort to conceal his agony, but it was too late. He saw the pain inflicted in his mother's eyes and he could not bear to look at her any longer. He turned back to face his father's grave. "Why didn't you tell me you wanted to visit dad's grave today, I would have driven you here."

"Exercise is good for me, and I felt energetic today."

The hiatus in their conversation was rather unnoticed by both parties; each lost in their own thoughts.

"You've been coming here everyday since your return from college, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have." Omar hesitantly turned and slowly looked at his mother. The pain in her eyes was no longer evident. It had been replaced by a much stronger emotion. He had seen this look in her eyes before, he had seen it many times.

"I'm sure now, that you have accomplished what you have, and are about to embark on a new and exciting journey, you wish your father was here with you. I understand Omar, I truly do."

The tears in his eyes could no longer hide.

"My son. Look at me. Look up at me Omar. Your father would have been so proud of you if he were here. But you are equipped to accomplish even more Omar. You have worked extremely hard and your strength must not falter now. What you are about to do requires all your strength and might. You are now entering the lion's den. Your father was an average man in society without notable connections. You did not inherit a name credible enough to render a prosperous life, but your efforts will earn you respect, and all this will happen with your head raised and your dignity saved."