Rashad wouldn't be able to recognize himself in the mirror, even if one were available on the grounds. Instead, he saw a reflection of himself up by the Trickle on a hike up into the cliffs on his free time. By the time he reached the end of the Trickle, which filled up a good-sized lagoon, he was just as moist as the pool of water in front of him. On multiple occasions he hadn't properly dressed for training in the sun and found himself peeling off dead skin after the sun, the source of life on Earth, became the source of sizzling skin.
Although the men who ran the town (men like Jaheim) warned people from dumping waste and showering directly in the lagoon, since it was their untreated source of drinking water, Rashad couldn't help but fall victim to the temptation of a cool dip. Although he could easily shower in the natural waterfall bath in Jaheim's fancy living quarters, or even do what everyone else does and obtain water in buckets and use them for their showers, he did not wish to spoil his last opportunity to bathe in the lagoon that keeps the settlement hydrated and operating.
Today was Rashad's last day in the town. He had spent over nine months at the camp since the attack on his old village, a longer time than he had initially anticipated. A lot has happened over those last nine months. He has trained vigorously as a soldier of Allah, ready and willing to defend Islam, and its right to exist on the planet, from the Western Shrikes who seek to impale Islam on a stake before devouring it whole.
He has, for starters, drastically improved his gun skills. The AK-87 was his best friend. When he held it in his arms, it became an extension of his soul, each bullet a blast of courage against the oncoming foe. He could imagine each blast of courage toppling the empire that sought to eradicate Islam from the face of the Earth. He could see each blast of courage splattering against a man, a woman, a child, in retaliation for the same men, women, and children killed over here in Yemen. His anger would boil when his courage seeped away into despair whenever images of his dead mother and sister would pop into his mind—because at the end of the day they always appeared. After all, what other central reason did Rashad pick up the gun? He'd love to say it was to fight for Allah, and Islam's right to exist. But in the end, it was to avenge his family's death, and to prevent the boulder from crushing him—that same boulder he dreamt of when he was first initiated as a member of the Kabish.
Well today was the day he caught the boulder. He has been seeing its shadow darkening the area around him for months; but now his training will provide him the strength to catch it; and soon, he shall toss the boulder over the cliff.
For months he has hiked these cliffs as a form of exercise and a form of work. Retrieving water from the Lagoon was a strenuous task. Not only was the lagoon about a mile climb up against jagged slopes, unstable edges, and dusty winds, but also to make the trip up the mountain with multiple buckets was challenging. But, that pales in comparison to making one's way down the cliff with buckets full of water. You had to multi-task like no other. Not only did you have to keep your balance and strength while descending down the shaky cliffs, but you also had to do so without losing too much water—after all what's the point of the task if you come down the mountain with nothing to show for it? Rashad couldn't help but admire the children and women who scale the mountain every day, some even during sandstorms, to retrieve the water.
The mentioning of sandstorms brought back a vivid flashback of one of his training exercises. The exercise was conducted amongst his peers, and it sounded exciting at first, but proved to be a most dangerous game. This exercise had to be done at least once in a recruit's training within the Kabish. It taught one to abandon one's senses and rely on your soul and the light of Allah to guide you towards a successful mission.
Now, people may find a sandstorm to be absolutely nothing. It's true that if you are a local you get used to them, but they are far from just the desert's rain. Sandstorms destroys visibility, desensitizes your ability to hear anything amongst the roaring wind, clogs your nostrils and mouth with the sandpaper smell and the dry crunchy taste of sand, and feels like small pellets are being shot at you from all directions. In other words, your senses are useless. You must rely on something else to weather the storm.
Throw in about ten to fifteen young men seeking to harm you in that storm, and you have a major 'shitstorm' on your hands.
The concept sounded fun at first, but no one usually got caught up in a sandstorm. Most people have an instinctual sensation to avoid them. So when most of the recruits were tossed into one for the first time, navigating the storm and keeping one's balance posed enough of a difficulty for them.
But not for Rashad. He remembered being caught in a sandstorm one time when he was eight with his mother and young baby sister. He was blessed to have a mother who loved her children enough to risk being stoned to death when she removed her niqab, handed his sister over to Rashad, picked up Rashad in her hands, and used her niqab to cover her children. Meanwhile, she braced the storm and carried her children back home. Covered inside the niqab Rashad saw nothing, but he heard a lot of things. He could immediately hear his baby sister crying profusely, the wind howling like an orchestra of ghosts, and his mother grunting and spitting out wads of sand and dirt as she battled the storm.
Then the worst news hit. As they arrived home he heard his mother silently curse and start to whimper. Rashad's curiosity got to him, and he peaked outside the niqab for just a second and saw briefly his home tent ripped to shreds by the wind. Then he felt millions of little particles of dust and dirt stone his face for leaving the comforts of the niqab. He hid back inside and was scared. He could barely manage a couple of seconds outside the little bubble he was in—how was his mother putting up with this storm?
Eventually his mother laid them down on the ground and lied down besides them covering her face. Rashad peaked out again to scream to his mom. "Get inside!"
His mother, already completely covered in dust and dirt, shook her head. She was contaminated, and moving inside the niqab would contaminate both the safety of the portable environment and the children inside it. So she braved the elements and waited out the storm.
When the hurricane of sand and dust settled, his mother was practically buried alive in dust and dirt. Rashad had to dig her out and brush off the remaining particles of sand from her hair and her clothes.
So yes, Rashad had experienced a great sandstorm in his life, and his mother was there to see him through it. Now, the next great sandstorm approached, and his mother would not be there to lend him a hand; but he would see this through for her.
So when the time came for him to participate in the exercise involving the sandstorm, he was prepared to give it all he had. And in the end, he managed to take down four of his peers while not a single one had the scoop on him. The only thing that he believed was really guiding him through the exercise was his mother's spirit in Heaven, seeing him through the task.
Yet, now he saw himself in the reflection of the lagoon and he wondered whether or not his mother would truly be proud of him. Rashad wasn't clueless, he knew that his mother was trying to keep Jaheim from drawing Rashad into this extreme life the first time he came to their tent. Now his hand brushed up against the reflection as he felt for the coolness of the water beneath his fingertips. The image of his face vibrated, and he saw himself nine months before today. He saw a skinny boy with sleek black hair combed over towards his right side. He saw his smooth lips, complemented by a perfectly aligned nose. He noticed no scars on his face, no sweat, no layers of dried blood. He saw innocence in the lagoon, a time when he was scared, but his mind did not wander in search for blood.
When Rashad pulled his hands from the water, the fluid near him stopped shaking and the image changed back towards his new self. He saw a strong young man with frizzy black hair tied in a ponytail. He noticed lips that were so chapped they bled with ease (it didn't help either that Rashad was constantly peeling off the dead skin with his teeth and tongue). He saw that his nose was slightly slanted towards the left side. Rashad reached to try and align it correctly, but the slightest touch made him grimace with pain. Anymore fooling around with it and he may pollute the clean lagoon with his own blood.
He found himself counting how many scars he had on his face. There was one scar in the center of his forehead, when in training he was tossed and landed on a oddly misplaced rock on the ground. He saw a slight scar above his right eyebrow from the time he was learning to wield a knife. He foolishly twirled it as if he knew what he was doing and accidentally allowed it to slip from his hand and nick his right eyebrow. There was another scar on his chin from when one of his peers ruthlessly tripped him in a sprinting race to build stamina. He had skinned his chin on the tough and sandy terrain leaving a small patch of a scar around his chin. The list went on. Of course there was the sweat from hiking the cliff, and the dried blood from slicing his hands on the way up and repeatedly touching or wiping his sweaty face with that bloody hand.
In the end, Rashad was looking at a person he did not recognize. As much as he wanted to jump into the lagoon, he felt that he shouldn't pollute it for the whole village and for generations to come, with his ruined self. So he got up and braved the long trek down the cliffs. Although the opportunity to have a nice dip in the lagoon would probably not resurface again, especially with no one around to witness, he made it a point to try to live through the upcoming battle against the Shrikes and return to this Lagoon sometime in the near future.
For now, it was on to the debriefing.