Justice for the Yazidiyah Girl
Tim Wedge

The Yazidiyah girl died in pain and fear.
The Djinn, whose name was Abu Nakbah, though he claimed many others, watched in satisfaction as the crowd of grown men beat and kicked her. She was small, this Yazidiyah girl. Barely past sixteen, she could easily have passed for thirteen. The Djinn tasted the rage of the crowd, seasoned oh so delightfully with her fear. He chuckled as she curled up into a little ball, naive enough, at first, to believe that she would endure and suffer, but walk away afterward. Oh, how that little undertaste of hope complemented her misery so deliciously! When the crowd began to throw stones, she began to understand that she was receiving their final word on the subject.
They had ripped her skirt off before they knocked her down. She thought, and Abu Nakbah hoped, that she would be raped, but they never did that. They let her keep her panties, and one kind tormentor covered her bare legs and buttocks with his jacket between kicks and blows. Perhaps she was not raped because they were in public. Perhaps it was because so many were recording the event on their cell phones. In the end, it was probably that she was so inconsiderate as to die before anybody thought of it.
She lived and suffered long enough to feed Abu Nakbah, the Djinn, for just a little while. He watched and savored her growing despair and humiliation as it mingled with the other wickedly delightful tastes the crowd was feeding him. And feed he did, this Djinn, growing stronger with every whimper, more sated with every angry kick and blow. Oh, how he loved misery. Misery spiced with the unjust anger of the crowd. Oblivious to his presence, the crowd fed him. Only the little Yazidiyah girl fed him unwillingly, the only non-consenting party to the unfolding events.

What? This is not how Djinn feed? Beloved reader, the story has barely begun, and already you are interrupting. Oh, very well . . . you are mostly right. Ordinary Djinn do not behave this way. As you know, the Djinn were converted by the prophet and became believers, became momin. It is these Djinn that most think of, though we seldom see them because they live in different worlds than we. You do well to believe, beloved reader, that no momineem Djinn would delight in this human suffering. But just as some men chose not to hear, so too were there Djinn who rejected the teachings of the prophet, who chose not to hear the word of compassionate and merciful God. Apostate by choice, such twisted things these Djinn became; Followers of Shai-tan, they are.
Mercifully, the faithful are protected from such things . . . mostly. Sometimes, by our own actions, we invite intimacy with such as these twisted Djinn, and must eat the fruit we have plucked. Be always watchful, beloved reader, for these kuffar Djinn. Be always wary of giving them unwitting sanctuary in your heart. If you feed them, they can take you. They feed on misery and suffering, these dark Djinn, and they will take you if they can, even if they must wait many years to waylay you on the way to paradise. Oh, beloved reader, if only men were kinder and wiser, we could starve them all. But many men are weak and cruel . . . and so I have stories to tell.
Abu Nakbah, the Djinn in our story was a kuffar Djinn, as I have described. Let us return now, beloved reader, to Abu Nakbah in his feasting, and the Yazidiyah girl in her torment.

She thought of Fadil when they knocker her, half naked, to the ground. Fadil would have protected her, would have fought them all, no matter how big or how many they were. He would have fought like a lion for her, for he was as big for his years as she was small for hers, and loved her fiercely. The biggest among these men would have been no match for her mighty Fadil. He would have smashed them, broken them like a dry branch across his thigh. But Fadil was not here. In truth, if he had been, in the end he would only have succeeded in dying with her. Even the mightiest of lions will fall under the weight of too many jackals.
She thought, briefly, that it was good that he was safe and did not have to see the indignities heaped upon her defenseless body. She never once considered that none of this would be happening if she had never loved him, nor he her.

In some lands, it is thought improper for the Shi'a to wed the Sunni, for the Sunni to wed the Christian, for the Christian to wed the Druze, for the Druze to wed the Jew, for the Jew to wed the Yazidi, or in any combination for one faith wed any other. In such places, like must only marry like or incur the wrath of their fellows. If only Fadil and the Yazidiyah girl had lived somewhere other than a land such as this, their story would have ended much more happily. In fact, there would be no story at all.
The young couple did, in fact, live in a land such as this, for who among us truly cares to read a story where some tragedy doesn't fall on the undeserving? Fadil lived with his Shi'a family in a Shiite village, surrounded by their Shiite neighbors. Likewise, the Yazidiyah girl lived with her Yazidi family, etc., etc.
Fadil's Shi'a village sat very near the Yazidi village. There was much distrust between the two communities, with little interaction. The Yazidi were fewer in number, and were not well-liked by the other nearby villages, which were mostly Shi'a. Fear and distrust were abundant commodities among both groups.
Though few, encounters between the Shi'a and the Yazidi did happen. Sometimes the Yazidi shops were out of eggs, or the Shi'a market was out of some prized commodity. Sometimes a Yazidiyah girl on an errand for eggs enters a Shi'a market. Sometimes a tall young man, a gentle giant, sweeping the floor in the Shi'a market has a friendly smile, bestowed without reservation, even for a Yazidiyah girl.

People fall in love for many reasons. Sometimes a courageous act steals a young woman's heart. Sometimes our common interests drive us together. Sometimes our families force us together and we learn to love each other over time. Sometimes, the story of how two people came to be one is fast and exciting, but often it is very long and boring, though no less real.
For Fadil and the Yazidiyah girl, it was somewhere between the two extremes. A brazen smile leads to a shy giggle. The memory of a handsome man leads to a young girl volunteering to do more than her share of the shopping. This in turn, leads to a young man making sure he is always at work in his parent's grocery store in the afternoons whenever a shy young girl comes in. This leads to more smiles, which leads to a young man and woman accidentally bumping each other in the narrow mazes of the aisles of a small grocery store where the floor in the refrigerated section, nearest the eggs, is always in most desperate need of sweeping when a small girl with a shy smile comes in.
Over time, bumping and smiling leads to laughter and short greetings. A formal “As-Salamu Alaykum” evolves into a warm “Marhaba.” Greetings become short exchanges that, in turn, become longer exchanges, and even awkward conversations. Awkward conversations in the market become awkward conversations outside the market, with increasing frequency at “accidental” meetings, with hands sometimes touching hands. An arm eventually goes around a shoulder, and then the conversations become less awkward. He learns that she is very smart. She learns that he is very kind. Was there a kiss? Yes, beloved reader, there was also a kiss (You really must stop interrupting, you know). Isn't there always a kiss? More than that, though, I will not tell. We will respect their privacy, these two young people. The important thing is that in the course of a few weeks―that might just as likely have passed in a moment or a year for all they could tell―the Shiite boy and the Yazidiyah girl had fallen in love.
Deeply and madly in love? Deeply, most assuredly so. Neither threats nor protests from either family could keep the two apart. Probably madly as well. What sane people would tempt the wrath of their fellows by doing such a forbidden thing?
No matter the shame and dishonor their respective families claimed, and despite mounting threats, the two became inseparable. Of the two, Fadil suffered the least. He was his mother's only son, and well-loved by her. His worst transgressions were always viewed with the forgiving eyes of a doting mother. Some mothers will forgive a treasured child any transgression. Fadil's was such a mother, and he a treasured child.
He was also very well-liked in his community, a gentle giant unless roused, and few truly wanted to dislike him. Only the most determined in his village stayed angry for long, and being almost as big and strong as the Yazidiyah girl idealized him to be, his neighbors would consider carefully before incurring the large young man's ire. Perhaps, some reasoned, it would be wise to bestow mercy upon him and hope it was a passing phase. Gentle giants are more likely to remain so when they have no cause to be otherwise. Though they voiced their disapproval of his dealings with the Yazidiyah girl, they generally did not press the matter much.
The Yazidiyah girl was not as fortunate. None would defend her. She was reminded daily that she was shaming herself, her family, and bringing dishonor to the entire village. She was degrading herself, no better than a whore for the hated Shiites. The reminders of her disgrace became more forceful every day, and there was no safe haven to be found in her village. Whispered gossip became open insult, escalating into vile curses. Accidental nudges became deliberate shoves became slaps and spitting. She had nowhere to go, but into Fadil's arms.
For a time, that is where she stayed. Fadil's mother, because she could not deny him, let the Yazidiyah girl stay in their home. Though family and friends alike distrusted and disliked the Yazidiyah girl and the dishonor she brought to Fadil, they did not speak their feelings aloud where he could hear. Though they would never admit it, there were some who found themselves liking her, for the Yazidiyah girl was trying hard to fit in. She was pretty and kind, and though she seemed to always believe the best of people whether they deserved it or not, she was very smart in most ways.
Fadil's mother, though she wanted to hate her for disgracing her son, found it harder and harder to do so. She worked for free in store, and worked hard and fast. She mastered tasks in days that had taken her children weeks and months, and with no complaints. In spite of her meticulously nurtured resentment, she often found herself thinking kind thoughts towards the girl. In time, the Yazidiyah girl might have become fully a part of Fadil's world and been happy, but the Yazidi village would have none of that.
The Yazidiyah girl's family complained to the police. Perhaps it was their idea, perhaps they were pushed into doing it, but they went to the police just the same. Their daughter had been stolen, they complained, kidnapped by the Shi'a family. Would the police do nothing about it? Would the Shi'a police not enforce the law? The Shi'a were always harming the Yazidi and taking things from them. Would there be no justice for the Yazidi village? They wanted the Yazidiyah girl back.
The policeman was neither a particularly good man nor a particularly bad man. He wanted respect. He would, when necessary, work to gain respect. He did not like trouble. When problems arose, he wanted resolution that caused the smallest possible trouble. If a problem could go away completely, that was best. Shi'a or Yazidi, the policeman would be respected.
So, despite her protests, the Yazidiyah girl was returned to her village. The policeman spoke to the Yazidiyah girl, to the girl's parents, and to the village elders. They gave their word that no harm would come to her. He reassured the Yazidiyah girl that she would be safe if she returned to her family. Though fearful, the Yazidiyah girl believed what the policeman told her and let him return her to the Yazidi village.
Promises mean different things to different people. Some people believe that promises made to those of different faiths are not binding. The people in the Yazidi village knew that they swore to get justice for the dishonor the Yazidiyah girl had brought. After the policeman had gone, that was the only promise they kept. They acted swiftly and without mercy, lest she get away and bring more disgrace upon them with her whoring over in the Shi'a village. With fists, and stones and kicks, they kept their promise to punish her dishonor.

Much to the dismay of Abu Nakbah, she died much too quickly. Her suffering might have gone on for some time but for the show-off man. The show-off man did not, at first, know what was going on, but he knew he could not be excluded from the activity. Until this moment, he had only heard of the Yazidiyah girl's crimes in passing and was not sure if he'd even seen her face before, though it was a small village. He knew immediately, though, that he must be more indignant than the others, more brutal than any of them.
Always, in every tribe, in every community there is a man or woman who is compelled to be ever so much more than their neighbors. If their cousin digs a well, they must dig one twice as deep. If their uncle slaughters a goat, they must slaughter two. So it was with the show-off man. He had to outdo the others in all things, and the torture of the Yazidiyah girl could be no different.
Seeing his neighbors pummeling her body with stones and bricks, the show-off man found a cinder block to drop on her head. To be precise, he didn't so much drop it as raise it over his head and throw it at hers with all his might. After all, it was important that he prove he was stronger and more righteous than his fellows. And so it was that the show-off man's righteous cinder block crushed the little skull of the Yazidiyah girl. The blood in her head gushed out onto the dirty sidewalk. Curled up into her little ball, her face covered by her hands, she did not see it coming, did not expect the mighty blow of the show-off man's cinder block. There was a flash of pain, a momentary brilliant starburst of agony, and then there was no pain at all. Her half-naked little body spasmed, then went limp, to struggle no more. It would have been small comfort to know that in lifting and hurling the cinder block, he had scraped and torn his palms and knuckles, and his own blood mixed with hers on its rugged surface.
The stoning and beating continued for some time, appeasing the crowd but completely unnoticed by the target of their vicious attention. A dozen cameras in a dozen cell phones in a dozen hands stared at the battered little form and remembered. The scene would later be replayed for their masters' amusement again and again.

“NO!!” howled Abu Nakbah. “No! No! No! Too soon, too soon!” the angry Djinn cried, in a voice unheard by human ears. He had barely begun to enjoy his meal when that miserable oaf and his cinder block crushed her skull. He would shower the show-off man with special attention later, when the time came. In killing the Yazidiyah girl too quickly, he had incurred a greater diyat than the rest, and for robbing him of most of the pleasure of his meal, Abu Nakbah most assuredly would collect in currency other than dinar.
OH! And she was still innocent! He needed her hate, he needed her to desire vengeance or she would simply escape to paradise. That fool had set her free! He had not yet set his hooks. He was counting on her thirst for revenge. She was leaving now, moving on. Damn that fool! But . . . wait . . . there was . . . something . . . YES! She was hesitating . . . only a little anger, barely any hate, but something had delayed her, if only for a moment. Maybe there was still time, he might act before she slipped onward. There was that little something slowing her down. She was being cheated, yes . . . she would not see her beloved Fadil again. Oh! Oh, regret, oh, self-pity! He could use that. He had almost forgotten that with the innocent, self-pity might work were the darker emotions were not strong enough. For a moment it slowed her, and in that moment Abu Nakbah began his seduction.

“Oh, you poor, poor thing.” crooned Abu Nakbah, sympathetically. “They stole you from your beloved Fadil, and he from you. Poor thing.”
“Fadil!” she cried. “No, I cannot leave him, I cannot!” Then she sobbed and wailed. Such a mournful sobbing that it might have, just maybe, affected her tormentors if human ears could have heard the sobbing of the dead.
“They robbed you, didn't they? Yes, that's right. They robbed you. They beat and degraded you, but most of all, they stole from you that which you loved most. Took you from your beloved, from the life you should have had together.”
“Who are you? Where am I?” The Yazidiyah girl wailed, repeating the standard questions of the newly dead. She could think and hear, but she could not see or feel herself or her supernatural companion. She knew that she had died but did not want to admit to it, even in her thoughts. She did not want this to be real, to never again see her beloved, to be separated for all time.
“I am called Rashid, for I am to be your guide,” he lied in a calm and soothing voice. “I am here to help you, to help you decide your path, to guide you to the place you choose.” He concluded with confidence, “I am here to help you find justice, if you choose it.”
His voice was smooth and appealing, flowing like honey from his lips. His talk of justice distracted her. Only for a moment did it distract her, but it was enough. When the Djinn, whose name was most assuredly not Rashid, spoke falsely of justice, he was, in truth, speaking of something else entirely. In her despair, the Yazidiyah girl had likewise taken vengeance into her heart, confusing it with justice and mistaking her wrath for resolve. In that moment, she was lost from the path she was to have taken. Remember, beloved reader, that ours is a God of infinite mercy, and so it is that wrath and vengeance may not enter into paradise.
“I wish to have justice.” she replied.

Abu Nakbah almost shuddered with delight. This would all work out so well, after all. He would teach her dark things and give her power to inflict the pain and suffering that he could not. He had no power over them while they lived, for he was not human, and they had not wronged him. He could only wait and hope, sometimes able to just barely squeeze a dark whisper into an ear that already wanted to hear it, but he could not touch them directly, could not influence their path or cause them harm. Ah, but the Yazidiyah girl, she had been human, and the crowd had forged a bond with her using the hammer of hate against the anvil of violence. Through an unbreakable bond she had never asked for, she could most certainly touch them.
He would teach her to use that bond, and through it he would feast on such delicious suffering and misery. So long as any of her torturers lived, she would be able to harry and punish them, and he would feast. He would feast and grow stronger for many years, feasting on their misery while they lived, and their souls when they died. Yes! Yes, he would grow ever so powerful on the suffering of an entire generation! When the last of them was gone, he would consume the Yazidiyah girl.
He thought, too, about how some captured the deed with their little human toys. Even now, some were replaying the sights and sounds of the deed with a dark joy. Perhaps, he thought, he might push her bond past the village. Weren't all of those who watched her suffering without remorse guilty as well? Surely, he could get her to exact justice for all of those who laughed at the suffering of the little Yazidiyah girl. His feeding might extend past the little village and beyond the boundary of a few human years. He might feed for some generations.
In the end, though, he would still consume her. Oh, how sweet she would taste! Swelling and ripening for years to come. No honeyed date could be as sweet, no apple or melon as juicy. She would taste so good, he would become so strong. Who knows what he might be able to do with such strength? He would use that strength, he knew. He would be strong enough to speak into less receptive ears, push where now he could not. He would cause even greater misery and suffering. It was as it should be. Was he not Abu Nakbah, the father of calamity? So it came to pass that Abu Nakbah the Djinn, taught things to the Yazidiyah girl.

First, he taught her to see and hear the human world, so that she might witness their deeds and words. Still silent at first, he did not want her to have influence until she was firmly on the path he had chosen. He took her places and showed her things. He took her to the show-off man's house.
Together, they watched and listened as he boasted of his role in her suffering to his wife and children. Rather than deny, he exulted in his deeds as he regaled others with his boasting. In his tales, the beating and stoning of the Yazidiyah girl was all his idea: she would have escaped their righteous justice were it not for his compelling arguments to a reluctant crowd. No stone was thrown, no kick or blow landed but those that were done at his direction, for he was strong, and all the village craved his leadership. He had stopped her from escaping at one point. She had slipped through the densely packed crowd and was fleeing her rightful justice, but he, swift as an eagle snatching a darting hare, had chased her down, her youth and nimbleness no match for his enormous, wheezing bulk. She struggled fiercely when he caught her, too. Why just look at his hands! All torn and scratched by the little she-demon. A lesser man might have relented and let her go after suffering such injuries, but not the show-off man. No, he persevered, he made sure that there was no escaping justice for the Yazidiyah girl, ensured that she was punished.
Stoked by smooth, dark whisperings, the fury of the little Yazidiyah girl flared. Here then, was the instrument of her eternal separation from her beloved. When her wise teacher, Rashid, had finished teaching her, this would be the most cherished of all the objects of her wrath. He would suffer more than all the rest, and in that suffering there would most assuredly be justice for the Yazidiyah girl. It was not long before she could bear no more. She pleaded with her trusted mentor, Rashid, to take her somewhere else, to learn something different, and to please make her ready to deliver justice. Rashid complied and took her other places in the village to see other things.

There were dogs in the village. Rashid and his disciple paid them no attention. They did not notice the small dog on the sidewalk where the Yazidiyah girl had died. The fearful little dog noticed them, however. Animals can often sense things that humans cannot. The little dog could not see, hear or smell them, but just the same, he felt them pass over him and was fearful. The dog had known constant fear all its short life. Fear of humans, fear of other dogs. There were many things that would harm a small dog for amusement or an easy meal. Fear was a useful tool for staying alive. This fear was different, though. The dog knew in its little heart that there could be no running and hiding from such as this. He could not know that he had not captured its attention, that he was not its prey. He only knew fear such as he had never felt before. In his terror, he shat himself and urinated. Then he ran.

The Yazidiyah girl was an eager and avid learner. He taught her how to do many things without letting her do them. Soon, she would be ready. When he was certain that his training was complete, that she had surrendered her judgment to him, he could let her do what she would with her tormentors. But not before: If she acted too soon, if she felt remorse, if she remained too human, she could slip away from him. She might not escape into paradise, but she would be equally useless to him.
He taught her how to look in men's hearts. She could use this, he explained, to find out what they feared or desired most. This would help in rendering that punishment which was most just. He began teaching her other things. Things he could not do. He helped her learn that she could affect the world of men. She would be able to move things and destroy things if she wished. She must first move herself, though. He had been providing transportation for them both. It was time for her to spread her wings.
He brought her to a spot not far, but not particularly close to the place where she had died. Then he left her.
“You must move on your own now,” he said.
“I don't know how!” She pleaded. “You never showed me.”
“There is no showing for this trick, small one,” he told her sympathetically. “You will have to remain at this spot until you learn to move on your own. I will watch from afar. I will be praying for you.”
This was, in fact a lie. He would no more pray for her than he would willingly consign himself to hell. Nor did she have to learn in this way. He could easily have imparted the knowledge she needed, but he enjoyed her distress and he was hungry. He had labored to maintain the facade of a kind and trusted counselor and needed some cruelty. So he went a distance off and watched. He would enjoy this almost as much as the time his whispers convinced a father he should throw his son in the river so he would learn to swim. She, fortunately, would not drown before she learned like the boy did.
She tried walking, as she had in life. She had no legs, and that approach did not work. She tried and tried. She tried to imagine herself flying or swimming, and a great many other things, but nothing worked. The Djinn chuckled, though she could not see that. Everything she tried revolved around having a body she no longer had. This dragged on for many hours (the Djinn was prepared to go many days) without success.
A rat had climbed out of some rubbish. It could not see her, nor did she see it until it was almost upon her. It was a large nasty rat, pocked with cancerous sores. She panicked, and instantly she had to be somewhere else, anywhere but at this spot, with this rat.
And then she was.
Having decided to be elsewhere, she was instantly there, halfway down the block and across the street: she had moved on her own. The Djinn was quick to croon with feigned encouragement. He encouraged her to move some more. She would want to be good at this. She could be anywhere she wished, and none could bar her path.
Having done it the first time, it was easy thereafter. Practice was fun but hardly necessary, for she was a fast learner. The Djinn would have done well to realize that the Yazidiyah girl was as smart as she was pretty. He did not though and gave her free reign to practice what she had already mastered, waiting for a stupid mistake that would leave her stuck between here and there, allowing him to enjoy her distress for some time.
She flitted about here and there, knowing already that she could move a few feet as easily as a few miles. She watched people coming and going. Not all of them evil, she thought briefly. Not all would receive justice at her hands. Only a few, she decided. She would spare people who had never wronged her. The little dog walking by would be spared, she decided. Many of the children would be left alone, she decided.
“For example, that girl over there,” she thought. “She means no harm. Just walking home . . . with a basket of eggs. Just like when I . . .”

No sooner had she thought of the market and the tall young man then she was there. He was not, though, but it only took another moment to find him and be where he was. He was at home, mourning. She went to him and, without thinking, embraced him with arms she did not have. She saw into his heart as Rashid had taught her, and with no real effort: this was a heart she knew very well already. She felt his sadness, his longing and his love for her. And as easily as she had learned to see into men's hearts from Rashid, she taught herself how to speak to them. In hearing her, he felt her also, and embraced her.
Perhaps it was because they were soulmates. Perhaps it was because she was a better student than the Djinn realized. Perhaps it is simply that there exists a divine mercy that, in the end, will not let the innocent be taken. However it happened, she was, if only for a moment, once again in Fadil's embrace.
Seeing too late what was happening, the Djinn tried to call her away from him. “You must let go, dear one.” He advised with a calm he did not feel: “You could cause him great harm.” He implored and entreated, but she ignored him. More precisely, she no longer heard him. Where love and joy had re-entered her heart, there was no room for wrath and vengeance. Without those things, the Djinn had no hold over her. His pleading turned quickly to threats and rants, losing all pretense of the wise counselor that had been Rashid. The transformation would have shocked her had she been able to see it.

What? You wish to know what happened to the show-off man? Beloved reader, I am almost finished, and still you interrupt. Why do you care about the show-off man? Is the title of the story “Justice for the Show-Off Man”? No, beloved reader, it is not! This story is about the Yazidiyah girl, and I am almost finished with it! Oh, you are a most exasperating (though much-beloved) reader.
Very well, I will tell you what happened to the show-off man, but you must promise not to interrupt me again. Do I have your word? Very good.

What happened to the show-off man is this:
There was a policeman who remembered the Yazidiyah girl. He neither liked nor disliked her. The policeman had promised that she would be safe if she went home. News of the Yazidiyah girl's death had spread. It spread by word of mouth, but also by the sights and sounds of the event that were stored in the villagers' cell phones. There are ways that these can be shared with other, far away cell phones, and other toys of men. And they were shared. People in faraway lands, people who spoke in strange tongues, people who had never heard of the Yazidi, all heard and saw the death of the Yazidiyah girl.
The policeman was neither a particularly bad man nor a particularly good man. He had made a promise, however, and it had not been kept. Perhaps it weighed on his conscience, or perhaps he was concerned about his reputation. We cannot know because we are men and, unlike the Djinn, cannot look into his heart, nor share what we find in it with the rest of the world. Whatever the reason, the policeman went to the village of the Yazidi. It was known that he sought those responsible for the death of the Yazidiyah girl. Shi'a or Yazidi, he would be respected.
The people in the village were fearful because they knew the Yazidi were not well-liked by other villages, and the policeman could cause them great harm and calamity if he chose or if he listened to ill-spoken words. They must show the policeman that no matter what had happened, they respected him.
Remembering the show-off man's boasting, they were quick to point him out to the policeman. After all, was this not all the show-off man's doing? Was it not all his idea?
When the show-off man saw the policeman approaching, he did not need to see into his heart. He knew why the policeman was here. It was, of course, not the show-off man's fault that the girl had died. He never wanted to harm the girl. It was the others who made him do it. In fact, if he remembered correctly, hadn't he tried to save the Yazidiyah girl? Yes, that was quite right. He had tried so hard to save her from the ravening crowd that he had suffered tears and scrapes to his hands as the crowd tore her from his resisting fingers. He, of course, fought them like a lion, but even the strongest lion will fall under the weight of too many jackals. He knew the policeman would hear none of it, though. By now, the jackals that were his neighbors would have told the policeman all sorts of lies about him, their slavering tongues writing vicious stories with the vile ink of their saliva.
In fear, he turned and ran from the policeman. Though he did not notice it, he was on the same street and the same block where the Yazidiyah girl had been killed. Despite the swiftness of his corpulent belly and wheezing bulk, he did not get far, only a few steps before he tripped and fell, never to rise again. With somewhat less force than the cinder block had struck the Yazidiyah girl, the show-off man's head struck the still blood-stained sidewalk. Though it was generally believed he was killed by the blow to his skull, this was actually not the truth. He had only been knocked unconscious. His face, though, had fallen directly into a pile of dog excrement, some of which he unknowingly pulled into his lungs and upon which he choked to death.
The policeman was not stupid. He knew the show-off man did not act alone. In the end, a few of the others were identified and punished, but most, sadly, escaped justice when all was said and done. Or, more accurately, they escaped the justice of men.
There was someone who was not a man. One whose real name was not Rashid, whatever he might claim, who waited for each and every one of them. They had willingly, each of them, given his darkness a home in their hearts, and so he lived there in each of them, with a hunger as great as his patience was small. He would have to wait, but he would feast at the end of their days.

The Yazidiyah girl knew none of this. She knew only that she was embracing her beloved Fadil, that he loved her still and would always. She knew sadness too, for she knew they must now part. Truly, she had every right to that sadness, but with love in her heart she would rule it, not it her. With wrath and vengeance driven from her heart, an unused path re-opened for her. A path she knew she must now take. Reluctantly, she released him and took her first steps, hesitant at first, but with growing resolve, now oblivious to the voice and visage of Abu Nakbah. To the dark and angry Djinn she was lost for all time, for now she heard a different voice, beautiful, strong and kind, even more wonderful than Fadil's voice. “Marhaba,” it said. “Welcome.”