Jamal is standing by the kid. He beams when he sees me. “Here comes the Egyptian doctor to check on you. Bye for now, ya batal. All is worth it for the homeland.”
It’s interesting to see the shift in Jamal’s heart. He was pro-rebel until a few weeks ago, when a random rebel shell destroyed his beloved Nissan Patrol. Now, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a Golden Belt tattoo.
On proud display on a surgical plate next to the patient are the half a dozen bullets that tore through his flesh and bones. Pointing at them, I say, “There was a fight over these bullets last night, but we decided that you are the rightful owner.”
“Oh, thank you,” he says with sudden interest, gathering up the trophies. He looks around before deciding to put them under his pillow.
I smile and sit on the side of his bed. I’m glad he isn’t the sentimental type who would ask for a last look at his severed limb. Mainly because I noticed that his late leg is still in a black trash bag beside the door, waiting for incineration. I need to have a serious word with the nursing staff.
“So, what happened?” I ask him.
“The insurgents machine-gunned me on the Wehda front.”
“What did you do?”
“I screamed and fell down.”
Deep breath. “I mean, why did they shoot you?”
“Ah. Last night, I put my faith in God and went there for reconnaissance.” He lowers his gaze, then says, “I couldn’t fight back. I only had a knife on me.”
I nod slowly. “I see.” I don’t see anything. I haven’t felt this bad for a patient since I accidentally set one on fire when a diathermy machine came into contact with his alcohol-soaked skin.
Aristotle said that virtue is a middle ground between two extremes. One of excess and the other of absence. Both extremes would be vices. Here, a courageous batal has to be in the middle, between recklessness and cowardice, which is obviously not the case for this kid.
