Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
The steady rhythm of the horse's hooves beating repeatedly on the burning sand was the only sound that could ever disturb the quietness of this small village, passing over and through dunes and rocks alike to attain the hamlet.
The rider was approaching at a hurried pace, almost as if the harsh afternoon sun had no effect on him. Whatever the reason behind such swiftness was, it could only mean that something had happened.
Yes, this small settlement of a few dozen houses was not welcoming of trouble, although it never fled from it.
Located in the deep parts of this desert, far from any city noise, far from the disturbances of the big markets and the hustle of crowded places. Most of its inhabitants were used to peaceful and silent days.
Such a quick pace, at such an hour, was definitely a sign of trouble.
But Omar did not immediately look up. He was far too occupied with his current role; he could not let his disciples down just to look toward someone who was already coming for him, no doubt about that.
So, he continued as if nothing had been heard, sitting beneath the tranquil shade of the zawiya, his wooden tablet resting across his knees, while the dozens of boys sat in front of him in two poorly organized rows.
He took a small sip of water from the clay cup placed by his side before resuming where he had stopped, determined that the stranger, who had probably come looking for him, would remain unaware at least until the end of the lesson.
The future of children may be far off, but it does not wait to be shaped. And it was his duty in this place to do so.
"Again. And together."
The children lowered their heads to his old voice.
Then, one of the older boys began, as the others quickly followed him in unison.
"Yā ayyuhā alladhīna āmanū, kūnū qawwāmīna lillāhi shuhadā'a bil-qisṭ..."
Their voices rapidly rose together, some stronger than others, but gradually settling into the same rhythm, their tones merging slowly but surely into one. The surah that he had learned and then taught countless times, Al-Mā'idah, never failed to stir something in his aging heart when he listened to it, even when recited by young voices that could not yet decipher its meanings.
Omar listened without interrupting, but he did not let the wisdom and the words of the Prophet distract him too much.
His gaze was like that of a falcon, not missing a single part of this choir, moving from one boy to another with his usual stiffness. Ready to see any singular imperfection through the small crowd where everyone thought himself invisible.
"Wa lā yajrimannakum shana'ānu qawmin 'alā allā ta'dilū..."
Only a quick twitch in his eyes disturbed the impassive and, he hoped, warm and fatherly expression that he had for his young students. As in this last verse, he could hear through the choir the voice of one of the younger boys stumbling over the final words.
He silently raised his hand, the choir quickly fading in the wind as all of his students stopped in a surprised expression, before understanding, and then gazing at one another, trying to see if they could find the one guilty, all secretly hoping that it was, in fact, not themselves.
Omar dismissed these perturbations before turning toward a boy on the right, a small one, not more than nine. The son of one of his long-lived friends. He looked toward him before uttering "Again", in a voice that, he hoped, was not sounding too severe.
As the boy found himself both confused and anxious, Omar could see it. He gently raised his tablet before putting his finger on the verse in particular.
"From there."
The boy allowed himself to swallow an anxious gasp, looked to his left and right, seeing the other students who were all focused on him, before doing as he was told.
"Wa lā yajrimannakum shana'ānu qawmin..."
The boy faltered over the last few words, afraid of getting them wrong in front of everyone, which only made him stumble over them.
As it often does. Fear is the first step toward failure.
But Omar did not let the mistake appear too bad. He only raised his hand silently, before encouraging his young disciple with a quiet tone.
"Go on."
You should never treat a fault like a wrongdoing, especially when you are a teacher. It only weakens the youth's soul, and never helps.
"Ḥaqqan..."
But that does not mean you should be compliant with faults, as it is your duty to raise the young to be better, like a smith hardening and sharpening his tools.
"No."
The boy froze, as Omar pointed yet again to the tablet. Silently following the words inscribed on it with his fingers, as if he was reading them to him.
"Look at the word. Do not go with haste and hurriedness. Read calmly, and then repeat. Do not burden yourself with fears."
The boy nodded and bent closer. Silently reading the text again, and then trying to correct his mistakes.
"Ah... allā ta..."
He tried again, in an uneven and stuttering tone, but that still reached the end.
"Ta'dilū."
Omar nodded. It was better, but it could still be improved, and had to be... So, he encouraged the boy.
"Good. Continue."
The children resumed.
"I'dilū, huwa aqrabu lil-taqwā..."
This was still done in a tone filled with hesitation and anxiety, but still, this time they reached the end without interruption.
"Again."
Now it had to be done without stuttering or slowness.
As the boys started again, Omar could see one of his elders beside him, smiling discreetly as his condisciple was, sadly for him, the center of attention.
Omar noticed. And that truly irritated him, more than any mistake.
"You find this amusing?"
The smile vanished from the other boy's face as quickly as a bug darting away from an attempted swat. Omar did his best to hide his disappointment, though it was difficult to keep it from showing.
Curse of being one of the elderly. You can laugh at the younger ones for mistakes that you yourself made at the same age, which they will never be aware of, and you can appear wise by knowing things you only learned through experience and age.
It makes you filled with pride, corrupts your heart with disdain, and washes away any sense of humility and improvement in you.
Omar hoped he had not fallen into this curse yet.
"No, Shaykh."
The boy quickly lost all his sullen pride, lowering his head toward Omar.
"Then why are you smiling?"
The boy could not answer. And he did not have to. Omar pondered and waited a moment before nodding toward the tablet, and then toward the other boy.
"Help him."
A collective groan came from the younger ones.
Ah, yes... we are already close to the end of class, for today at last.
Omar raised an eyebrow. Which silenced the dozens of teenagers and youngsters.
Before the older boy leaned closer to his comrade and quietly pointed to the lines.
"There."
They both began from the beginning. And this time, the rhythm was better. The two boys then only improved as the verses continued. When they reached the passage they had struggled with, Omar did not stop them.
"Wa lā yajrimannakum shana'ānu qawmin 'alā allā ta'dilū. I'dilū, huwa aqrabu lil-taqwā..."
The younger boy followed his comrade's finger, read it with him, then, after they stopped, did it again alone, and finally managed to complete the verse on his own.
Omar nodded at this, pleased.
"Better."
The boy also looked pleased.
"Do not become proud."
Omar warned in a calm tone. The smile vanished almost immediately.
A few of the other boys around laughed, amused by their friend's situation. Omar looked around at them with a more severe gaze than the one he had reserved for the child who had only failed his lesson.
"And you, you should not laugh at him, never do. Tomorrow it could surely be one of you making the mistake, and it would not please you to be the joke of others."
As he finished, he was only met with silence.
Omar looked down at the wooden tablet in his hands. Remembering when he was in their place, so many years ago, he too had a heart that could not wait, and which was quick to laugh and anger alike.
He tapped his tablet in silence, before continuing.
"You all want to read quickly, to end this class as soon as possible," he said as he watched his disciples move in their places, filled with impatience, "ready to flee for the games or for home."
No one answered.
"I know."
He placed the tablet on the ground.
"But the Qur'an is not something you can simply finish by reading it quickly, by reciting its words with no thought on your mind, as quickly as you can before deeming it finished. To finish it is to understand it."
The boys all looked at one another, probably still confused. Before one of them raised his hand, waiting quietly until Omar nodded in his direction, intrigued.
"Shaykh, now, after all this time, have you finished it? How do we do that?"
This made Omar chuckle.
Ah, how exquisite is the flame of youth, before age and experience could take their toll on it.
"Oh, my dear Youssef, I still do not. And I know that I never fully will. As to fully understand the mind of the Creator is the same as being able to count the number of grains of sand there are in the vast desert."
He smiled as he came closer to the group of children, lowering himself as if he was giving some great secret to them.
"Even at my old age, I can only grasp a fraction of Muhammad's message. And already find myself the wiser because of it. That is a lesson for you children: wherever you are in your life, no matter your age, there is still so much to learn, and so much of the world that you do not know nor understand."
He let the thought stir for a few seconds in the youngsters' minds before pointing toward the words.
"Again."
The children began together this time, their voices uneven at first before slowly falling into something resembling a rhythm. Omar quietly listened, occasionally correcting here and there, but stayed quiet for the most part.
Omar tapped the ground beside him after they finished the verse.
"Better."
He then put his tablet away and turned again toward the boys.
"Who can tell me what we have just read?"
That was only met with silence. Most of this assembly suddenly found themselves truly fascinated by their tablets.
Omar waited. He had to let them have their chance; even a late or wrong reply was better than nothing.
An older boy eventually raised his hand, hesitating for a few seconds before giving his thoughts.
"That we should always be just."
Omar nodded. It was right, but he wanted more.
"More than that."
The boy thought again, lowering his head as he pondered, before raising it and saying his mind.
"That we must never let hatred make us unjust."
Omar nodded, a small smile on his face.
"Yes. Good..."
The teacher then turned toward the rest and repeated:
"Yes."
He looked across the group. All were now intrigued, drawn in by his words.
He continued.
"Yes, we must always be just in our hearts and actions... Even toward people we dislike."
He let a brief pause pass before continuing.
"This verse tells us that hatred, whether toward a person or a people, makes us abandon justice. However great the wrongdoing may be, we must not let this poison take root in our hearts, and we must never abandon Allah's justice. And that, I know, is difficult."
He paused to look at each of his pupils. Young faces that, Omar hoped, would never have to endure what was required to truly understand this verse.
"It is easy to be just toward someone who is gentle with you. Someone you have known since you were young. Someone who has never given you reason to bear hatred in your heart."
His eyes moved quickly from one child to another, as he wanted every one of them to hear and pay attention to this lesson. Hopefully, they were.
"The real test is whether you will remain just when you are angry. Whether you can uphold justice when the other has shown you nothing but injustice."
One of the older boys frowned.
"But what if they are wrong?"
Omar responded at once; the answer came without hesitation.
"Then you must not do wrong alongside them. Because in this world or the next, one wrong does not make another wrong right."
He could see that the boy was still confused, so he let him continue.
"But what if they hurt us? Or our family?"
Omar was quiet for a moment. This child was probably old enough to understand what the adults said around him. Old enough for his father and mother to tell him about their situation... and about their fight.
Omar could not shield these children from the truth forever. It pained him that he could not.
"Then you seek justice. True justice."
He touched the wooden tablet with two fingers, trying not to remember the scars of the past.
"True justice, not a false one built on cruelty."
The boys listened as he continued, his voice steady. He could at least do this for them.
"Allah commands justice. And He also commands patience."
He looked toward the road for a brief moment. The rider was closer now. Then he turned his attention back to the children.
"Patience does not mean that you let things happen and do nothing. It means not allowing anger or pain to make decisions in your place."
He spoke more quietly now, though the ache in his torso remained.
"A man who cannot control his anger is no more than a beast, ruled by it."
He let the sentence settle.
"Remember that, child."
One of the younger boys then raised his hand.
"Shaykh?"
"Yes?"
"Are you angry?"
Omar stared at him for a few seconds, perhaps longer, until the child began to look worried that he had asked a bad question.
Omar smiled and answered:
"Sometimes."
"Then how do you stop?"
Omar considered the question.
Ah, youth was truly marvellous. They asked questions so simple, yet so profound.
"By remembering that anger and justice are not the same. And by remembering that only Allah can set right what has been wronged."
Omar let the silence settle for a brief moment.
"And by remembering that the quick and easy way is almost never the better one. It is through struggle that we can reach the right decision."
He paused.
"Remember the verse."
He looked toward the boy who had stumbled earlier. The little one nodded to show that he would keep this lesson in mind. And that was enough for Omar.
Then, closer than ever, the horse's hooves could be heard in the distance.
Clip-clop.
Clip-clop.
Omar did not look up.
For now, there was still a lesson to finish.
But the younger ones around him thought otherwise. They began whispering among themselves as more and more of them noticed the approaching horse and grew curious.
Visitors were not common in this place.
Omar silenced them by simply looking up. The boys immediately fell quiet as stones. This brought a faint smile to the old man's face.
"Good. At least your hearts still harbour some fear of your teacher."
A few of the boys laughed.
Omar's smile lingered for a moment before he returned his attention to the lesson, though only briefly. He continued explaining the verse to the younger ones and what it meant to uphold the values that the Creator expected of them.
He had always preferred this part of the day: counselling the young, guiding them toward a wiser and better path. If he could choose, he would do nothing else.
Sadly, he could not.
There were always things required of him: reports to hear, operations to plan, rifles to practise with, and supplies to gather. But he always made time for the younger ones. All these other matters could wait another hour.
The men, the fathers of these children, might soon have need of Omar.
The Italians might demand his attention even sooner, with another foolish plan to tame their land.
But for the moment, brief as it might be, he was once again only a simple teacher.
And the children still had to finish their lesson. The Qur'an could not be rushed, nor could its lessons be hurried through. To study and understand the Lord's words was the work of a lifetime.
But the horse continued its approach.
Clip-clop.
Clip-clop.
Clip-clop.
This time, Omar looked up.
The rider was now only a short distance from the village. The horse had slowed to a steadier pace, raising small clouds of dust beneath its hooves.
One of the boys turned to look at him, curiosity in his eyes.
"Who is it?"
Omar did not answer, wondering why his old friend had come to visit him.
He was sure he could recognise this figure and this horse among tens of thousands. Years of riding together across the great desert had taught him that.
The way the man sat in the saddle, the slight lean forward, the way he held the reins loosely despite his hurried pace. That could only be him.
Omar's eyes narrowed slightly. Yusuf had travelled hundreds of kilometres to reach this village, and men did not make such journeys without reason. Whether that reason was good or bad, Omar could not yet know.
"Yusuf."
The boys looked at one another, each silently asking the same question: *Who?*
Omar did not have to turn toward them. He simply let them go.
"That is it for today, children."
He brought the lesson to an end in a short breath, almost a whisper. The disappointment on their faces would have amused Omar had he not already been troubled by this sudden arrival.
"But, Shaykh..."
"Go," Omar insisted, hoping his voice would conceal his unease. "All of you. It is time to return to your families."
They gathered their tablets, not quickly enough for Omar's liking. Still, he supposed he should be glad that these little scoundrels obeyed at all. Children were often far too curious for their own good.
The horse was now close enough that Omar could put aside any remaining doubts about the rider's identity.
Yusuf Burahil.
One of his oldest companions.
For years, the two men had ridden across the same sands, slept beneath the same skies, fought on the same side, and buried the same friends after battles that had ended in defeat. They had lost many companions over the past twenty years.
But their friendship went further than that. They had studied under the same teachers, passed their youth side by side, and spent many nights arguing over matters both important and utterly insignificant.
Even so, as happy as he was to see his long-time friend, Omar knew that Yusuf was not a man who would leave his wife and sons and travel so many kilometres merely to see him without a reason. The haste with which he had dismounted told Omar that this was anything but a social visit.
At last, the final boy disappeared through the doorway. Now it was time for the adults.
Yusuf brought his horse to a stop a short distance from the village entrance. He quickly tied the animal to a wooden post before leaving it to rest. The horse was breathing heavily, sweat darkening its coat beneath the saddle.
After making sure his horse was secure, Yusuf quickly crossed the short distance toward Omar. Dust fell from his clothes with every step, rising around him in small clouds.
He needed a bath, a big one, but it seemed that this did not bother him yet.
Omar studied his friend from beneath the shade of the zawiya. The man's clothes had stiffened from the long ride. Something in his manner made Omar anxious.
Yusuf had crossed enough of the desert in his lifetime to know how to endure fatigue, and Omar had known him for too many years to mistake what might appear to be mere exhaustion for what it truly was.
"Peace be upon you, Shaykh."
His voice was the same as the last time they had spoken, a handful of months earlier, at a feast after they had successfully driven the Italians from one of their oases. He still used the same title that everyone, young or old, seemed to use for Omar.
"And peace be upon you, old friend," Omar replied, happy and intrigued by his friend's arrival.
Yusuf straightened his clothes, brushing away some of the dust, though there was little point in doing so. He glanced toward the zawiya and the children who were leaving.
"Still teaching? After all these years?"
"As long as the Lord allows me to."
A faint smile passed between them at Omar's answer.
But it quickly disappeared from Yusuf's face. He seemed so pressed for time that he could scarcely spare a thought for the usual courtesies. Something serious had clearly happened.
Omar quietly put away his tablet and slowly rose from the ground.
"So, my old friend, what is it that troubles your heart?"
Yusuf looked around briefly before answering, seemingly gathering his thoughts.
"Wallid. Young Wallid, from my clan. Something has happened."
"From Benghazi?"
Omar's expression remained calm, but his interest sharpened. He remembered the young man vividly: loud and reckless, but devoted all the same. Wallid had left his clan's home deep in the desert for the great port in the north, exchanging the horse for machinery and work at the harbour.
A cousin of Yusuf by marriage, he had always begged his elders to let him accompany them on their skirmishes, eager to wage war against the oppressor. Or so the young man imagined himself ready to do. Omar was glad that Yusuf had thought otherwise.
His friend nodded.
"He brought news. It seems dark clouds are approaching."
Omar raised an eyebrow at his friend's words. Yusuf had spoken very quietly, almost reluctantly, but the meaning was clear enough. Dark clouds... a bad omen for the days to come.
Yet Omar did not immediately share his friend's concern. He knew that men, wherever they came from, often gave exaggerated names to ordinary troubles. Even wise Yusuf was not immune to it.
He had heard similar words whenever news arrived from the coast. Another trick by the Italians. Another regiment sent into the desert to hunt them down. Another great battle supposedly destined to doom the resistance. Another offensive proudly announced by the Romans. For a few days, or sometimes weeks, everyone behaved as though the rebellion were already finished.
Yet it never was. Each attempt ended much the same way.
There was always something new that was supposed to change everything: new faces, new troops, new plans, new weapons, new battlefields. And yet it always ended in the same desert, with the same side forced to retreat in shame, licking its wounds in anger while planning its next grand campaign, only to fail as all those before it had failed.
The Romans were little more than a desert fox, lurking near the sheep from its hiding place, waiting for the moment to snatch one from the shepherd. And each time the fox tried, the shepherd drove it away, sending it back to its den to lick its wounds and plot another attempt.
Omar glanced toward the road, where the last of the dust raised by Yusuf's horse was slowly settling. He was almost amused at the thought of his friend travelling so far to deliver what might prove to be such ordinary news.
"Dark clouds?" he repeated. "You have crossed half the country to tell me that? I thought you had a calmer head than that, my old friend."
Yusuf gave him a tired look, his faint smile quickly disappearing.
"I would gladly have crossed half the harsh desert to bring you the sort of foolish news you seem to expect from me. Sadly, that is not what I have come to tell you."
That was enough to change Omar's expression. Now he was concerned.
He gestured toward the shade. Whatever the news, the urgency of the moment would not make him forget his duties toward his guest.
"Sit. Tell me about these dark clouds that trouble your heart..."
Yusuf lowered himself onto the stone bench beside the wall and took a moment before answering.
Omar used the pause to think about Wallid. He had not forgotten the young man. It had been some time since Yusuf had sent him to work at Benghazi's harbour. Omar remembered how the petulant and zealous boy had spent days arguing against the decision. He had wanted to ride with the fighters, and Omar was glad his prayers had gone unanswered.
Not only for Wallid's sake, but for the sake of their struggle. The young man was more useful there than he would have been among the fighters. In war, one could trade a thousand of the finest men for the knowledge of even half of what was passing through an adversary's mind.
"Has something happened to him?"
"No. He is alive and well, but he saw things and decided they were worth leaving his work for."
Interesting.
"Then what did he see?"
Yusuf looked toward the village before speaking.
"The harbour... it was busy."
That did not sound particularly significant to Omar. Benghazi's harbour was always a noisy and lively place. Especially since the invasion, ships had come and gone, unloading supplies for the occupiers, bringing soldiers from time to time, and carrying all the things the Italians considered necessary to maintain their unjust conquest for a few more years.
Rome had been sending men and materiel into Libya since 1910.
The flow had never truly stopped. Perhaps it had diminished at times, when Rome was too occupied with having its teeth kicked in by its Austrian neighbours, but even that respite had been brief.
Omar let Yusuf continue nevertheless, trusting his friend's reasoning.
"Not busy as it would be on an ordinary day, with a ship or two. Not even another regiment brought by the Italians. No, something far greater than that. The place was busier than it had ever been..." He paused to sip from the cup of water Omar had given him before continuing.
"For days, and then weeks, Wallid watched transports arrive in the bay almost without interruption. Some were so large that they had to wait offshore for days because the harbour could not accommodate them all. Men were everywhere on the docks, unloading everything you can think of: ammunition, fuel, food, equipment. Horses, weapons, trucks, artillery pieces, and all sorts of crates were being delivered and stacked wherever space could be found. The dockworkers could barely keep up with the pace. Wallid and his crew were so overworked that, before he left to come to us, even the soldiers of the occupier had been sent down to the port to help the dockworkers."
Omar's eyes narrowed. It sounded as though Rome was now wholly focused on the region, and the news was more than alarming.
"How many men?"
"He cannot say. Hundreds at a time, perhaps. Probably thousands altogether by the time he left. They arrive in such numbers, and at such a pace, that no one at the docks can count them properly. And with all the work they have to do, they would hardly have the time to try." Yusuf took another sip, whether to calm himself or simply to quench his thirst, Omar could not tell. "And there is more."
Omar watched his friend lean forward.
"They seem to have brought engineers. All manner of them..."
Omar said nothing, merely raising his eyebrows to encourage his friend to continue. He was already silently pondering the implications of all this news.
"Most seem to be military engineers. They accompany the new troops being dispersed throughout Benghazi and the surrounding countryside. They have barely set foot on the docks before they are already conferring with those who were here before, studying maps, measuring distances between points, calculating and debating in terms we can scarcely make sense of. But it seems to concern the old caravan tracks, as well as new roads through places where no proper road has ever existed. The officers with them speak of wells, passes, and routes from Benghazi to places far beyond."
That caught Omar's attention.
The Italians had always wanted roads. It was probably among the first things they had sought to establish here. After all, roads meant supplies, faster journeys, and quicker responses, carrying their reach ever farther into the country. Anything that could make their occupation easier was worth pursuing.
But at this point? This was something new.
"Where?"
Yusuf then named several places that Wallid had overheard the engineers discussing as he passed near them. They were probably not even half of all the places involved.
Omar could recall most of them, even under their Italianised names. Some lay along old caravan routes that had eased passage through the desert since time immemorial; others were well-known watering places. But a few were little more than rough tracks, known only to the handful of men who had travelled the interior for generations. They were not roads, at least not in the Italian sense of the word.
Omar's gaze shifted towards the horizon.
"What else?"
Yusuf hesitated. "Machines."
"Machines? Of what sort?"
"The armoured ones. Carts that move without horses."
Omar bit his lip as he let Yusuf explain.
"Wallid saw them being unloaded from several ships in the harbour. Great iron boxes, more than twice the size of a car, with tracks instead of wheels and a gun mounted on top of each. And surprisingly fast for their size and metal skins. They were unlike anything he had ever seen before."
"Tanks," Omar said, giving a name to the foreign machines. He would have given anything for them to remain mere rumours.
Yusuf looked at him. "You know them?"
"I have heard of them," Omar replied, tapping his knuckles against the table, his eyes turned towards the horizon. "And although I have never seen one myself, I have heard what they are capable of." He paused. "But go on."
"There were others like them. Smaller, but much faster, with wheels instead of tracks, though still far bigger than cars. They were covered in armour too, with smaller guns mounted on their roofs. Wallid said there were even more of those. And that they could move almost as fast as much smaller vehicles."
Even more?
"Several? How many?" Omar asked, though he had little hope of receiving a useful answer.
"Too many to count. And he said that when he left, crates containing more of them were still waiting to be unloaded."
Omar's expression tightened.
"Did he see where they were taking them?"
"No. He had never seen such things before, so he came straight back to our tribe to warn us about these new monsters."
Omar's smile lingered for a moment at the name Wallid had given these strange products of modernity, but it quickly faded.
"Perhaps to a boy who has never set foot on a battlefield, these machines are monsters." He glanced briefly towards the road. "But to us, they are merely another trick from our friends across the sea."
He tapped the wooden table as his gaze turned on the village
"The frightening thing is that the Italians have used machines like these before. Armoured cars, they call them. And we have faced them before, remember? And we won." He paused. "What truly matters is that this time, the enemy seems to be running out of patience. They have decided to throw everything they possess into the fight..."
He had seen the frightening inventions the enemy had brought across the Mediterranean before. Aircraft that appeared like eagles in the sky, poised to swoop down upon their prey, yet beyond the reach of those beneath them. Motorcycles whose speed threatened to make horses obsolete, even in the very terrain where they had long held the advantage. Artillery that could devastate the resistance from afar. Telephones and wireless sets that allowed messages to travel in moments across distances that would have taken a rider hours or even days to cover.
Yet none of these inventions had broken the resistance. None had conquered the desert.
Omar knew, however, that an army possessing enough of these machines, and determined to commit everything it had to the fight, would be a nightmare to face. So long as its resolve held, and the prize of conquest remained valuable enough to justify the cost.
For years, the Libyan desert had not been worth such an effort to Rome.
But something seemed to have changed.
He turned back to Yusuf, whose face had darkened further at his words.
"Did young Wallid see anything else?"
Yusuf reached inside his robe and took out a folded sheet of paper. "Not at first, but after a while, as he worked, he began listening. He continued working with the men at the docks, and dockers are talkative people. He asked around among the Arab workers with him, and he also spied on the Italians, especially when it came to orders and small talk from officers who seemed to forget that the people around them could understand their language."
He placed the paper on the table between them. "He overheard a conversation between military officers. It seemed that most of the supplies were to be sent somewhere in the south before the end of the month."
Omar did not touch the paper yet.
"I see... Where in the south?"
"They did not say clearly. Wallid heard a whole series of different names and picked up bits of conversation about several places, yet he could not make sense of all of them."
Omar looked at Yusuf, then at the paper, and reached for it. "They are not reinforcing Benghazi... They are planning to move inland, probably farther than they ever have before."
His friend nodded, silent despite his obvious fear. For a moment, Omar said nothing as he opened the document and examined it.
It was true that he had expected the Italians to prepare another offensive eventually. He was not naive enough to think the occupiers would have given up on them, the stain on their unjust occupation that they had to trample out.
He had indeed expected another promise from the authorities in Benghazi of a quick end to the rebellion, another column, patrol, or punitive expedition. Another gesture, another expedition inland to prove to everyone, especially their masters in Rome, that everything was under control.
Which it was not.
But all of this sounded too different. They were planning something large, possibly larger than anything they had attempted since they landed on this land ten years ago.
"I am wondering... Why now? Has Governor Mombelli been tapped on the fingers by his superiors? Have the heads in Rome begun to feel the need for a political victory to appease the masses and mask their failures as rulers?"
Yusuf's expression changed as he leaned toward Omar. "That is the other reason I came." He took a moment before continuing. "To talk about the name that is currently on everyone's lips in Benghazi."
Omar raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Another governor?"
*So soon? It seems Mombelli's work was far from appreciated by his superiors. Too bad for them.*
Mombelli was not winning this war, but he was far from unskilled at his job. He was quite a force to be reckoned with, both in his military role and as governor.
"Another governor," Yusuf repeated, with a faint trace of amusement. "That was my first thought as well."
Omar gave a quiet laugh.
How many governors had there been? Since he had started fighting the occupier, it seemed they came and went as quickly as the sun rose and set. Rome seemingly had very little patience, and very little care for those who failed to produce fast and visible results.
*Perhaps he should give them a Qur'an, so they could learn the wisdom of knowing when to wait.*
Yusuf continued as Omar was lost in thought. "Until I heard the name. Or, to be precise, the moniker of the new man in charge."
Omar paid twice as much attention as before, leaning even farther toward his friend.
"Il Principe. The Prince."
The amusement completely disappeared from Omar's face. "A nobleman?"
Yusuf nodded gravely. "Yes, and even more than that... A member of the House of Savoy."
For several seconds, the old teacher said nothing, biting his lip as he pondered the dreadful implications.
He knew very little about the Italian royal court and the monarchy of his longtime enemy, and, to be honest, cared even less about its members. But he understood the significance of such a gesture by the occupier.
"And what is a member of the royal family doing in Benghazi? Do they not possess prestigious places to govern in their faraway homeland?"
Yusuf silently shook his head. "He has not replaced the governor. Or at least, officially, he has not. Mombelli remains in his current position. But it seems the Prince has taken authority, and every matter related to the army is now in his hands alone."
Omar's eyes narrowed. "So Rome has given the governor another governor to answer to. They must be very pleased with Signore Mombelli's work."
Omar then rose slowly from the bench and walked a few steps into the sunlight. He could joke about it, yes, but the situation was nevertheless grim. And he had not expected it to improve.
For twenty years, he had watched the Italians fight the same war in different ways.
One commander would advance too far and fall into their trap. He would watch his patrols and proud columns of soldiers get destroyed in the harsh desert by an enemy they could neither see nor catch. After the battles, the resistance would disappear into the depths of the dunes, leaving the survivors to retreat to their safe havens along the coast, the only places where they could remain secure.
The Italians would then occupy a village or establish a fort, only for it to be liberated once most of the troops had returned home or been sent to another settlement.
Their logistics would fail in the desert, leaving their army unable to stay for more than a brief show of force.
Then the governor or general in charge would be dismissed and sent back to Italy with his pride wounded, by a state that felt each defeat with a gradually greater sense of shame. The new man in charge would announce a new strategy. New agreements would be made with tribes, then broken. Italian columns would push into another area, still failing to understand that controlling a land and controlling its people were not the same thing.
Keep men, lose land; as land can be fought and taken back, but never thepeople. Was a lesson that he always kept in mind, and that most of the enemy's general definitely never learned.
The pattern had become familiar after all these years. The Italians advanced, the Senussi withdrew, the Italians claimed victory and returned home, and the Senussi came back.
But now, the situation had changed. Rome had not placed just any man at the centre of this new campaign, but a member of the royal family.
Omar did not consider himself a political man, but he could see the implications. Such a man in this position meant that prestige was at stake more than ever before, that this campaign carried a new level of political responsibility for the occupier... and that failure could never be accepted.
A general could be dismissed. A governor could be replaced. Any ordinary man could bear the shame of failure himself, regardless of whether it was truly his fault. But a prince could not return to Rome after a humiliating defeat and leave the embarrassment behind in Benghazi. The outcome of his actions would reflect on the monarchy as a whole, and on the country itself.
Omar turned back toward Yusuf. "How old is this *principe*?"
Yusuf took another sip. "Young... quite young."
Omar smiled a little, far from amused by his friend's tendency to speak in riddles when asked a question he did not have an answer to. "That tells me very little."
His friend waited a few seconds before answering. "Wallid does not know exactly. Probably in his early thirties, perhaps even younger. Some Italian officers speak of him with pride, because of his position, for sure, but many others seem more perplexed or curious about him, as you would expect when people talk about someone so young. His rise in rank was apparently quite recent. He seems to have jumped through the ranks very quickly."
A man of such a young age in this position? Omar was perplexed. It could mean good news or bad news for the Senussi, in equal measure.
If nepotism and royal privilege were responsible for this choice of a new strongman, the Italians would fare even worse than they already did. But if it was because of talent, this could mean a grim future for the Senussi order.
Yusuf continued. "He is said to have the confidence of their *Duce*."
Omar's expression became still. "So they say?"
The name of Italy's *Duce*, Mussolini, had travelled farther than the Italian army ever had. His speeches and symbols appeared in more and more coastal cities as the years passed, his image displayed wherever the Italian army went. His voice and message could be heard wherever there was an Italian presence.
Omar had never met the man, nor did he wish to. But he understood men of power. They all needed to remind everyone why they were there.
And the greater a tyrant's power, the more often and loudly he had to remind others of it.
A prince acting as the dog of their *Duce*... This was bad news.
"Then..." Omar said, slowly stretching his old bones, "their prince will need a victory."
A governor, a general, or an administrator could fail and be forgotten. But not a prince, especially one who was a rising star of the regime.
Omar then looked down at the paper in his hands. "Both because his position has made him accustomed to quick and easy results, and because his youth may make him impatient, as youth often does. And because his age will require a great victory to prove to the elders serving under him that he deserves his position. His *Duce* will expect one, too..."
He stopped to continue reading the paper Yusuf had brought.
The sheet was crude. Names had been copied in haste. Some were misspelled. Numbers had been written beside them without explanations. There were rough lines representing roads, arrows showing movements, and notes concerning units and supplies.
He pointed toward the paper.
"Look. It seems our royal wants to change the desert itself, moulding it like a child taking sand from the beach to build little castles to play with."
Yusuf looked down at the rough map, understanding what Omar meant. "They want the roads."
"The roads, the wells, and every village between and around them. They are considering the installation of new forts, camps, and strongholds. Not just a few more, scattered here and there as before, but one every ten kilometres or so. That way, their troops can travel farther without relying so heavily on supply lines. And the distances between them will be short enough that any attempt by us to assault one of their posts can be met with swift reinforcements from another."
Omar's voice remained measured, despite the scale of a plan that could spell their doom.
"And they seem particularly focused on the wells and oases. The Prince wants to control the water supply of the whole country. He is quite smart. If they can do that, they will control movement and resources. They will be able to control the tribes and restrict the freedom they would normally enjoy. If the tribes are tamed, the Italians will be able to deny us food, horses, weapons, water, information, shelter, and men. They will also have an easy time getting their hands on our people."
He continued, his voice hoarse. "If they succeed in all of this, then the support the desert gives us will become negligible. At best, we will be able to disappear, only to die in the dunes without resources. We will never be found, certainly, but we will never be able to fight either."
Yusuf nodded slowly, his face grim.
Omar closed the paper, humming softly before speaking. "It seems the *principe* is a smart man who understands this war. And he has the resources to carry out his plans."
For twenty years, Omar had watched Italian commanders consider themselves smarter and more knowledgeable about Libya than its own people, misunderstanding the nature of their enemy. The invaders believed their superior weapons were enough, that capturing towns meant victory, only to be repeatedly proven wrong.
It seemed this young man understood the folly of such reasoning. He understood that the resistance survived because it never fought on Italian terms. That the great desert and its population were the real deciding factors in this war. And that he intended to gain control of both as quickly as possible.
Yes, that young man was dangerous. And he had everything at his disposal to carry out his grand plan.
Omar gave the faintest smile, resolute. "Then we shall see whether the zeal of youth can succeed in its endeavour."
Yusuf did not smile. "He is more than ambitious."
Omar looked toward the horizon, smiling. "I hope so. It would be good news indeed. A young and ambitious adversary is always easier to understand and trick than one who has no heart in the fight."
Yusuf frowned. "The Prince will want and need his victory quickly."
The old teacher nodded, glad that his friend understood.
"And when men move too fast, they often go too far. A man in a hurry is twice as easy to trick."
The wind moved softly against the walls of the zawiya. For a while, neither man spoke.
Omar thought about all of this, his heart aching at the thought of how many of his loved ones would eventually fall in the great fight against the oppressor.
And, strangely, he also thought about the Prince.
With this new face and everything he brought with him, Rome appeared to have understood that its old methods had failed, and why. It seemed the Italians were finally correcting their mistakes.
But Omar did not lose hope. After all, he had spent more than fifteen years surviving a foe more than a hundred times stronger than his own forces.
He looked toward the village, and Yusuf followed his gaze.
"What should I tell the others?"
"The truth." Omar's voice hardened slightly. "That the Italians are preparing for something big, something drastic. And that this time, they should not expect to see our enemy making the same mistakes."
Omar rested one hand against the wall of the zawiya. "Tell them now, so they can spend another night with their families. Tomorrow, we ride... The children may need to see their fathers one last time. And the fathers will have to remember why they are fighting."
Neither man moved for several seconds.
The distant voices of the children could still be heard from the other side of the village, along with the sounds of people returning to their homes as the sun went down. Inside the zawiya, the open Qur'an still waited where Omar had left it.
His eyes briefly fell upon the page.
The verse he had been teaching the young ones that afternoon came back to him: not to let hatred lead you away from justice.
Omar knew it was easy to remember such words while sitting with children. It would be harder when the machines came and the enemy had its hands on his people.
He also knew that this was precisely why the words mattered, and that the Lord had bestowed them upon His Prophet.
Yusuf rose. "There is only one more thing."
Omar looked at him.
"Wallid asked me to tell you that he is sorry."
"For what?"
"For leaving the harbour. He could not stop himself."
Omar stared at him for a moment, then shook his head with a smile. "Foolish boy. Of course he could not."
Yusuf smiled at that.
Then the expressions disappeared from both their faces as they looked north. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Benghazi, crowded with ships, where the enemy was concocting its next great plan, where the Prince was probably feasting at the thought of his next victory.
Omar did not doubt that the Italians seriously believed they would soon be victorious. And for the first time in many years, he believed they might possess the means to make their ambition a reality.
But that did not mean they would succeed.
They had no ships, no factories, no endless empire from which to bring their legions of men to fight for them. But this was their land, and they would give everything they had to free it.
Yusuf understood the situation perhaps even better than he did, which explained his next words.
"You believe they can defeat us?"
Omar nodded. It was useless to say otherwise, and Yusuf was no child to be fooled with fairy tales and false promises. "I believe they can."
Yusuf stared at him, his expression calm.
"Do not mistake confidence for blindness, my friend. Never confuse victory with peace. And never mistake what you gain through great sacrifices for the same thing your adversary gains."
He continued, "We have defeated many Italian commanders, true. But Italy itself? We have never defeated her."
He turned toward the open desert.
"They possess vastly more than we do, in everything you can think of. Weapons, money, men, ammunition, ships, resources, food, horses, machines. They have more, and better, than we have."
He stopped for a few seconds before adding, "Perhaps not when it comes to resolve."
He continued, calm despite the subject. "They can replace everything we take from them. Losses that would destroy us are no more than a mosquito's sting to the enemy. Each regiment we defeat can be replaced by another brought from across the sea. When we cannot replace a single experienced fighter for years, they can do it in a week."
Yusuf listened silently, as Omar spoke with complete honesty.
"If Rome decides to spend enough to get its claws into this country, then it will eventually succeed."
Yusuf remained silent, lowering his gaze to the ground before rising again. Omar put a hand on his shoulder and continued.
"But remember. Even a mosquito can defeat a man. If the enemy suffers enough, he might understand that this land will never be his, and that every attempt to conquer it will be like trying to kill the wind."
Omar rose from the table and began walking toward the village, with Yusuf following. Ahead, the first lamps were beginning to appear between the houses as night settled in.
Neither man spoke for a while. Their eyes moved from the houses to the horizon, toward the north, toward Benghazi, where a new kind of war was being prepared.
Omar did not doubt that he had taught the Italians many things through the defeats he had inflicted upon them. But he knew he had not taught them everything yet, and he was determined to prove it.
Beyond the village, the desert stretched in every direction, a barrier vast and cruel enough to swallow armies. But it was a barrier that would shield this village only for a time if the enemy had his way.
It had swallowed them before. And Omar knew that, with his forces and Allah's help, it would do so again.
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I am a little bit uneasy about this chapter, I hope it was not too "cliche" about Arabs.
But still glad I finished it. I tried to respect Omar and the Libyan as much as I can by being precise, so don't hesitate if you see some inaccuracies or things that a Libyan would definitely not do/say.