Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 187 Blood for blood
Yarmouk, a UN refugee camp.

Corporal Wilson from the United States stood on the high ground of the makeshift observation post, holding his binoculars and gazing into the distance.

The Yarmouk region is adjacent to the Golan Heights. Thanks to the rainfall brought by the Hermon Mountains, the sky here is clear and the verdant mountains stretch all the way to the fertile fields in the direction of Damascus.

The small houses built with local light yellow stones are scattered across the fields, and the wheat fields overflow the tracks of the wrecked tanks. One day, these traces will be erased.

He had only ever seen this tranquil and beautiful scene in classical European oil paintings depicting pastoral landscapes.

The UN peacekeeping force set up numerous prominent blue directional signs within a radius of several kilometers to guide the influx of refugees coming from the direction of Damascus.

At this moment, long queues have formed outside the main evacuation points set up by Yarmouk, with ragged people silently waiting to register and receive assistance.

The Red Cross's white tents stood out, with medical staff and volunteers busily distributing food, drinking water, and basic medical supplies to newly arrived refugees.

“Looks like quite a few people have come today.” Sergeant Jackson from Australasia walked up to Wilson and handed him a can of coffee.

“Yes,” Wilson took the coffee and took a sip, “I hope this passage stays open. If both sides can stay like this until the war ends, that would be wonderful.”

"Dream on, lads."

Eileen, a medic from South Scandinavia, interjected while checking the medicines, "The Zionians aren't that kind. They're only releasing people now because they can't withstand the pressure, or the city isn't getting enough food. Look at what they've done all these years! These guys play the victim internationally while using civilians as human shields!"

Jackson nodded: "That's right. The Zionians can only act like tyrants in the Middle East. Wherever they go, they just harass the local people."

Their gaze fell upon the refugees who had just arrived.

Initially, these people's eyes were filled with panic, helplessness, and a deep-seated weariness, as if they had just woken up from a long nightmare.

But soon, as the warmth of the hot soup dispelled the chill and a sense of security gradually enveloped them, they realized that they had truly escaped from hell.

Several young Arabs sat together and began singing local folk songs.

Gradually, some people began to play lively rhythms with hand drums, and more and more people joined in. They held hands and danced traditional dances around the bonfire lit at dusk.

Footsteps pounded, figures spun, and long-lost smiles bloomed on their faces.

The UN soldiers on guard did not stop their celebration; on the contrary, they all smiled from the bottom of their hearts.

Looking at the happy crowd celebrating in front of them, everyone felt a surge of warmth and a sense of accomplishment, as if this was the true meaning and purpose of their trip.

“That’s great,” Wilson murmured. “It’s a shame we can’t understand what they’re singing, otherwise we’d love to join in and dance around.”

Jackson suddenly had a flash of inspiration: "It doesn't matter if we don't speak the language, but I know that another language is definitely universal."

Then, he pulled out a shiny harmonica.

He brought the harmonica to his lips and began to play.

The next moment, a melodious and cheerful tune resounded in the sky above Yarmuth, the song "Oh! Susanna" that almost everyone knows.

The dancing figures around the campfire gradually slowed down. People stopped and looked at the soldier playing the harmonica on the hillside, listening intently to the familiar and cheerful tune.

As Jackson played, he gestured towards the campfire, inviting everyone to continue spinning.

The rescued Arabs understood his meaning, were taken aback at first, and then burst into joyful laughter.

They joined hands again, and this time, their dance steps, following the lively rhythm of the harmonica, became even more synchronized and energetic.

Wilson couldn't help but hum the lyrics: "I come from Alabama, with my beloved five-stringed guitar."

The melodious music and joyful singing and dancing echoed across the plains of Yarmouk, as if the war had never come to this place.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

"Thank you, keep the look."

Ziad handed the driver a 10-riyal note, and after receiving a "May God bless you, kind sir" in return, he got out of the car and walked toward the imposing Riyadh Police Headquarters.

He held a file folder in his hand containing the evidence that Aziz had given him that day, which could expose Prince Mursed's conflict with Daman and his assassination attempt on the king.

"I want to report this to the police."

At first, when the police officer who received him learned that the man in front of him was the son of King Shams, he was very respectful.

But when Ziad said he wanted to "report Prince Mursed for alleged murder and other serious crimes," the air in the entire hall froze instantly, and the expressions of all the police officers around him became quite interesting.

Everyone present knew that Prince Mursed was the de facto controller of the National Guard and their protector.

Reporting the prince to the guards—isn't that just courting death?
"Please wait a moment. I can't make this decision myself. I'll go and ask my superior for you." The officer quickly left.

Not long after, a man who looked like the bureau chief walked over with a forced smile. After looking at Ziad's report, he put the report away in front of him.

"I'm sorry, we can't handle this case."

“Then give me back the materials.” Ziad held out his hand.

“These are important pieces of evidence that need to be filed and reviewed,” the bureau chief said dismissively, his eyes filled with contempt.

You've delivered it yourself, so why would you return it?

"Review?"

Ziad sneered: "Are you planning to hand it over to Mursad for credit and reward, or just throw it in the shredder? You can't even be bothered to pretend to have the most basic procedural justice?"

Upon hearing this, the police chief's face immediately darkened. He nodded and gave the officer beside him a wink: "Since Your Highness is so eager to report the case, let's follow the rules and take a detailed statement first."

Before Ziad could react, several police officers rushed forward and dragged him into the "No Trespassing" office area at the back. The place where he was supposed to take a statement was actually a dimly lit detention cell.

As soon as the door closed, Ziad felt as if he had been struck on the back. He fell forward and then desperately protected the back of his head.

"Show us your true abilities and serve our prince properly," the bureau chief's cold voice came from behind.

Damn it, who isn't a prince?
Just now, he had investigated Ziad's identity and learned that the other party was just an adopted son of the king, which made things complicated.

Although they wouldn't do anything to Ziad, a beating and a lesson were clearly inevitable.

The officers who carried out the attack were clearly experienced; they targeted areas like the abdomen and ribs where injuries were less likely to be visible, using ruthless force to cause severe pain while minimizing the risk of leaving obvious evidence.

Ziad curled up on the ground. Then he saw several other ragged people locked up in the next cell. They were also craning their necks to look at him with pity in their eyes. Judging from their clothes, they were obviously ordinary people from the lower class in Riyadh.

After being severely beaten, the chief ordered Ziad to be pushed into another detention cell, where a man who reeked of foul odor had obviously been detained for several days.

Ziad caught his breath for a moment, then turned to the man and asked, "How did you get locked up here?"

The man replied, "I'm a fruit vendor. My truck was robbed by some thugs, so I came to report it. I didn't expect that thug to have connections at the police station, and they locked me up instead. What about you?"

Ziad was silent for a moment: "Someone killed my father. I came to report the murderer, but they beat me up."

After hearing this, the vendor sighed knowingly: "It seems your father must have offended a very important person he can't afford to offend."

Ziad was taken aback at first, then burst into laughter, laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face.

Shortly after, the chief reappeared, this time not to assault anyone. He had Ziad lifted up and then warned, "Listen, this is what happens when you dare to report Prince Mursed. Don't make trouble for yourself! Also, if you dare to say a single word about what happened in the police station today, I guarantee I'll have you arrested again!"

After saying that, he ordered the police officers to take Ziad away from the police station.

As he was leaving through the gate, the bureau chief gave him a hard kick in the butt and mocked, "You really think you're Abu Youssef?"

Ziad fell directly onto the street outside the door, attracting the attention of passersby.

Despite the humiliation he suffered, Ziad remained unusually calm.

He slowly sat up, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. Since his brother's death and his father's murder, he had lost everything, but the one thing he had no shortage of was the courage to face any darkness and violence.

Ziad raised his hands above his head, and then several huge white banners suddenly fell from the rooftops on both sides opposite the police station, causing gasps to erupt from the crowd.

The director, who was about to turn back to his office, saw the content of the banner and his expression changed instantly.

The banner read in bold black Arabic script:

[King Shams was assassinated; Prince Mursed murdered his brother and seized the throne!]

"Quick! Grab that madman! Tear those things down! Hurry!" His voice was distorted and twisted.

Police and National Guard members snapped out of their daze, drawing their batons and charging menacingly at Ziad. Facing the onrushing police, Ziad showed no fear, shouting, "Listen up! My name is Ziad bin Shams bin Abdulaziz Al Saud, son of His Majesty King Shams of Shuangzhi!"

At the same time, he quickly grabbed a plastic bucket that he had hidden beforehand from the street corner, unscrewed the lid, and poured the transparent gasoline inside over himself from head to toe.

A pungent odor filled the air, and the police officers who rushed over stopped in shock.

Ziad stood in the middle of the street, facing all the horrified gazes, and shouted with all his might to the growing crowd:
"O God, be our witness!"

“I swear on my life and soul—Prince Mursed is the murderer of my father!”

"No—!" the bureau chief cried out in despair.

With a loud "boom," flames erupted and instantly engulfed Ziad, turning him into a human torch burning fiercely under the blazing sun.

A searing pain coursed through every nerve in his body, but Ziad held his head high, staring intently through the distorted air at the panicked police officers and screaming citizens who were retreating.

In Islamic doctrine, self-immolation is a grave sin, and the soul will be eternally condemned to hellfire.

But conversely, when a person is willing to give up their life and soul to voice their accusations, even the gods will be moved.

The flames crackled, and the air was filled with the smell of burning.

The bureau chief stared in horror at the figure in the sea of ​​fire. He saw Ziad's face contorted in the flames, but there was no pain in that smile; it seemed to carry a hint of relief and mockery of them.

It's as if it's saying, "I'm waiting for you at the gates of hell."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Inside the VIP room of the racecourse, several conservative princes were drinking and chatting merrily in a lively atmosphere.

Just then, a regular knocking sound came from outside the door. Before there was a response, the door was pushed open, and a middle-aged man with prominent epaulets bowed slightly as he entered the room.

Prince Mursad frowned slightly upon seeing the newcomer, then quickly relaxed: "Khashoggi, come here and have a drink with everyone."

Khashoggi is a cousin of Mursad's mother and one of his most trusted confidants. He now serves as the director of the National Guard, a high-ranking position.

Khashoggi smiled wryly, "Brother, today is probably not the right time."

He then handed an arrest warrant bearing the royal seal to Prince Mursed.

Mursad accepted the arrest warrant, which read: "[Following investigation of a tip, Prince Mursad bin Abdulaziz is suspected of involvement in the assassination of His Majesty Shams and must immediately undergo questioning and investigation.]"

"What does this mean?" Prince Mursed's expression instantly turned cold.

Khashoggi quickly lowered his voice and explained, "Just this morning, King Shams' adopted son, Ziad, somehow obtained some so-called evidence and went to the police headquarters to report you. Chief Omar had already sent him away, but who would have thought that the kid would actually set himself on fire in front of the police station in public?"

Although Khashoggi lowered his voice, the shocking news was still heard by every prince present.

The entire VIP room fell into a deathly silence.

Every prince present was well aware of what the word "self-immolation" meant in the Islamic world. The Quran explicitly forbids believers from committing suicide, and "self-immolation," due to its extreme and tragic nature, is regarded as the most resolute betrayal of God's mercy and an unforgivable grave sin.

However, when the self-immolator is a prince, the nature of the matter is no longer an ordinary accusation; it becomes a massive storm that sweeps across the entire royal family and even the Islamic community, which cannot be ignored.

Prince Mursad's face was grave. He knew that things had developed to this point and he could no longer avoid it.

Faced with Ziad’s challenge, which he had issued with his life and soul, he had to stand up and give everyone an explanation, otherwise the suspicion of “fratricide and treason” would forever haunt him.

Prince Walid, who was third in line, said, "Mursaid, you should go. The future of the conservatives needs you to lead them."

Prince Mursad nodded slightly and asked his younger brother, "Is everything ready?"

Khashoggi immediately replied, "Don't worry, I'm just going to the police station to explain the situation."

Hearing this assurance, Prince Mursed felt somewhat relieved. He slowly stood up and calmly straightened his white robe.

"I'll be back as soon as I go."

He bid farewell to several princes and then quickly left the VIP room under the escort of the National Guard.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The convoy carrying Moorsaid soon arrived at the Riyadh Police Headquarters.

As Prince Mursed alighted from his car, his gaze swept over the charred burn marks on the ground near the entrance, and a disdainful smile curled at the corner of his lips.

Since the assassin who attempted to kill the king was publicly executed, he was convinced that all leads had been completely cut off, and the so-called "evidence" that Ziad could collect was nothing but a pile of worthless garbage.

He strode into the police station lobby like a lion surveying its territory.

When a junior police officer saw him, he was startled for a moment, then lowered his head and said respectfully, "Your Highness."

The police officers on duty behind the counter also stood up and bowed to him.

“Where is Omar?” Mursad’s voice echoed beneath the arched dome. “Bring the director to see me in person.”

Before he finished speaking, a series of powerful, rapid footsteps, seemingly coming from all directions, suddenly rang out.

Countless guards wearing riot shields poured out from various passages and side doors, quickly sealing off all exits.

Mursad turned around abruptly and saw the police station doors closing and the gates rapidly descending.

At this moment, Aziz came out from the office area inside and bowed slightly to him: "I'm sorry, Director Omar probably won't be able to come to greet you."

Mursad stared intently at Aziz. He recognized him; he was Prince Mohammed's chief secretary.

"It was you. You betrayed us!?"

Mursad turned and glared at Khashoggi, who shrank back and dared not utter a sound.

Betrayal from a brother is the most intolerable thing. Prince Mursad's face twitched with rage, and he suddenly lunged at Khashoggi, swinging his fist.

"You damn thing—"

But his movements were firmly stopped by several guards, and then Mursad's arms were tied behind his back, rendering him unable to move.

"Do you know who I am? I am Mursed! Son of Shamar! The most powerful prince in all of Shuangzhi!" Mursed roared.

At this moment, Police Chief Omar was dragged out of the inner room like a lump of mud. He was covered in blood, leaving a dark red mark on the ground. His head was deformed, and he was now on the verge of death.

Mursad was forcibly brought before Aziz, panting heavily.

"Did Muhammad send you? Has he finally decided to resort to force?"

Aziz did not answer his question, his face expressionless, but calmly extended his hand to the soldier beside him.

Then a soldier handed him a heavy baton.

Looking at Prince Mursed, who was now like a trapped beast, Aziz knew that if he didn't make the first move, no one else would dare to.

As if realizing his impending doom, Mursed gasped for breath and gave a bitter laugh, "Then it's all over."

He had anticipated many possible outcomes of political struggles, but he never expected to face such an ending.

"Do you have any last words?" Aziz asked.

"Let me go, at least let me leave with some dignity."

The guards hesitated, glancing at Aziz. After receiving his tacit approval, they released their grip on the prince's hands.

Mursad slowly rose, straightened the torn platinum collar button, and smoothed the wrinkles in his robe. When he looked up again, he was once again the prince who looked down on everyone in the National Assembly.

"Give my regards to Muhammad and wish him an early victory."

Mursad looked out the window at the bright midday sun and thought to himself that this was truly a perfect day to close his eyes.

Aziz swung his baton.

A heavy thud, accompanied by the sound of bones breaking, echoed through the hall, and Prince Mursed let out a suppressed groan of pain.

Immediately afterwards, all the surrounding soldiers rushed forward, and countless batons rained down, completely engulfing Mursad.

(End of this chapter)