Badawi

by Mohed Altrad

  Occasionally, a paunchy man would appear at the site, wending his way between heaps of sand and wooden supports. At first Maïouf struggled to work out what this man was doing there; he seemed important, and was always trailed by assistants laden with rolls of paper which they unfurled, from time to time, doing lots of pointing. The man would inspect, comment, decide, give instructions to the laborers. But Maïouf got the feeling he was there for something else. He spent most of his time in discussions with high-ranking officials or signing papers handed to him by humble-looking people who’d been waiting to see him, all day in some cases. It was only much later that Maïouf realized he was an architect. The man most likely attracted his attention because, to his mind, he incarnated a fascinating kind of influence, the sort of influence whose impact he’d borne since his earliest childhood, and it was based on exercising power. This image of the architect—who strolled about with no specific purpose and dispensed his instructions to the laborers clustering around him—this was somehow mingled with the image of his father, which in turn was associated with the image of his father’s sons, some of whom had never been to school and refused to work but spent most of their time swanning about with their noses in the air and yelling at anyone who happened to be in their way.

  Maïouf had grown up in pace with this building, counting up floors instead of years. As he entered young adulthood, he’d also started taking more of an interest in the life of this city he lived in. Beyond the construction site, Raqqa was a place where people from very varied backgrounds lived alongside each other, a place where social differences were felt more acutely than in the villages he’d known. Of course in those villages you came across powerful men, more powerful than others, like his father whom he now avoided thinking about, but relationships were established face-to-face, man-to-man, and were dictated by customs that everyone knew and respected. Here people were somehow anonymous. The bustling crowd in the market, the hurrying crowd on the avenues, the exhausted crowd of ordinary people, huge crowds everywhere. In all this to-and-fro, the only distinguishing feature of the powerful was how redundant they were. That was what Maïouf concluded from his observations. And he must have been partly right: by following this line of reason, he’d managed to grasp that the fat man on the building site was the architect.

  As he headed toward the building now, Maïouf remembered being surprised he hadn’t seen a single Palestinian involved in its construction. He’d looked for Palestinians, though, because their community had been hotly debated at the time. Their situation as a people in exile who had come and asked a sister nation for support, and the feeling that—through them—the entire Arab world was suffering failure and rejection on the international scene, had stirred up strong feelings for a while. In fact, as recently as the previous week he’d been involved in a heated debate about them.

  Maïouf had latterly discovered the pleasure of impassioned conversation. And these conversations were all the more impassioned and bitter because he was still smarting deep inside from the last humiliation his father had subjected him to, a humiliation which had spawned an exacting instruction: never give in again. That was why, when a lively discussion started up among a group of pupils between lessons, he was always quick to launch into polemics and get carried away with the exaltation of his strong feelings. His passion and occasional vehemence had actually attracted the attention of the Muslim Brotherhood. They’d contacted him through one of his classmates, whose cousin was a member. The Muslim Brotherhood advocated a brand of Islamic fundamentalism which was starting to enjoy a degree of success among the very poorest section of the population, particularly because of the discrepancy in Syrian society between the official rhetoric of brotherliness and sharing, and a reality riddled with inequality and injustice.

  Now, in those days Maïouf put justice before everything else. Ah, justice! Even before friendship or love. He was starting to grasp the miserable fate that Syrian society had in store for his Bedouin kinsmen. So he’d lent an ear to what the Brotherhood had to say. And he’d drawn new strength—founded on conviction—from their exhortations. With their arguments, they’d reinforced the resentment he felt toward powerful men like dignitaries or that architect. But not everything they claimed convinced him. He’d come to know a few young Jewish boys, and the concept that Judaism was evil incarnate seemed very strange to him. He’d also felt that the Brotherhood’s interpretation of the Koran was unsophisticated. As for their condemnation of the Western world, he was too fond of the films from those faraway places to give that credence. He hadn’t joined them, but had learned from them to view the world and certain customs around him with a critical eye.

  16

  Once inside, Maïouf set off down a corridor that ran along the front of the building. The interior was no more attractive than the exterior. Chipped paintings that no one noticed anymore, the floor covered in a film of sand, none of the solemnity you might be entitled to expect in a place where justice was done. Maïouf didn’t know which room he needed to go to, and he could only assume he had come to the right one when he saw the small groups of people talking animatedly beside an open door. He slowed when he reached the door and risked a quick glance into the small dusty room, from which he could hear a general hubbub punctuated by louder outbursts of talking. He wondered whether after all he was in the wrong place, but was told that this really was the courtroom, so he went in.

  The first thing you noticed in the room was a portrait of the president hanging on the dingy wall. It looked as if it had been hung there in a hurry when someone noticed there wasn’t one. The glass was covered in a thick layer of grime but he could still make out the faded colors and the same pose seen in all the presidential portraits in shops, on billboards, and in newspapers. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, this was the Father of the Nation, watching over its administration even in this small courtroom in this small city.

  There was a great crowd of people inside, filling the space and constantly in motion. Maïouf managed to see that two tables had been set up at a slight angle to each other, under the portrait. Between the shoulders of densely packed, inquisitive onlookers, he could just see a fat man dripping with sweat who mopped his brow with a handkerchief from time to time and then, turning with some difficulty, put the hankie back in his trousers pocket. While his right hand carried out this little performance, his left hand flitted through the air, displaying his impatience with the other people—all as fat and sweaty as he was—who kept gathering around him. Before trying to find somewhere better to stand, Maïouf noticed one last detail: one of the men wore a shapeless hat that tipped down toward the nape of his neck.

  In the end Maïouf decided to tuck himself in beside the doorway. From there he could watch the proceedings unnoticed. He was keen not to be seen, and this was easier for him today because for once he fitted in. His keffiyeh and djellaba didn’t do anything to distinguish him from dozens of other people around him wearing the same things. None of them looked very interested in the case being tried, but that didn’t matter to Maïouf: this wasn’t the case he’d come to watch.

  All at once there was shouting and a flurry of activity from the area where the president posed, unperturbed, in his frame. The crowd surged forward with a combination of curiosity and strange satisfaction. Most of the people there had been drawn by the scandal of the case. Maïouf stood on tiptoe. Behind the second table now stood a man with his wrists in handcuffs, chained to two police officers. The sudden commotion was because this man had leapt to his feet and raised his arms, dragging the chains and the men attached to them along with him. In this comic tableau—the three men with their arms in the air shouting across each other—the accused was shouting the loudest.

  “Let me go and find a liar!” he bellowed. “I can’t have this one talking on his own. Let me go and find my own liar! I promise I’ll come back.”

  He gesticulated wildly, still accompanied by the two police officers, who couldn’t help joining in, and he turned his distrau
ght, reddened face toward the man in the shapeless hat.

  Maïouf leaned close to the man beside him.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “A Bedouin shepherd. He killed a man who wanted his sheep. He says the whole village agreed he could kill him, they’d had a meeting about it and even the victim’s family thought it fair. He told the judge the mukhtar had endorsed the decision.”

  The man puffed himself up self-importantly as he gave this account, hardly looking at Maïouf while he talked. He seemed to be enjoying the scandal, and was already savoring the fact that, over the next few days, he could describe this to anyone who cared to listen.

  “These wretched Bedouins!” he added. “This one’s been getting angry, saying people in Raqqa should mind their own business and leave the Bedouins alone. He says that where he comes from if you kill someone and don’t apologize you’ll be executed anyway, or ‘have an accident.’ You should have seen the judge’s face when he said that!”

  With this, the man launched into a long loud laugh. Maïouf would have been happy to leave it at that but the man was on a roll.

  “And then,” he said with laughter still in his voice, “this is the best bit: he said that, in his village, if you kill someone by accident or by mistake you still have to pay! But that if the village agrees to it, well, then justice has been done.”

  Maïouf was familiar with these customs. They may have been primitive, but they had their own logic. All Bedouins respected them, and these laws governed their lives just as well as any others might. What could this man from Raqqa understand about that when he so obviously despised the Bedouin? Maïouf kept his thoughts to himself but didn’t want to appear rude by ignoring the man.

  “Why does he want to find a liar?” he asked.

  “Because he doesn’t know what an attorney is. Look, can you see the man in the hat over there, facing him? He’s the public prosecutor. He’s just finished his speech for the prosecution. The Bedouin is challenging it. He thinks he’s at a lying competition and he’s asking to be allowed to choose his own champion.”

  The judge had leaned against the back of his chair and was mopping his brow with mounting irritation. He suddenly sat up with unexpected energy and called for silence. People took barely any notice, carrying on with their muttering, but a little more quietly. Exhausted by the effort and by the indifference of the crowd, the judge slumped back into his chair. But he wouldn’t admit defeat.

  “That’s enough now!” He bellowed authoritatively. Then he turned to the accused and asked, “You want to make a fuss? I’ll give you what you deserve.” Now he looked over at the public prosecutor, who’d been left speechless by the outburst, and added, “There’s no point continuing. We’re both wasting our time. I’ve decided what needs to be done with this one.”

  The prosecutor waved a hand to mean he accepted the judge’s decision, and returned to his seat. His relief at not having to make any further contribution was clear to see.

  Maïouf didn’t listen as the judge handed down a hefty sentence to the stunned defendant, who didn’t understand what was going on at all. He hardly even noticed the judge leaving through a side door, or the trouble the policemen had getting the Bedouin back to his feet. The terror that had been gnawing at him since he entered the courtroom was now so acute his ears were ringing. What hope was there for his young uncle, who was also a Bedouin, with a judge like this?

  His poor uncle!

  One of the few smiling faces that greeted him when he went back to the village. His young uncle who’d never had his luck, nor perhaps his ordeals to strengthen his will. After only a few years he’d had to stop his schooling. But because he’d spent some time at a desk he hadn’t had the tough apprenticeship as a shepherd so they’d had to find a different job for him. On the other hand, he could read and write, and that had helped him. He’d joined the police force.

  That was how, back in the spring, he’d ended up in an isolated guardroom on a road through the desert. It was a block of cement which got hot enough to cook a man, and had two iron beds, one for the police officer and one for him, and a collection of rusty cooking utensils. All he had to do there was wait. Just wait.

  One morning the uncle had turned up in the village wild-eyed and covered in blood. The police officer was dead. There’d been an accident. He’d been cleaning his rifle when the shot fired. The body had fallen onto the gray dust of the floor. He’d turned it over, but it was too late. He’d been terrified, had grabbed the rifle without even thinking, and fled. Oh, if only he’d stayed there; if only he’d called the telephone exchange; if only he hadn’t tried to help the police officer, who was covered in blood; if only he hadn’t picked up the rifle. If only …

  The police had swarmed into the village toward the end of the day. They’d had no trouble finding Maïouf’s uncle, who was hiding in his mother’s house, and they’d marched him away. He was now accused of murder.

  17

  Several months earlier Maïouf had decided to visit his grandmother, see his father’s village, and, if he felt he had the strength, go to the house itself. His resentment toward his family had ended up weighing heavily on him, and perhaps because they didn’t know what had caused this rancor, his relatives couldn’t understand it. Why had he stopped sending news? When he arrived shortly after sunrise the street was unusually busy. People had greeted him with obvious delight after such a long absence, but something that had happened the day before was on every mind and in every conversation.

  They were all standing on doorsteps talking and gesticulating, clearly excited, particularly when someone who didn’t know anything about the drama turned up. He heard at least fifteen different versions that day, and there would be more over the next few days. It became increasingly difficult to work out exactly what had happened.

  Each member of the village embroidered the facts and invented new details, either to make the story more epic or to entertain him.

  He hadn’t really succeeded in getting to the bottom of it. He’d stayed there for a few days without managing to see his father and, saddened, he’d ended up driving every variation of the saga from his mind.

  A few weeks after he’d returned to Raqqa he’d come across a sheep trader whose family all lived in the village. They’d chatted about one thing and another, the weather they were having now and the weather to come, and passed on news of their acquaintances.

  The old trader had tried hard enough to avoid mentioning the incident, but it was impossible for either of them to pretend it hadn’t happened.

  “You know, I’m a Badawi myself, but I couldn’t do anything to help, believe me. They looked absolutely determined and we were out of our depth, we didn’t even know what to accuse them of!”

  Seeing that Maïouf was impatient to hear more, he continued with resignation in his voice as he said, “Oh, you’ll criticize me too … But, well, like I said, those men had definitely been in the area a long time. Everyone thinks they were there even before dawn because the dogs had barked at the desert that night.

  “I had some ewes due to give birth at the time so I got up a bit earlier than usual, you know it’s best to keep an eye on them then: you never know what might happen, and one ewe lost is a promise of hardship. You know, only last week I had to go and get one from the very middle of … All right, don’t get so worked up, I’ll go right back to the beginning for you, well, not the very beginning, I’ll tell you about that if you like, but from the morning itself, from when we saw your uncle turn up covered in blood. Like I said, they hadn’t shown their faces yet, they came later. But to get back to your uncle, we heard the police car coming from a long way off. Everyone knew that’s what it was because apart from your father’s truck, there aren’t many vehicles in the area, and you end up recognizing the tone of every engine. D’you know, it’s not that long since they actually gave cars to the police. But, well, it’s helpful for us, even when we don’t have anything to feel guilty about!

&nbs
p; “All those years we got used to seeing them turn up on horseback unannounced and creeping up on us in the middle of fields or the village so it’s quite a relief knowing they’re in a car. At least we can hear them coming now.

  “The police don’t usually come around so early. You know what they’re like, they don’t have much to do and they’re not very bright. You know I won’t say a bad word about your uncle but, all the same, he’s no genius! When they should get off their backsides it’s always something too important for them to deal with, and their superiors send someone else to take care of it. Anyway, people would rather not see them. No disrespect, but you know they act like they own the place and when they need money, they just have to put the pressure on. Anyone who refuses, even if he hasn’t committed a crime, can’t help being in the wrong and will soon find he’s in all sorts of trouble. So they have a nice life in their little guardroom and they stir themselves only when it’s time to eat. They have a bit of a drive around in the mornings to use up the regulation amount of fuel, and another one in the afternoon after prayers when the heat’s dropped a bit. But no one can remember ever seeing or hearing them doing anything strenuous or getting up in the night. Quite the opposite, really, there are times when they don’t even leave their guardroom for a day or two because they’re so exhausted from doing nothing. Anyway, because there are only two of them, they don’t have much cause to go to any trouble. Which is why the sound of that engine when it was still dark woke quite a few people. Some got up and went out to see what was going on. The car came hurtling into the village and stopped right in the middle, in a cloud of dust and feathers. Because it had also woken all the chickens, they came squawking from every direction and ran toward the headlights. Given how your uncle was driving, he must have crushed a fair few. Luckily, as you know, my cousin’s house is at the other end of the village and the chickens he keeps for me weren’t harmed. Because with the price you pay for them at the moment, I don’t know how I’d have managed to buy more. Nowadays you can’t even buy one for the price you’d have paid for two last year. D’you know, only earlier today I was trying to buy … Stop yelling the whole time: if you keep interrupting me, we’ll never get there! I’ll tell you everything, but I do have to tell you how it was, and if I don’t give you all the details, you might not understand … So the police car stopped and your uncle got out straightaway. We were surprised because he’s not usually the one driving, he’s too young. He was pale, but what we noticed first was the blood, fresh blood all over the front of his uniform. The people who’d come outside went over to him and started asking questions. There was such a racket you couldn’t hear a word. Men asked him what was going on, whether there was a war, women screamed. Eventually, one of the women shrieked louder than the others, saying he might be injured and they should see if he needed help. That calmed everyone down and he could talk then. He wasn’t injured, but he said he’d killed his colleague.”