by Mohed Altrad
Pausing briefly to let his arguments sink in, the public prosecutor grasped his trousers, which had slipped down with the constant wobbling of his stomach, and jerked them back up, savoring the murmurs of onlookers.
“The accused fled, then,” he went on. “But let’s be clear about this. He didn’t run just anywhere. He took refuge in his village, with his family, among the Bedouin who—as we saw earlier—are against our country’s legal system, the Bedouin who think they can dispense justice themselves!”
Hearing these words, Maïouf felt as if scalding oil were being poured into his veins. Judging by the silence in the crowd, he wasn’t alone in finding them insulting. Even the judge tried to temper the prosecutor’s aggressive words. But reveling in his own theatrics, the prosecutor didn’t notice; he was as unstoppable as a racehorse.
“You now know,” he said, “that the Bedouin are cunning creatures, they’ll do whatever it takes to be right.”
The judge then sat forward slightly and raised his hand unambiguously at the man in the hat to get him to stop what could easily become dangerous provocation for a crowd which included a good many Bedouin.
Had the prosecuting lawyer described them as “cunning”? Maïouf smiled to himself, but it was a bitter smile. Yes, the Bedouin were cunning, but had they been given any choice? Without their cunning, how could they have survived the pitfalls of the desert? This cunning, inculcated in them by a hostile natural world, had served them many a time against their enemies, and they had it to thank for avoiding pointless bloodshed. Yes, the Bedouin were cunning. But could you say that his young uncle had behaved cunningly when he ran away? It was laughable to scramble things up like that.
While Maïouf chewed over his own bitterness, the prosecutor carried on with his performance, raising his voice to give the final movement more operatic impact.
“What was the accused hoping to find in his village? The answer to that is clear: he was hoping for protection. But what protection does an innocent man need? And, more important, is he innocent?” Another pause, shorter this time, then he raised his arms to the heavens as he said, “Answer these questions, your honor, and your judgment will be made. His flight, the weapon, the blood—everything incriminates this boy. And the dead man’s blood splattered over his clothes demands justice!”
Now that he’d finished, he let his arms drop. A peculiarly dense silence weighed on the room for a moment, then tumult broke out. Half the audience cheered the speech while the other half were on their feet shouting insults at the prosecutor. The tension was electrifying: people were turning on each other; some left the room, throwing their arms in the air vehemently. Maïouf took the opportunity to spot a few people he knew. He saw acquaintances from the village dotted here and there, but neither his grandmother nor his aunt. In the end he turned all his attention on his uncle.
The young man had all but collapsed, with his hands crossed on the table, flanked by those of the policemen he was chained to. He looked overwhelmed, his face alarmingly pale. For all the world like a guilty man cornered. Maïouf felt fear flood through him again. The thought of Fadia’s smile had driven it away for a while, but the sight of his only friend so powerless revived it. What could he do? He moved away from the wall to attract the attention of his uncle, whose blank gaze roved over the crowd without ever settling. When his eyes met Maïouf’s they locked onto them and filled with avid hope, like those of an exhausted animal stumbling across water after a sandstorm. But that hope was painful to Maïouf. He noticed his uncle straighten his shoulders and find the strength to manage a tired smile. Filled with despair, Maïouf leaned back against the wall.
The judge had withdrawn to deliberate. It seemed to go on forever and Maïouf couldn’t bear the tension so he decided to step out of the room, but not outside this time. He went into the relative cool of the corridor and started pacing up and down.
When the judge came back in, all the people wandering in the corridor returned to their places and Maïouf went back into the hearing room. Grumbling to himself, the judge sat down and invited the lawyers to do so too. The accused was ashen, his mouth gaping open indecently as he stared at the man on whom his future depended. He was half standing from his chair, as if anticipating a cataclysm. Maïouf was full of dread.
The judge spoke at last:
“You have said what you had to say. Now I shall decide the sentence: the accused is found guilty. He is condemned to twenty years’ imprisonment.”
Maïouf felt as if his throat had been crushed. He could feel tears welling in his eyes. He ran outside, into the corridor, the entrance hall, to the bottom of the steps of this building that once so fascinated him but now filled him with shame. It took him a long time to control his emotions, longer even than he thought it had because when he became aware of his surroundings again, he found he was in a throng of people who’d watched his uncle’s trial and were now leaving. One came so close Maïouf could hear what he was saying.
“The judge went too far. He knows the poor kid doesn’t have the money to pay the police to plead in his favor.”
Without thinking, Maïouf snatched at the man’s sleeve.
“Do you mean the trial could have been rigged with false witnesses? Is that possible?”
The man roared with sneering laughter, eyeing Maïouf’s djellaba.
“You’re obviously a Bedouin,” he said. “I bet you don’t come to the city much. And, yes, of course trials can be rigged, and sometimes the judge is even greedier than the police! You just need to have the money …”
22
What really happened that night Maïouf learned from his young uncle himself. He’d made Maïouf swear never to talk about it; both their lives depended on that.
One evening, the future victim had been surprised to hear noises on the far side of the sand dune: a horse whinnying and the sound of a car engine being cut. In that particular spot, the hills hug close together, creating a series of dips and hiding places. The man climbed up the dune but before reaching the summit, dropped cautiously to the ground and crawled to the crest.
Below him, two armed men were holding a terrified horse by the bridle. The policeman recognized the man riding the horse: he was one of the group fighting for the Bedouins’ nomadic rights to these lands which they’d been traveling for millennia but from which they were now being driven out. He was a willful man, someone people listened to, and was starting to attract support from anyone who didn’t want to be rammed into concrete tower blocks on the outskirts of cities. A third man, whose face was ravaged by a long scar over his right eye, came over to the group and brutally knocked the horseman from his mount. With the rider sprawled on the ground, the man coolly took aim with a pistol and shot him. The policeman, who had flattened himself against the dune to watch the scene, jumped to his feet and ran back to the guardroom.
Gasping for breath, he was just reaching the bunker when a jeep caught up with him, tracking him with its headlights. The man with the scar came over to Maïouf’s young uncle and took his pistol from its holster. Then he turned to the other policeman, told him to kneel, and shot him at point-blank range. His blood spurted out, drenching his uniform. Maïouf’s uncle thought he would suffer the same fate and threw himself to the floor, begging for mercy. The three men laughed, making fun of him and saying, “That’s what’ll happen to you if you tell anyone what we get up to in the desert, and if you don’t tell everyone it was you who killed your colleague.” Then they climbed back into the jeep and vanished into the night, leaving the young policeman on the point of collapse.
Maïouf’s uncle found it difficult to relate these events, and didn’t dare look his childhood friend in the eye. He managed only to beg him once again to keep the story completely secret.
Maïouf gave his word. But he swore to himself that he’d come back one day and try to do something for his people.
23
The circular had been hung on the wall at the National Ministry for Education and in region
al offices in major cities, but no pupils had been contacted personally. Maïouf, who was constantly haunted by thoughts of his young uncle, had paid less attention than anyone else to the notice board. He’d worked his way through the three days of school-leaving exams with the same application he’d shown all these years, but he hadn’t succeeded in feeling the least pride when he read in the paper a few days later that he’d achieved the highest score in the region in his baccalauréat.
Only Fadia gave him any comfort. Their relationship had evolved since they’d first met outside his lodgings. They saw each other frequently and strolled through the streets after he came home from school in the evening or whenever there was a public holiday. They went for little shopping trips together in the bazaar, spending hours gazing at stalls and imagining what they might buy if and when they earned some money. They also met in a park and would sit chatting in the shade of a tree; Maïouf did most of the talking, describing the deserts of his childhood. And, without his realizing it, Fadia had gradually come to fill his entire horizon. She’d become the center of his world, so that a day spent without her felt strangely empty.
It was actually Fadia who told him the news one evening.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Damascus?” she asked a little reproachfully.
He looked so surprised that she couldn’t help laughing.
“Don’t you know? You did come top in the whole region, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied, still not understanding.
“Apparently, the top candidates from each region in the country have been invited to Damascus by the minister.”
“You’re just making fun of me!”
Maïouf had no intention of being hurtful when he said this; he simply couldn’t believe it was true. Damascus had always seemed so inaccessible, and to find he’d been invited there by a minister—Maïouf, the little Badawi boy from the desert—was genuinely unimaginable. But sadness passed like a shadow over Fadia’s face, and her eyes, which were always so bright, seemed to darken. When Maïouf noticed this he regretted being so abrupt and was quick to pick up the conversation again.
“And when’s this meant to be happening?”
“In a couple of weeks, if I’ve got it right.”
Damascus! Maïouf said to himself. What could the minister possibly want? Probably an official reception, handing out certificates, something like that. And would he have to make a speech? That prospect was more terrifying to Maïouf than anything else. He had little inclination to go bowing and scraping to dignitaries. Still, he’d never been to Damascus, and would he have another opportunity to go there, a Bedouin like him? He wasn’t even sure he’d get beyond Raqqa. He might well have plans to apply to the university in Aleppo but it had to be said he’d never even seen the place except in photos. So Damascus!
Fadia’s hand felt cool when it reached for his on the way to the bus. Maïouf had done some research: there would be twelve of them at the reception, representing the twelve regions of Syria. As for the education minister, he was a military man whose portrait Maïouf had once glimpsed but not really looked at. He had little hope of recognizing the minister.
It was a long journey. Maïouf had promised himself he’d enjoy the views, he wouldn’t miss any of it, but the heat, the droning engine, the swaying and lurching all got the better of him and he fell asleep. Having left Raqqa in mid-afternoon, they traveled all night, stopping only for short breaks to fill up with fuel and give the passengers a chance to stretch their legs or drink a cup of scalding tea.
When Maïouf woke, dawn was just breaking. The bus was on a wide two-lane road which was already full of traffic. By the spreading flush of daylight, Maïouf saw nothing but huge construction sites between dirty-looking buildings and tightly packed rows of drab low-slung houses all the way up the steep hillside overlooking the city. Despite the opaque sunshade and stripes of color decorating the front windshield, he could see through it to a gloomy cloud hanging over the city and swallowing more and more of the horizon as the bus drove down from the heights toward Damascus.
24
As they drove through the suburbs Maïouf was filled with disappointment. Could this really be the capital, the site of the legendary Saladin’s tomb? Everything looked gray in the dirty daylight, even the clusters of trees planted along the road. The huge Umayyad Mosque with its tall minarets and its cupola slowly flushing pink in the light of the rising sun failed to save him from disillusionment. Tired, stiff, and thirsty, he watched buildings spool past. The traffic grew heavier as they approached the city center, the sidewalks overflowed with people, and he caught himself missing the desert.
The bus came to a stop at last. Maïouf glanced at the clock in the bus station and realized he had an hour to get to the ministry. He made the most of the time to have a good look at the people in the streets. What struck him most in this unfamiliar city were the women. Many of them weren’t wearing scarves, and none had any qualms about talking to strangers. He saw some walking together in groups, joshing and chatting or laughing loudly. Their clothes bordered on indecent: they wore their blouses almost unbuttoned, short skirts, and high heels. He thought of Fadia, her reserve and propriety, and the private, shaded little street where they met.
When he arrived at the ministry he was shown to a room where the other star candidates were already waiting. All ten boys were wearing trousers and jackets, and the only girl was also in European clothes. Maïouf was the only one in a djellaba. As he walked into the room, the man who’d shown him the way said, “With your clothes and your accent, there’s no disguising you’re a Bedouin.” Then in a tart, humorless voice he added, “I hope you didn’t dress like that to be provocative.”
The waiting went on forever, and Maïouf silently tolerated the mocking comments being made behind his back. Eventually someone came to fetch them, and they were taken through a labyrinth of corridors and up several flights of stairs. Maïouf was so disoriented he wasn’t sure he was still in the same building. The little group finally arrived in a room bathed in light by large bay windows which had been left open. Along one side of the room stood a long table covered in a white cloth and brightened at regular intervals with vases of flowers. Maïouf had never seen anything like them in his life. Nodding golden corollas alongside stems edged with tiny blue petals, and a cluster of white stars topped with bright scarlet foliage. But what really struck him were the large jugs of clear water, gleaming like precious jewels, like something straight out of folklore.
As a man of the desert, he was completely lost in contemplation of those jugs of water when a wailing siren right outside startled him. Men armed with submachine guns poured into the room and stood on either side of the large doorway at the far end. This was followed by an icy silence. Out in the corridor a door slammed, and guttural voices barked orders: the officials were on their way. Maïouf froze in spite of himself.
The minister came through the doorway. He was short and chubby, wearing a light-colored suit and heavy dark glasses that made him look like someone on a cruise. There was nothing military about him. Just behind him, two taller men also in dark glasses scanned the room with eagle-eyed intensity. Behind these three men were about a dozen photographers who probably followed the minister’s every move and were constantly snapping shots of him. Before stepping onto the small stage that had been provided, the minister asked to be introduced to the graduates in person. He shook each of them by the hand and Maïouf felt that official hand glide into his. The minister finished his round by shaking the girl’s hand, perhaps at rather greater length. Then he climbed the two steps to the stage and launched into a long speech, a very long speech.
This was an electioneering speech directed far more at the press than at the young students—even though they made an effort to be attentive—and the minister covered geopolitics, relations between Syria and other countries, the country’s future, and the hope that Syria put in its young people and the intelligence of its future executive
s. When the minister had finished talking there was some applause and a crackle of camera flashes before everyone was invited to enjoy the buffet.
No one paid any attention to Maïouf but he dared not eat, despite being hungry. Or rather, eating was the last thing on his mind in the present circumstances. As for the journalists and photographers, who showed very little interest in the brilliant graduates, they’d thrown themselves on the food, not leaving much room for the bashful students. Crippled by his own embarrassment, Maïouf was trying to find the most unobtrusive place to stand when a voice whispered in his ear.
“What would you do, my boy,” it said, “if you were offered a grant to study abroad?”
The minister was standing next to him, looking him right in the eye.
“I’d like to go to Germany to study agronomy,” Maïouf said, inventing this reply without even thinking.
The minister looked surprised.
“Why agronomy? Our country is well equipped in that field and it strikes me that’s not the biggest problem in your region.”
“It could be soon.”
Seeing the minister’s face darken, Maïouf wondered whether he’d been too glib. But he didn’t have time to redeem himself; the minister had turned his attention to the girl, who seemed to fascinate him far more than Maïouf’s future.
25
Maïouf had been back in Raqqa about ten days when an official letter arrived for him. He was being summoned to the Ministry of Education in Damascus in three days’ time. There, he would be given a grant to study petrochemistry in France.