‘Ah, you made it, my friend, right on time. Let me introduce you to Sam Hammoud, the manager I was telling you about from the finance company.’
The stranger scanned Aazim from top to toe. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aazim. I’ve heard so much about you from your friend here I feel no introductions are necessary.’
‘Likewise,’ Aazim replied, before they all exchanged pleasantries and shook hands.
‘I know your parents, Aazim. I’m sorry about your mother. She was highly respected by everyone and the tragedy shook all of us at Aust Global Fund.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How is your father? I haven’t heard from him since he resigned.’
‘He’s doing fine,’ Aazim stated, politely indicating a sensitive topic. He noted Sam’s almost intimidating self-confidence; he was undoubtedly a leader, an ambitious man with piercing eyes that seemed to know the contents of one’s soul.
After a few minutes Sam excused himself, promising to meet up with the two friends later so they could discuss the job vacancy.
Aazim took the opportunity to reacquaint himself with his Muslim roots, and as they made their way into the mosque, he took in his surroundings. Taxis were parked outside the building while their drivers, who were of Pakistani, North African or Indian origin, dropped in for their daily prayer and a catch-up chat with friends. The mosque was the size of a suburban church and all the walls were whitewashed. A large entrance took them directly into the dome-shaped hall, which had a high ceiling and a grand chandelier in the middle.
Upon entering, the first thing Rami did was to place a ten-dollar note in a donation box next to the entrance. ‘For good health,’ he explained, and Aazim followed suit.
Splendid carpets with beautifully coloured patterns covered the floor. A number of worshippers crouched on their knees, bowing down in a prayer position with foreheads pressed to the floor. Some preferred a private space of their own while others gathered in groups and prayed in unison. Women were generally allowed in mosques to pray alongside their male counterparts but Aazim did not notice any. It felt to him like a men’s social club where worshippers hung out and talked among themselves. He’d expected to see people wearing white robes, turbans and a lot of facial hair. However, only a handful of worshippers were in such garb and most were dressed casually, maintaining trimmed moustaches or a modern goatee and sideburns.
Assalamu alaikum, or peace be upon you, was the common form of greeting when one Muslim met another. The other person, in turn, would respond with wa alaikum assalam. And on you be peace.
Aazim turned to Rami and said, ‘I’m surprised how many people here know Arabic.’
‘The greeting doesn’t come from any Islamic custom. It’s more of a cultural tradition used by Muslims around the world, like Latin or English is used by Christians,’ Rami explained. ‘People from Arabic backgrounds, for example, have slightly different traditions to those from India or Indonesia, but Arabic is a binding language and that of the Quran.’
He led Aazim through a door at the back of the building that took them outside the mosque and into an adjoining room that was smaller and more intimate. Before they were allowed in, Rami whispered something in the ear of the grave-looking man guarding the small room. They sat down in a far-end corner and observed. Everyone was involved in their own conversations and showed no interest in the newcomers. The carpets lacked the colour and extravagance of the main building and the room was bare, save for a few tables covered with religious reading material that was all in Arabic. A group of younger men were sitting on the floor cross-legged, some dressed in traditional robes. They were involved in a debate hosted by an older man positioned in front of them.
‘Who’s that?’ Aazim pointed discreetly at the old man.
‘That’s Hanif. He’s been around for years and he’s a close friend of Sam’s. He serves as a mentor to a lot of the younger worshippers on their path to Islamic teachings.’
Rami directed Aazim’s attention to the cleric, who was dressed in traditional Pakistani garments. Due to the number of different nationalities in the room the debate was conducted in English. Everyone was considered an equal and had a right to voice their opinion. They were discussing the recent case of five Muslim youths who had been jailed for gang-raping a girl in a Sydney suburb. Daily coverage of the incident on television and in newspapers had incited a number of violent attacks on mosques, schools, and individuals dressed in anything resembling Islamic garb. The Islamic Council of New South Wales and prominent religious leaders delivered a statement condemning the youths and distancing themselves from what they called ‘a radical element of our society’. The radical element referred to Sheik El Balagi, who transferred the blame onto ‘indecently dressed women’ and spoke of an ‘understandable lack of restraint’ by the youths.
A young member in the group was particularly infuriated at the media for sensationalising the case and highlighting the youth’s religion. ‘It happens all the time, so why don’t we hear about it in every newspaper and TV channel?’ he asked.
Around the room heads nodded in agreement.
‘We can’t go through airport security without everyone staring at us, our bags are always searched, they ask stupid questions and our women are told to reveal their faces. They think we’re all terrorists and rapists!’ another said.
‘We have more right to be in this country than they do,’ a younger man commented. ‘I came here with a passport and money, and their ancestors were convicts brought on boats. What does that tell you?’
Laughter erupted around the room.
Aazim was taken aback by the anger and frustration written on the young faces. While observing their intense expressions, he couldn’t help but be a little swept up by the energy of the group, especially when the topic of all Arabs being terrorists was raised. It went on and on, and he found himself absorbed in a political banter that was close to his own heart. They were blaming the ‘infidels of the West’ for all the trouble and stagnation in the Arab world, and singling out the United States as the worst perpetrator and the root of all evil.
‘It’s every Muslim’s right and obligation to stand up to them,’ one young man said.
Aazim was curious about the fact that no one mentioned the Australian government, almost as if the walls had ears and no one could be trusted. Someone behind him yelled out the word jihad, which grabbed the attention of the cleric, who raised his hand. Everyone fell silent and listened intently.
His eyes scanning the group, hand rubbing his white beard, the elder asked the men what could be achieved by jihad. ‘There are various forms of jihad, brothers,’ he explained. ‘Do you speak of the struggle in the cause of God? There is no one true meaning I can explain for you to understand such a complicated word.’
Aazim listened intently as the cleric carefully chose and polished his words.
‘Many in the West see it as a call to arms or “jihad by the sword”. This one form is the most glorious but it is much more than that. There is “jihad of the heart and soul”, the inner struggle of good and evil. Another is “jihad by the tongue”, a struggle against evil by means of speech and writing. “Jihad by the pen and knowledge” is a struggle against evil by intellectual means, and the last one, “jihad by the hand”, is a struggle by force. This jihad can be carried out by political means, infiltrating the enemy in furthering the cause of Islam,’ he added.
With those final words the debate was concluded and the crowd slowly dispersed. On their way out the two friends discussed the value of the visit and Rami turned to the subject of the debate. He had observed Aazim’s interest in the topic and decided to delve a little further.
‘What did you think, Az? Did you enjoy the discussion?
‘I understand the anger felt by these guys, but some Muslims contribute to the problems we face instead of fixing them.’
‘I agree. Western companies are invited to our countries by our own governments. They exploit our resources while
we take on their values. We can’t even live together. The Shiites and Sunnis kill each other, the extremists want a theocracy, the moderates want a secular government, the Middle East is a mess, Iraq is holding together by a thread and Afghanistan is still in the middle ages,’ Rami expounded.
Aazim shrugged. ‘No wonder Westerners are scared and confused. I can’t understand it myself.’
‘Westerners are not doing us any favours, Az. TV and newspapers these days show people getting blown up, kidnappings and shooting rampages, and it’s all done by those “crazy Muslims”.’ Rami made a gesture of inverted commas. ‘The other side of Islam is just not interesting enough. No one cares about all the literature, architecture, mathematics and astronomy we gave the world. Instead, bloodshed and reality TV make the highest ratings in this country,’ he added, shaking his head.
They waited around for Sam but he didn’t return. Eventually the two friends decided to call it a night and went their separate ways.
The following day Sam called Rami and passed on his apologies to Aazim. Apparently urgent matters at work had required his immediate attention.
Chapter 2
Aazim went along to the discussions at the mosque for a month after his first introduction to Sam. He did so because of the job offer and as a favour to his friend Rami, but he also found the debates stimulating; the young men there all had such interesting stories to tell. One of them had come from Pakistan and gave a lecture on life in remote regions bordering Afghanistan.
‘The Americans call the Taliban terrorists – does that mean the man cutting your hair is a terrorist? If that’s so then the man fixing your shoes is one too, and the tailor and the goat-herder and the butcher and his children, yet they don’t all carry a weapon. They’re all Taliban and they practise the strictest interpretation of sharia law, the truest form. The Americans, my friends, will never win the war. They’re not fighting terrorists but ordinary people who are willing to die for Islam.’
The man had spoken with passion; he was one of many who contributed to the fiery atmosphere.
‘How do we get rid of the invaders?’ someone called out.
‘Give me a Kalashnikov, brother, and I will show you the answer!’ the Pakistani had replied.
There was a murmur of voices and gleaming faces nodded.
‘If I forced myself into your home and told you how to run your house would you get down on your knees and obey your master like a good dog?’ the man asked.
Rami looked at Aazim and saw a frown on his friend’s face. ‘You don’t agree?’ he asked curiously.
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Aazim replied.
‘Islam is a submission to Allah and it’s what makes us Muslims. The Taliban fight to keep their way of life, which they believe is the true practice of Islam. They won’t submit to anyone, and invaders have come and gone many times before,’ Rami explained.
‘I can’t relate to these people in Afghanistan, it’s not my fight,’ Aazim said.
‘Isn’t it? The hit-and-run driver that killed your mother, didn’t the police say it was a hate crime?’ Rami persisted.
‘They suspect it may have been. What’re you saying?’ Aazim asked defensively, pained to be reminded of his mother.
‘Hasn’t the fight come to you? Many in this country despise us,’ Rami said.
Aazim shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t like the ignorance and attacks against Muslims but I’m not about to buy a Kalashnikov.’
‘What is it you think you’ll find here at the mosque?’
Aazim searched for words. ‘I guess I just came to learn more.’
‘About what?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why now? What is it you expect to learn?’ Rami prodded.
‘I don’t know, Rami,’ Aazim said, his voice rising in anger.
‘What do you feel when you come here?’
‘Why are you asking me all this? I’m not happy, okay?’ He stared at Rami, his eyes welling up. ‘I need to understand what’s happening in my life. I had a relationship with a girl that fell apart and I don’t know why my mother was brutally killed and I can’t even speak to my father about it.’
‘It’s normal to feel lost, Az,’ Rami said, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Many of us here have felt like that.’
‘Why was she killed?’ Aazim sobbed quietly.
‘I know you hurt, brother, and your faith can help heal your pain. Open your heart and surrender your will to the will of the only true god and you will learn your place in this world so you may ensure it in the next one. We, these people here, can help you get there. I know you miss your mother and I’m here for you as a friend and a brother. Here you will find a family you can draw strength from and find your answers. You will learn how to deal with it.’
Aazim gave him a sincere smile. ‘Thanks, Cookie Man. Thanks for being there for me.’
They stood up and hugged, then turned their attention back to the debate.
It wasn’t long before the job prospect, which had initially drawn Aazim to the mosque, became irrelevant. He continued to attend because the debates and prayers had become consoling, and because he enjoyed the camaraderie with his fellow Muslims. One evening as he turned to Rami for a quick goodbye he caught sight of Sam sitting on his own, looking over in his direction. Sam gave him a smile and gestured towards the exit door. Aazim headed for the car park, where they greeted each other and Sam apologised profusely for failing to appear since their last meeting. No explanation was given but Aazim accepted the man’s apology. They made small talk, commenting on the beautiful warm night as insects buzzed around the street lamps.
‘Do you like this mosque, Aazim?’ Sam asked.
‘Yes, I think it’s beautiful. I especially love the Persian carpets. Each detail seems so precise and perfect.’
‘Ah, but there’s a slight detail you miss,’ Sam said. ‘Every one of those carpets has an intentional flaw in its making. A cut corner or an unfinished edge, just a slight mistake to symbolise that only Allah is perfect.’
‘I never knew that,’ Aazim said, not hiding his surprise. ‘There’s a lot I don’t know about Islam, I must admit.’
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place to learn. This is not just a mosque but a house of knowledge. Then again, this house can only be as great as the people inside it.’ Sam smiled and looked Aazim in the eye, as if waiting for a response.
‘I’m amazed how organised everything seems to be,’ Aazim said. ‘Everyone knows their place and the order of things.’
‘Knowing our place in the world is paramount to our survival. Without it we might as well be animals,’ Sam said. Car engines started up as worshippers began to leave the mosque. ‘You’ve been sitting in those debates for some time now. Have you found your place?’
Aazim wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘You’ve been watching me?’ he asked, feeling a little uncomfortable.
Sam smiled, his white teeth gleaming under the lights. ‘I’m afraid I’m too busy for that. Your friend Rami has been sharing his excitement at having you with him. He speaks rather highly of you.’
‘Yeah, just don’t touch his cookies and you’re his friend for life.’ They laughed. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure what to think. I mean, I do understand what they’re saying, but as you said yourself, the world is changing and it’s become a lot more complicated.’
‘Things are only as complicated as you allow them to be,’ Sam said quickly. ‘You make decisions in your life every day, from the time you get up in the morning until you go to bed. There is no right or wrong decision, only choices.’
‘I guess you could put it that way,’ Aazim conceded. He hadn’t expected such a deep insight from this man he hardly knew.
Sam continued. ‘What I mean is, you can make a choice to lead an ordinary life and be one more drop in the stream, or you can be the stream. Anyway, how about we have a chat about the job? I understand you have a bachelor’s degree in computer systems
engineering.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
They discussed Aust Global Fund and the job vacancy, exchanging information about each other’s expectations and other technical details. When Aazim outlined his employment experience Sam explained that the job involved maintenance of computer hardware and applications backup of customer accounts. He stressed the need for enforcing tight security. Naturally, if Aazim was still interested, another meeting would be held at his office and a confidentiality agreement contract would be drawn up. There was no mention of any other interviews or candidates; subtle but intentional hints told Aazim the job was already his.
That night when Aazim told Ilias about the job in Aust Global Fund he was bewildered by his father’s reaction.
‘What’s wrong with your current job?’ Ilias objected.
‘I’m not happy where I am and this is a great opportunity, Aba. But I don’t get it. You and Mum both worked there, so why are you so against me taking this new job?’
‘Things have changed and the company is not the same,’ Ilias tried, wishing he could find a credible reason to dissuade his son from working at Aust Global Fund. But he knew his argument was weak, and his suspicions about Sam could never be spoken.
‘What’s changed? From what I know they run a solid ship and profits are on the rise.’
‘Please, look for a job elsewhere and promise me you won’t take this,’ Ilias said, his voice straining with tension.
‘No, I won’t promise,’ Aazim countered. ‘Why are you acting like this?’
‘Just do it, Aazim. I don’t want you working there and that’s it,’ Ilias snapped.
‘I need this and I owe it to my friend. I don’t know what’s got into you. I’ll do what I think is right for me.’ Aazim rose from the dinner table and left his father to ponder over the remains of the meal.
What is Sam up to? Ilias wondered. The thought of his son being within Sam’s reach was hard to take. He pushed his plate aside and walked over to Aazim’s room, knocked on the door and entered.
THE BROTHERHOOD Page 2