Silent Minaret

by Shukri, Ishtiyaq

  Yes. It’s me. I am Salahuddin.

  Kagiso looks at the time: 4am. South Africa is one hour ahead. He has made up his mind. “We’ll deal with the consequences,” he says to himself. He wants to communicate his decision, to make it real.

  “Call a little later...? Fuck it.” He switches on his phone. “I’ll give the bully a wakeup call. He’ll be annoyed, but he’ll like the news.”

  “Hello.”

  “Lerato, it’s Kagiso.”

  “Hey, man. You back?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “How’s it going up there? Any... um... news?”

  “No... Listen, I’m sorry to wake you, but I wanted to say, you were right. We should have left. I’m sorry.”

  “Ja well, it’s done now.”

  “No. No, it’s not done. I’ve decided. When I get back, we’ll pull out of the agreement.”

  “Hey man, that’s gonna cause shit. We’ve already signed.”

  “It would have caused shit if we hadn’t.”

  “That’s true. So what we gonna do?”

  “Find another narrator.”

  “Who?”

  “Lindiwe. You think she’ll reconsider us?”

  “I don’t know about that, hey. You want me to call her?”

  “Yes. And tell Farida too.”

  “Sure. But what if Lindiwe won’t come back?”

  “Then we’ll have to sort out something, because you were right. Why should we be bullied into having our history narrated by old white men?”

  Missing Persons

  “MARGARET WILL BE WITH YOU in just a moment,” the receptionist says. “Please, take a seat.”

  On the table in the reception area is a pile of brochures. Vasinthe is familiar with them; she’d received a copy in the post that morning. “Read this,” she says to Katinka, pointing at an inside page:

  About 210,000 people are reported missing in the UK each year. The vast majority return safe and sound within 72 hours, but thousands do not.

  Males in their late twenties are more likely to disappear than any other group of adults.

  Adults are more likely to go missing if they are going through a crisis or a difficult transition, or if they are vulnerable due to chronic difficulties.

  State agencies such as the police are sometimes unable to help, leaving the National Missing Persons Helpline to fill the gap.

  Katinka, forgetting her reserve, instinctively takes Vasinthe by the hand. Vasinthe doesn’t object; she re-establishes the contact once they are seated in an intimate cluster of three chairs in Margaret’s office.

  “Thank you for seeing us in person, and at such short notice,” Vasinthe starts bowing her head. The gesture surprises Katinka, and Vasinthe too; she does not know where it came from, feels suddenly taken over by body language more akin to her half-remembered grandmother. “I do appreciate it,” she continues, “am aware that it’s not your normal procedure.

  Margaret, touched by the elegant gesture, finds herself bowing too. “You’re welcome,” she smiles. “Some cases require exception. Issa is foreign and you are returning to South Africa tomorrow. Under the circumstances, we felt this the most conducive way of proceeding. And we hope it will make your journey back to Johannesburg a little easier.” She reaches for an already open file close at hand. “We’ve started compiling a preliminary profile for Issa based on the telephone conversation we had yesterday. Once we’ve finalised it, we can start publicising. I’ll also need to get the specifics from you to complete this poster for circulation.” She lays the incomplete poster out in front of them:

  “It’s our standard poster,” Margaret explains. Our contact details are at the bottom and,” pointing at the empty rectangle, “his picture will go here. Did you bring the photographs?”

  “Yes,” Katinka says, sitting up in her seat. Vasinthe lets go of her hand while she retrieves the envelope.

  “A good-looking lad, isn’t he?” Margaret acknowledges, looking up at Vasinthe.

  Vasinthe’s mouth smiles to acknowledge the compliment, but her eyes, fixed on the upside-down image of her son, remain void.

  Margaret looks at Katinka. “When were these taken?” she asks.

  “In December. Just before Christmas.”

  “So,” she looks up to the ceiling and counts the months quickly on her fingers, “nearly five months ago?”

  “Yes,” Katinka replies.

  Margaret makes a note of the date on the back of the photographs, then gathers them neatly so that the corners are aligned. “Let’s hope they do the trick. People always tend to notice a pretty face, don’t they?” she says optimistically.

  Margaret does not close the file, only sets it aside, Issa’sphotogenic image looming, like an invigilator, in the room. “We’ll return to the details in a moment. Do you have any questions, any more information, before we do?”

  Vasinthe does not hesitate. “It doesn’t look good, does it?”

  Margaret changes her seating position. “Well,” she starts, her eyes moving from Vasinthe to Katinka to Issa’s face staring up at the ceiling.

  Vasinthe interrupts. “Before we continue,” she says. “Maybe it would help if I told you that I’m often in the position you’re in now, of having to put a bad scenario to anxious loved ones.”

  Margaret leans back in her chair. Her shoulders drop.

  “Straight talk isn’t easy,” Vasinthe continues, “and it sounds cruel. But I think false hope is even more so. Please, be frank.”

  Margaret releases a nervous laugh. “Thank you, that certainly does help.” She crosses her legs the other way. “Obviously, as I explained on the phone, we don’t anticipate outcomes on the basis of statistics and although there are patterns, we treat each case as individual and unique. But,” she turns her palms to face the ceiling, “Issa’s case, even with the little we know, is consistent with the majority of cases involving young men of his age. They are by far the most prone to going missing and, I should add, are usually only found when they wish to be. Now,” she leans forward to tap the photographs of Issa on the table, “if we add to this scenario the fact that he is a foreigner, then his circumstances become more urgent.”

  “And why is that?” Vasinthe asks, sternly.

  Margaret sits back and clasps her hands in her lap. “Simply put, xenophobia. Immigrant communities, especially young men, often experience a sense of social isolation and exclusion, which can be very traumatic.”

  “But Issa wasn’t destitute,” Vasinthe protests. Margaret listens patiently while Vasinthe elaborates on her son’s academic success, her eyes moving discreetly over the fine clothes, the expensive shoes, the earrings – diamonds, surely – the meticulous manicure. “It’s not as though he didn’t have options,” she hears Vasinthe say in her commanding tone. She does not sound to Margaret, typically South African.

  When Vasinthe has finished, Margaret responds, finding it necessary to address her by title and name. “Mrs Kumar,” she says, but then immediately doubts herself. Her only encounter with the name is a sitcom and a quick glance at Issa’s details confirms that he is Shamsuddin. She cringes at her potentially embarrassing slip. “I’m sorry,” she says, blushing. “It is Kumar, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Vasinthe nods, bracing herself for the stock response: ‘Like the sitcom?’ She cannot bear the programme, the grotesquely stereotypical family, the dirty little grandmother, the annoyingly marriageable son; she cannot recognise herself in any of them. ‘No,’ she usually retorts, whenever the reference arises, ‘Not at all like the sitcom. Not all Indians are clowns and I rarely make people laugh.’ “Shamsuddin,” she explains to Margaret, “is his father’s name. But please call me Vasinthe.”

  “I see,” Margaret nods, relieved. “Vasinthe, we strive to be a non-judgemental organisation and in our experience, professional attainment does not always act as surety against vulnerability. We have solicitors, teachers, people like yourselves,” she says, gesturing to the two women, “banker
s, judges, successful people, who, for whatever reason, have walked out of their lives. And a small minority of them will probably never return.”

  Vasinthe looks perplexed. “So you mean that this drastic action on Issa’s part may have been prompted by some sense of social alienation. Would that explain it?”

  Margaret shakes her head pleadingly. “I only raise social isolation as a possible motive.” Then she leans forward, elbows on knees, to appeal to Vasinthe. “You know, straight talk and honest assessment is laudable, but as Issa’s case worker, I don’t want us to obsess about the negatives and lose sight of the possibility of a positive outcome. As a charity, we have a seventy percent success rate in reuniting missing persons with their families, most often, within a short period of time. But even in more rare long-term cases, we always believe that there is hope. That is why we are here. And until the day of reunion, however near or far, our role is to plough every available resource ceaselessly into making that reunion possible, and into offering unconditional support for as long and as often as it is required until that day comes.” She turns to include Katinka. “Now it’s still early days with Issa, and hopefully, he will be found soon, but in the meantime, we cannot allow ourselves to become defeatist. The hardest thing to come to terms with in cases like Issa’s is that we just don’t know. Only Issa can explain. We, unfortunately, are left with the agonising uncertainty, the self-reproach. Some people leave notes. Others, sometimes months, sometimes years later, communicate with their families in person or via this organisation. Issa hasn’t yet done any of these things, as we hope he will. In the meantime, who knows what may have motivated him? To speculate and dwell on worst-case scenarios is counter-productive and very wearying in these early days.” She looks to both women for a response before continuing.

  Nothing.

  “Now, about the possible political motivations which you raised on the phone.” They rejuvenate their attention. “We see instances of politically motivated disappearances all the time, many with far more evidence as to motive than Issa’s. It is true that young Muslim and Asian men feel singled out at the moment and the area of London where Issa was resident has been particularly targeted and affected by a range of worrying manifestations, but to conclude that that is what motivated Issa, is speculation. And we cannot judge. We simply don’t know what may have motivated him to leave, and it would be dangerous, both for Issa and ourselves, to construct hypothetical reasons, reasons that might stick or possibly pre-empt any future outcomes. The truth lies with Issa.”

  Vasinthe looks down at her feet. “If he was so unhappy,” she says, her voice quavering, “why didn’t he just come home?”

  Margaret starts to respond but Vasinthe releases her hand hurriedly from Katinka’s. She makes tentative eye contact with Margaret: “I’m sorry. Would you excuse me for a moment please?” She makes to rise.

  “No, please.” Margaret jumps up from her seat and gestures to her to remain seated. “You stay. I’ll get us something to drink. Then we’ll finalise his profile and I’ll talk you through the support structures we provide for family and friends. Tea? Coffee?”

  She has been sitting on a secluded step by the river, watching its murky water rise and rise. She came to sit for a while in the evening, but it is night now; the sun has long since set and the walkway beside the river is deserted. She wants to leave, has wanted to for several hours, but feels too weighed down to get up. So she sits.

  If she does not move away, the river will soon engulf her, the water already at her feet. It will rise quickly to her waist, her chest, her shoulders, then, splash splash, up her nose and above her head.

  For a while she will panic, but not for long. Soon she will be overcome by calm. She will feel herself becoming buoyant as the river tries to pluck her barnacled sorrow from the sunken step.

  And then, with a tug, the river will take her and pull her down. She will offer no resistance, let the river roll her over, caress her gently.

  When she closes her eyes and rests her head on the dark black tide, the river will take her gently down to sleep.

  Finsbury Park Mosque

  “OF COURSE, YOU MAY,” Frances says, offering him the packet.

  When he has settled back into the deck chair, she continues. “The last vivid memory I have of him is out here on the roof, standing by the wall over there, and staring over at the mosque. It was during the early hours of Monday morning, January 20th. There’s nothing particular or distinctive after that – just a slow turning down of the volume over the dark weeks and months that followed. Until one day there was only silence.

  “I’d had neither sight nor sound of him all weekend, so I had no idea whether he was down there or not. I’d seen him only once the previous week when he brought me back some milk – I had become a bit embarrassed to knock twice and only did so when I was really desperate. But I thought it best to keep up some form of contact from time to time.

  “In the wee hours of that Monday morning, I was woken up in the middle of the night by helicopters, flying really low. It sounded as though they were flying right above my roof. I got out of bed and walked over to the window, but I couldn’t see anything from that angle. So I came out here. That was when I saw them, two police helicopters flying directly over the mosque, with spotlights trained on the building, just there. The noise was deafening.

  “It was obvious that something serious must have happened, so I went downstairs to see if he was there. I had to knock a few times...”

  “Come to the roof, quick,” she orders, when he opens the door.

  He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, cocks his ears, then looks at her. She steps aside. He doesn’t turn back for clothes, but scales the staircase ahead of her.

  She follows him to the roof. He seems oblivious to the cold. She has brought a blanket to wrap around his nakedness, but he doesn’t notice. He just stares through the helicopters hovering threateningly above, and into flashes of the past, a Trojan horse, a university corridor...

  It was the first day of Ramadan. When the shots rang out, most turned to run. He was at the head of the demonstration with the other organisers. They hadn’t taken the shots seriously. Nor the initial advance from their usual positions across Modderdam Road and up to the gates. Scare tactics, they thought. Didn’t imagine that they would actually cross the boundary and enter the campus. So they stood their ground. But then the casspirs revved and roared, and rolled in.

  It was Robbie and Coline who grabbed him by the arms, turned him round, thrust him forward and forced him to run. “Admin!” they shouted. “Run for Admin!”

  They leap and duck and dive through the mayhem left in the wake of the retreating protestors. They reach the square outside the overcrowded administration building just in time to see its doors being forced shut against the swelling crowd. The library, to the right, has already been sealed. They get caught up in the desperate crush into the Union.

  The throng inside rolls in cascades of mayhem and confusion. He loses the others. Think! Think! But he can’t think. Just can’t think. Behind him, furious batons start to rise and fall, rise and fall. Can’t get beaten. Won’t be dragged away. But what to do? If not that, then what? Get to the grass patch outside. The car’s not far. Can hide in the car. He clamours over shouting heads and tables and shoulders and pool tables. Outside. Now, breathe! Then find the car.

  The grass patch fills in seconds with the overflow from the Union. And then, the unmistakable sound of propellers. But where? They search the clear blue sky. Where?

  And then – Fucking hell – Hollywood Vietnam descends into view from over the Union building. A blind spot, disorienting approach from behind; police hang out of helicopter, balanced on the landing rail, but not to lift them all to safety, guns at the ready, aimed at the crowd. Most fall to the ground in fear, covering their heads with flailing arms.

  “En in die heilige pwasa!” the girl next to him exclaims. She pulls her scarf across her face, collapses to her knees and gi
ves up.

  History! He grabs the panicked girl and runs through the parking lot towards English. Not! They’re already beating and dragging away from outside the building. Quick u-turn. Round the other way. There are trees in the back, and the little herb garden. They crouch.

  Is jy ok?

  “Ja. Waan toe nou?”

  History. Jy nog met my?

  “Ja. Together we stand!”

  Gereed?

  “Ja.”

  He peers over the fragrant shrubs. She adjusts her scarf The path seems clear.

  Kom.

  They break through the hedge, and run. He knows the route well. He can’t be distracted. Can’t be panicked. Blind trust. He closes his eyes, tightens his grip on the girl’s hand and increases their pace.

  Should be nearly there, nearly there now. In five, leap, four, leap, three, leap, two, leap, one. Open eyes.

  They slam through the glass doors and into History.

  “Alhamdullilah!”

  Jy okay?

  “Ja.”

  He looks around. You’re on my turf now, you fuckers. Catch me if you can.

  Not far now. Just down here. Kom.

  They run down the deserted corridor, and then down the next. The senior reading room is just at the end. He has a key. Once inside, they’ll be safe. There are doors, and there are doors, and shelves and shelves, and books and books, and he knows them all, well. He can run rings around them in there. Get them lost. Drive them crazy. But then he hears. They stop to listen. Fuck. The unmistakable sound of boots has entered the building.

  Sister. Take off your shoes. This is it.

  He kicks off his own and gets the key from his pocket. It usually catches and niggles in the lock, but not if you get it just so. They slide on socks towards the door. The boots get louder. He replays the just so technique in his head. Issa, you miss, you lose. You miss, she loses. What the fuck were you thinking about anyway when you dragged her into this? Out there she may have stood a chance of getting lost in the crowd. In here, with you, she’ll be taken with a prime suspect. So you don’t miss. You owe it to her. He holds the key to the lock. In a few more paces the boots will turn the corner. The girl breathes heavily. She looks nervously down the corridor. He slides the key into the lock. First notch, slot. Boots. Second notch, slot. Boots. Third notch, slot. Boots. Now, turn! His eyes squint in concentration. The girl holds her breath. Boots. His whole body turns with the key. Click click. Boots. Khulja Simsim? Open Sesame?