When his hand approached it, the black butterfly flew to a small bookcase by the door. Would it make its way inside a book and re-emerge as Soha?
Just think, Mother, what kind of wasteland we’re living in. A few days ago the Shura Council discussed setting limits on the beating allowed in traditional healing. As easily as that! In other words, it admitted that the beating itself was legal. Just two years ago the Council turned the world on its head when a member, on a whim, proposed a vote on whether to debate a matter so trivial it never deserved debate in the first place: should the Shura Council debate the matter of women drivers, or should it not? Those religious scholars approved beating, which is forbidden by the laws of every land and religion in the world, and because of that your slender, pure body deserved to be flogged to death to exorcise a jinn! Come here, Mother, don’t fly too far. The doors and windows are sealed shut. Come here. Don’t go into the book, I want to talk to you, to tell you of my pain.
This strange country on whose soil we live in fear, at home and in the street, at work and in the car, this strange country, where we never wake without a tremor in our hands or our skin crawling: it ate your heart. It tossed you in the morgue. Wasn’t there something a few days back about an African witch who rode a broomstick black and naked and flew from the second floor to the fourth a Medinan apartment block? Our newspapers printed the story—our glorious press—as if to lend credence to the statements of those moral guardians, the men of the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, who saw witches flying through the air.
At times, Mother, I feel that I am not in the real world, but in a dream or film. I sense some legendary creature seated in the heights, winding the reel of some epic movie, enjoying himself at first, then roaring with laughter and thinking how, when the reel is spent, he will throw it in the bin and go on his way, while we hop about like puppies dumped in deep trenches filled with filth, while in the distance the sound of a vast tractor draws nearer, pushing the dirt to send it heaping over us.
Absent-mindedly he reached out to the cup of cold tea and the black butterfly fluttered abruptly from on top of the bookcase and clung to the mirror. It reminded him of King of the Butterflies, a story he had bought with his father at Jarir Bookstore in Ulaya years before. It told of the ruler of the butterflies who flew from his kingdom to find work for his young butterflies and caterpillars. He alighted on a window at the Fara Palace and was just peeping inside when the heavens thundered and torrential rain poured down. Before the servant could close the window he nipped in. He flew to the bedroom and there he found eternal love. In the mirror he saw a brightly coloured butterfly queen, looking much like himself but slightly smaller. Every time he approached her, she drew closer, too. She was his reflection, no more, and when a sudden bolt of lightening and roar of thunder shattered the mirror, the beautiful queen fled. Downcast, the butterfly king returned and told his subjects, who became convinced that the lightning, that bright light, had swallowed up their queen, and from that day forward butterflies have fluttered around any light they found.
Are you searching for the king who flew from you, my mother, my queen? Is it the fate of kings to hunt for that which might hold their kingdoms firm, until like every king in the world before them, they are swallowed by a light that becomes a burning, all-consuming fire?
In the days that followed Fahd would dwell on that night, the night in which his mother slept in the morgue.
As he lay in bed he saw black butterflies flying around him and after rising to drink cold water from the fridge he dozed and saw himself in a dream, asleep, as ants crawled over his body and face, invaded his ears and mouth, tramped over his closed eyelids until his skin shuddered. He saw himself awake in terror and turn over on his right side. Just before dawn warplanes circled above Mamlaka Tower, directing their bombs and cannon fire towards their little building. As the neighbours fled into the street he searched the roof for Lulua. There was a grey pigeon there, barely able to leave the ground, just sprinting about on scarlet legs. He flicked his hand towards him to make him fly before he could leave a feather on the roof or on his thaub.
–55 –
IT WASN’T JUST FAHD’S mother who was searching for a king. All the tribes were searching for the ancient King of the East, searching for him in order to bring him down and seize his throne, flying on horseback like the wind, brandishing their swords aloft like fate, to pluck the feather from the breast of his dominion, for the feather’s fall means the fall of his kingdom.
Thus have the affairs of feathered countries run their course for long centuries. Thus did the tribe of Ajman tire of the rule of the Bani Khaled and their king Ibn Urai’ar, renouncing their decades-long fealty. The king wished to discipline them and killed twenty of their number, leaving one alive to tell of what had happened. In response, when Ajman came upon seventy of his men, squatting in the desert and peacefully gathering fodder for their horses, they fell upon them and wiped them out, leaving one to tell his king what had happened. Then Ajman came to Radheema in North-Eastern Riyadh, readying themselves for a long war and sounding out the tribes that flocked to join them, for the law of the desert is such that either you attack your neighbour or, if you settle peaceably, you shall be attacked by him.
One tribe stipulated that when Ibn Urai’ar fell they should have Saman and its renowned watering places of Lahaba, Qaraa and Lasafa. A second demanded al-Sharaf, the night-dark she-camel owned by the king, while a third tribe asked for the stallions that stamped the ground like lightning. The last tribe’s condition was that it be granted a feather. No more than a feather from the king’s house. No more than a feather perhaps, but its seizure meant the fall of the king and its transferral to another tribe meant the transferral of pride, prestige and glory. Umm al-Duhour was its name, The Mother of the Ages, because, over the ages, it had ceaselessly conveyed glory from one tribe to another. It was the desert’s plaything: a toy possessed by the blood that watered the desert sands and raised up the boxthorn and acacia shrubs that stand in the blazing noonday heat like hanged men, forever gazing earthwards.
A savage battle swallowed up the horses, camels and men, a battle whose contestants drew no pleasure from that clement March of 1823, its cloudless skies, a daisy growing, enticing and beautiful, a rainfall’s remnant in pits and dips and fissures, the song of a bird that soared aloft into the heart of heaven then fell like a stone, heralding the coming spring. Nothing in this land could trump the gush of fresh blood, no voice could be heard above the clash of swords. There could be no gentle silent nights while the feather was denied its secure, untroubled slumber upon the door of a house where a man, cruel-featured and severe, gazed out each dawn to the horizon, ready for the first speck of dust to rise from the columns of horses stamping the earth and rolling forward with horsemen on their backs whose faith in victory is drowned out only by their panting breaths and the thrum of their wild, untethered pennants in the chill breeze of a restless dawn.
Fahd always wondered what had happened to this country, so completely changed from the land it had been two centuries before: black oil, wide well-lit streets, towering buildings and skyscrapers.
‘Has anything changed here?’
He pointed to his head as he addressed Saeed. It was evening and they were watching yet another television programme on camel dressage and the ‘revitalisation of the tribes’ and their alarming quarrels. Saeed was scornful. ‘They used to put their money on religion and now, after the terrorism and bombings could it be that they’re thinking of a return to the tribe?’
Centuries ago, poems were newsletters, spreading word of a tribe’s heroism and glory. Later neighbourhood walls took on the role, with local kids boasting of their lineage, challenging other tribes with tales of their bravery and magnificent deeds and signing their words with a tribal mark. The tribes entered the age of the Internet and satellite television while their worldview continued to revolve around depredation, murder and kidnap: seizing the fea
ther and bringing the kingdom down.
–56 –
OF THE VILLAGE ITSELF, sleeping in the embrace of the Nafud desert, its tall palms breathing in the bashful breeze, Fahd remembered a funny story his father would tell whenever the discussion turned to the banning of music. It was a story about the wanton wooden door in his grandfather’s house in Muraidasiya which took to squeaking when opened and closed due to rust in one of its hinges, a gentle music to wake people from their afternoon nap.
‘The pipes of al-Safeelawi are playing!’ the old women would cry.
The old man felt compelled to take prompt action to nip the scandal in the bud and considered smearing the hinge in cooking oil to silence the squeak once and for all. It was as though for a century past life out here could not bear to hear any sound save that of speech. Men’s speech, Fahd thought, for a woman’s words were also forbidden.
A century before, the Brotherhood had unsheathed their swords and brandished their iron souls. At Mount Arafat, in poor ragged thaubs and squat white turbans wound about their heads, not one hesitated to wave his sword and utter from his heart, ‘I am a horseman of tawheed! I am a Brother! Enemy of God, show yourself!’ at the vainly prancing Egyptian convoy, led by two buglers with armed horsemen in their wake. No sooner had the trumpets sounded, thundering off Arafat to clear the convoy’s way, than the white-turbaned men descended on the convoy with their glittering swords. One man drew his slender blade and opened up the stomach of a bugler, who stopped his blowing, the trumpet dangling from his mouth and trembling like a thorn tree’s branch. The Egyptian horsemen poured fire on the Bedouin knights until some fell and those who could, fled, weighed down with the sorrow and shame of abandoning the True Word and religion’s victory. Most, however, were content that the Satanic music had been stilled forever, never to return to sacred soil now that relations with Egypt were so irrevocably soured.
Years later, the grandfather would neglect to treat his wanton door.
Three Brothers stopped by carrying thorn tree staffs and knocked upon the massive wooden door to chastise Ali al-Safeelawi for the squeaking hinge which woke all Muraidasiya: a forbidden sound that must be prevented and silenced and if it was not, then Exalted God would pour molten lead into Grandfather Ali’s ears on the Day of Reckoning. As they shook their staffs in his face, Ali’s face grew very pale, not because of their presence or their threats, but because he had been shamed: in the depths of the house his wife was rhythmically rocking little Hissa and mournfully singing,
‘How happily you sing, little pigeon,
Up there on the green palm fronds,
But how sad I’d be for you if Salama found you there,
He’d leave you moaning like he left me,
He broke my bones, may God break his,
See the bruises his staff left on my brow.’
As soon as Ali had come away from the door he gave her kick. ‘Shut up woman! Embarrassing me, like that! May God shame you before His servants!’
The Brothers were unforgiving, ready to oppose any new invention they did not understand. Heresy, they called it—it must be repudiated!—a work of magic and the dark arts that had no place in the House of Islam. To stay silent on the matter would anger God.
From Abdallah Bin Hassan to His Excellency, the Respected and Foremost of Imams, Abdel Rahman Aal Faisal, may God relieve him of all woe and burdens and deliver him from those who seek to deceive him, Amen.
The Peace and Mercy of God and His blessings be always upon you, and with all inquiries after your good health and all due celebration and respect, and hoping that our news may bring you joy in every respect, for which we thank God, we beg leave to inform your Majesty that on the nineteenth day of Shawwal we arrived at Buraida and finding all well by the grace of God, we looked into the meeting between the Brothers and al-Ibn Abdel Aziz on the occasion of his arrival in Buraida. This meeting, however, was postponed on account of matters that the Brothers raised, seeking the response of al-Ibn. To wit: the matter of the telegraph and the cablegram and the matter of the customs offices, all of which they ask be removed after the pilgrimage.
Sheikh Abdullah and Sheikh Omar Aal Saleem sent word to them, explaining that neither they nor the other sheikhs considered these things forbidden. At this the Brothers came to them and spoke frankly, refusing to accept their judgment and stating that either these things are destroyed or the Brothers would take to the Hejaz during the pilgrimage and render it impassable. Fearful of harm befalling Islam, Muslims and the customs houses, al-Ibn, may God grant him peace, responded to their demands and asked them to defer action until the end of Ashoura, when he would decide whether to destroy the customs houses himself or license them to do so in his stead and provide them with assistance.
He then set out conditions which he asked them to pledge to uphold, including that they would not rob any man nor carry out any act in the name of religion or injurious to the sovereign without consulting the sheikhs and their leaders, nor would they take up arms against any of the king’s subjects, Bedouin or townsfolk, without the knowledge and express command of the sovereign. Whosoever disobeyed these conditions would have his case brought before the king, who would take responsibility for disciplining him. Furthermore, they would use neither God’s Book nor the Prophet’s example as justification for their actions until they have consulted the sheikhs and obtained a fatwa. Abdel Aziz Bin Musaaid was sent to them and they pledged to observe these conditions.
Shawwal 28, 1346 A.H
The appearance of the telegraph in the land of the Muslims back in 1928 was a blow to the True Faith and stirred up the Brothers in defence of their religion. The customs houses and guard posts erected along the borders with Iraq sent them flying on their horses, white thaubs and turbans flapping, swords bared, racing the wind that roughly flipped green pennants emblazoned with There is no god but God and Mohammed is His Prophet. They fasted for days and nights, their only sustenance a dried date wetted in parched throats and an unwavering zeal for the religion of God. If necessary they held up peaceful caravans, the passengers’ godlessness beyond dispute.
Concerning the telegraph, this is an innovation of recent times and we know nothing of its true nature. Having seen no pronouncement from the scholars on the subject we withhold judgment, for no man may speak in the name of God or His Prophet without knowledge and to declare something sinful and forbidden requires its true nature to first be understood.
Concerning the mosques of Hamza and Abu Rasheed, the Imam, may God grant him success, has advised us to destroy them immediately.
Concerning secular law, we have noted that it is practiced here and there in the Hejaz and it must cease forthwith, for there shall be no judgment save the rulings of divine law.
Concerning the entry of the Egyptian pilgrims on to God’s sacred soil with arms and military force, the Imam advised us to repel them by force of arms and prevent their displays of polytheism and other abominations.
Concerning the convoy, the Imam advised us to prevent it entering the Grand Mosque and ensure that no man might touch it or kiss it.
‘These people never died,’ a heavily moustachioed Rashed had once said to Saeed in Musafir Café. ‘They’ve just evolved and changed their outer appearance. The man who once wrapped a white turban around his head and accused anyone who wore the aqqal of godlessness is the same fellow who these days wears the thaub that stops midway down his calf and accuses those who wear the long thaub of wantonness, godlessness and hypocrisy!’
Saeed gave a small smile. ‘It’s not that bad,’ he objected. ‘They don’t call someone who lets his thaub down an infidel, they just advise him.’
‘Believe me Saeed, they’re the ones that pull the rope and loosen it. Give them an inch they pull even harder. Can you believe that they cut King Abdul Aziz’s thaub because he let it hang down?’
Saeed gave a loud laugh and said sarcastically, ‘You shouldn’t be so hard on them. They’re brave fellows.’
‘But
don’t you believe that times repeat themselves, that things repeat themselves, even if the names might change? Just think, Saeed. They were fighting the infidel in Iraq, then they got involved with the British at the start of the last century and now they’re doing it all over again. Fighting in Iraq against the Americans and their “dogs” as they call them.’
Saeed shook his head as he attempted to light a cigarette. ‘No, Rashed, you’re mixing things up. There’s a difference between terrorism and jihad. I think the Brotherhood were mujahideen and their intentions were pure.’
Rashed closed the conversation. ‘You’re calling what’s happening in Iraq terrorism, but there are some that call it jihad and others that think of it as resistance and self-defence: the defence of one’s honour and religion!’
A few scant hairs atop his head, Rashed perched on a bar-stool drawing on the shisha’s tube, exhaling rising columns of smoke into the air and directing an unceasing flow of insults against everything around him. Saeed never argued with him, except when he wished to increase his own fund of knowledge. Life here was unbearable, he told his friend. Nothing had changed for a hundred years. Life spun in place. The grandsons of the ones who outlawed the telegraph and the radio had surfaced ten years ago to ban satellite dishes and receivers, and now they themselves were hopping back and forth between the very channels they had denounced: a mufti here, a dream interpreter there, a scholar of the hadith, a scholar of the Qur’an, a preacher, an expert in Islamic women’s issues, and, and, and …
Part 8
Dear Lorca, I stole no olives
The olive tree does not weep and does not laugh.
Mahmoud Darwish: The Butterfly Effect
Where Pigeons Don't Fly Page 28