by Rafik Schami
Josef looked in astonishment at Farid, who had a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting into laughter.
The scholar provided all these questions with answers that appeared in all seriousness to be giving religion a modern face and yet keep it Islamic, but there was no way of sitting through too much of this. After quarter of an hour, the two friends quietly left the hall.
222. Munir’s Father
If you didn’t know Munir well you would have thought he was a Swede or a Dane, for he was blond and blue-eyed. But he was born in a village on the Euphrates, a long way from Europe.
His parents, however, had been living in Damascus for over twenty years, not far from the French hospital. They owned the biggest bakery in the Christian quarter. Munir was studying mathematics. He was far too down to earth and rational to be religious, but in the Middle East religion is more than just your faith, it is a part of your cultural identity. The overwhelming majority of students of the natural sciences were Muslims. When Munir found out that Farid came from Mala he was pleased to know another member of the Christian minority, and from the first called him “my cousin”.
One day he came into the cafeteria when their fellow students happened to be telling jokes about their parents’ generation, which still wasn’t politicized in spite of the turmoil in the Middle East. Munir didn’t like that.
“It wouldn’t be exaggerating to describe my father as the best-read baker in Damascus,” he said. “Bakers have a tough life. They wake up when everyone else is still fast asleep, and then they have to go to bed just as the evening’s getting interesting. Day in, day out, seven days a week. But my father wasn’t going to give up reading every evening, writing down wise things, putting them in order, and he was proud that he could recite them without making any mistakes.
“Three of his customers in particular noticed: a communist lawyer, a nationalist teacher, and a third man called Khalid, who worked in a bank. Khalid’s political affiliation? Well, for the sake of simplicity let’s say it was liberal.
“The three of them admired my father and listened to him when he spoke of the mood among the people. His bakery was large, and made two tons of flour into bread every day. Anyone who serves so many customers, day after day, can tell exactly how people are feeling.
“Of the three men, the communist was the cleverest, the nationalist the hardest. What about the liberal? For the sake of simplicity, let’s say he was the most astute.
“My father liked the lawyer best. As a communist from a distinguished family, he often visited my father, a baker from a rich family of bakers, and they always argued about the role of property. My mother liked the lawyer, but she didn’t believe a word he said.
“My paternal grandmother couldn’t stand the lawyer, and tried to warn my father of the dangers of communism, but he soothed her, saying that the lawyer, who was among the leaders of his Party, had assured him that under communism the property of bakers wouldn’t be touched.
“When the communists were persecuted, Father was asked to hide some important documents, Party papers, and a number of red flags with the hammer and sickle on them. The lawyer disappeared. He wouldn’t hide with us, presumably for fear of my grandmother.
‘But I am always with you in spirit, fighting with you against dictatorship,’ Father read out from his friend’s letter to us all. ‘A communist is the first to set to work and to be martyred, the last to sit down and eat.’
“Tears rose to my father’s eyes at these words, and his mother had to bite her tongue to keep from making sharp remarks about communists. She knew her son, who wouldn’t hurt a fly except when he turned sentimental, and then he was unpredictable and everyone took care not to cross him.
“A week later, to his horror, my father heard the lawyer’s voice on the radio. In trying to tune into the BBC station broadcasting in Arabic from London – he always liked to listen to the news on it, to find out what was going on in Damascus – he had chanced upon the Voice of Moscow wavelength. We were sitting at supper, and my father, stunned, let his bread drop on his plate. It wasn’t words his friend was spewing out, it was revolutionary lava. He was calling – from Moscow! – for the people of Damascus to rise and rebel.
“My grandmother’s hour had come. She cursed the traitor and his roots in an Orthodox family that not only fought bitterly against our Catholic Church, but had also produced such a vile man, one who could think of nothing better to do than urge people to commit suicide while he sat safely in Russia. Grandmother emphasized the word ‘Russia’ with all the hatred of a fanatical Catholic for the Russian Orthodox Church, which to her was the incarnation of all evil. My grandmother never recognized the existence of the Soviet Union.
“Soon Moscow was exerting pressure on Damascus, and the persecution of communists began. Khalid Malis, the Secretary General of the Party, and his leadership came back from Moscow and – no doubt for tactical reasons – praised the same government for whose overthrow they had been calling a couple of days ago.
“The lawyer came back to our bakery, and tried explaining to my father, with many clever words, how his flight, his talk on the radio, and his return were to be understood.
“Father’s face was grey as ashes. ‘But I, unfortunately, can’t get out of the country with my bakery, my wife, my six children and my mother.’ From that day on Father never read another word written by a communist.”
If anyone else had told this story Farid would have been indignant, but he believed it when it came from Munir.
“My father’s friendship with the nationalist teacher,” Munir continued his story, “didn’t last long. Father admired the man’s courage and energy, but as we’re Assyrians a time soon came when he could no longer bear the rise of Arab nationalism, which was getting stronger and stronger and had the teacher too under its spell. The radio spouted nationalist stuff, nationalist slogans screamed from the walls, and great banners waved in the sky praising the Fatherland in giant letters.
“When the teacher tried convincing my father that all Syrian citizens were Arabs even if they didn’t know it or didn’t want it, he exploded. “The caliphs, a thousand years ago, had a better idea of it than you. They didn’t force the Aramaians or the Jews or the Persians to be Arabs, or the Spanish or the Kurds.”
“The man rose, looking injured, and left. After that day he bought his bread from our rivals, and my father ignored all five nationalist parties.
“His third friend, Safi Khalid, worked in a bank, as I was saying, and described himself as liberal. He often visited, and my grandmother liked him because he was so courteous. My mother, on the other hand, couldn’t stand him. ‘A chameleon,’ she would say quietly when he arrived. My father didn’t let her dislike influence him. ‘Your mother and mine have made a secret pact never to agree with each other,’ he said, winking at me.
“When Safi was persecuted for his politics he took shelter with us. We gave him food, and I was supposed to go and buy him the newspaper every day. But as my family had never before bought a daily paper the informer in our street would have noticed, so I had to go a long way to a news stand to buy the paper, and smuggle it home in a bag.
‘When I’m a minister, which I hope will be soon, I’ll never forget your sacrifices for me,’ Safi told my father one evening, and once again my grandmother was moved to tears.
“Father acted very noble. ‘There’s no need to reward me. My bakery gives me enough, but I’d be grateful if you still share my opinion on the human situation then.’
‘You can be sure I will, every day. It’s your voice that I’ll always want to hear.’
‘And how is he going to get in touch with you when you’re a minister?’ asked my mother suspiciously. The liberal knew as well as she did that our ministers are surrounded by secret service men and bodyguards, and no one can get at them for purposes either good or bad.
‘You’re right,’ he said, confirming her doubts. ‘You’d better stand outside your bakery, my friend, and when I
drive past I’ll stop, embrace you in front of everyone, drink tea with you and listen to what you have to say in praise or blame of the regime.’
“My mother had to own herself defeated, and put up with her mother-in-law’s triumph.
“After the next coup, Safi was promoted straight from his hiding place with us to a ministerial post. So from now on my father placed an apprentice on watch at our door, and when the lad saw the motorized police on the third day he shouted, ‘Here he comes, here he comes!’
“That was the sign. My father and his employees dropped everything and ran out, waving to the minister, but the black limousine drove on. My mother’s triumph knew no bounds.
“Times were troubled then. The minister fell from favour after only three months, and was immediately declared an enemy of the people. ‘Why didn’t you wave?’ asked the surprised liberal when my father accused him of breaking his word. And he asked my father to wave harder if he, Safi, ever got to be minister again soon. Meanwhile he hid with us once more, and we had to feed him for three months. My father had an arch of little coloured lights put up around the display window, and a red arrow of neon lighting hanging in the middle of the street showed clearly where the bakery was. So when the once-toppled liberal was able to take his place at the magnificent ministerial desk again, my father and all his staff stood outside the door in white coats waving and waving to the minister as he drove by in his limousine. Even the little lights seemed to be winking too. But Safi appeared to have gone blind.
“When my father told this story at home my mother was furious, and swore to leave the house once and for all if that ungrateful, slimy slug was ever welcomed to it as a guest again, if only for a second. My father waved at the black limousine for twenty-two days on end. Without success. Then, an embittered man, he had the coloured lights and the neon arrow taken down. He aged by years that day.
“Soon after that, the liberal lost his job again, let’s say for the sake of simplicity it was for crooked arms dealing. Two days later he appeared at the bakery, all muffled up, said there was a big conspiracy behind it, he’d soon be rehabilitated, for a very short time he just needed… My father looked right through him. ‘Next, please,’ he said, and turned to his customers.
“Since that day my father hasn’t wanted to know any more about any political parties.”
223. Paradise
General Kabdan, who overthrew President Mutamiran at the end of 1964, hated the fundamentalists and had them tortured and killed. Murtada, a nineteen-year-old Islamist, lobbed a hand grenade at General Kabdan, but it went off only after some delay. The President was already at a safe distance when it exploded, so the detonation threw him to the ground, but apart from the weight of his muscular bodyguard on top of him he suffered no harm. The would-be assassin, however, was hit by a splinter in his forehead and fell unconscious. When he returned to his senses he was lying in a white bed and four women, also in white, were looking at him. He thought he was in Paradise and the women were the houris, the promised nymphs with their immortal charms whom, so his sheikh had told him, he could deflower daily, and as soon as his prick came out of them their virginity would be restored.
“You made it, Murtada,” he told himself loudly, because his hearing was still affected by the detonation. “It was all true.” And just to increase his happiness yet more he asked if the women would take him out and show him the rivers flowing with milk and honey, because all these years, somehow, it hadn’t been quite clear to him exactly how honey could flow like water, or why the milk didn’t turn sour in the sun. The houris looked at each other and chuckled. Their laughter sounded like Paradise too.
“What milk?” asked the eldest nymph. “What honey?” She wasn’t twenty-five yet, and she had sensuous lips and full breasts. Murtada longed to lay his head between them.
“There’s a stream somewhere around here,” she said, “but it’s dried up now in summer, and the garbage in it stinks to high heaven.” That sounded to him very earthly.
“You’re in Mazzeh military hospital,” said the second nymph. He suddenly noticed the iron bars over the window. And for the first time Murtada understood that there are worse things in life than death.
BOOK OF GROWTH IV
A dictator lives not on earth but in his head.
DAMASCUS, 1965 – 1968
224. The Problem of Brothers
In the middle of July 1965, a month after General Baidan’s perfidious coup against his own party comrade President Kabdan, Josef and Farid received the diplomas qualifying them to work as teachers. They had both had to wait two years longer than their former fellow students, Farid because of his imprisonment, Josef simply because he was in no hurry to qualify. He was busy with a thousand other activities, was better known in the university than many of the lecturers, and spent more time in the cafeteria than the lecture hall. He could afford this delay because, like Farid, he hadn’t had to do two years’ military service; a man who was an only child wasn’t drafted into the army, and instead his family just had to pay a fee amounting to a private soldier’s pay for two years’ service, which didn’t come to much. In making this regulation the state had acknowledged the wish of clans to protect their sons and heirs. As women, Josef’s sisters didn’t count, because once they married they would be contributing only to their husbands’ bloodlines.
A little while before receiving his diploma, Josef had met a woman who interested him. It was the first time he had felt any such attraction in the five years since the sad story of Fatima. Nadia Markos was fascinated by him, for he had something to say on any subject, and what he said was often very cogent.
Her parents were from an old family of Damascene craftsmen who set great store by tradition. That irritated Josef, but Nadia thought the world of her mother and father. And before a month was up she told him they’d like him to be engaged to her, or he couldn’t meet her any more. Josef laughed at that, since he could move about the university as he liked with Nadia every day, and he called this threat a paper tiger.
But two weeks later Nadia told him the bad news: three rich cousins had asked for her hand in marriage. She’d close her eyes to their limousines and their villas, but Josef must act fast and get engaged to her, or she wouldn’t be able to give her parents any reason for turning her cousins down. And from now on, she said, she wouldn’t be allowed to go to the university except in her youngest brother’s company.
He half-heartedly agreed, and soon he was engaged. But he had insisted that they didn’t want a big party. They’d keep it to the two families and Farid, whom he described as “my brother by other parents”.
Farid himself thought the Markos family tedious, but it was a good party. The only person who seemed out of place was Josef. He somehow looked all wrong in his new suit, and he was so agitated that he couldn’t even propose a toast well. However, his parents felt emotional, and they liked his fiancée.
Nadia had four older brothers and one younger brother, whose name was Girgi. Girgi was just fifteen and dreamed of nothing but driving a Mercedes by the time he was twenty. That was the one idea in his head. “His mouth is a car exhaust,” said Josef of his future brother-in-law, and he wasn’t exaggerating. Girgi’s world was as simple and neatly arranged as his interests. Those who liked cars were his friends, those who did not were his enemies.
Since Josef hated cars, Girgi was bent on finding an opportunity to show his parents that this fiancé of Nadia’s was bad news in more ways than just his unprepossessing outward appearance. At the time engaged couples were never allowed out unsupervised, and this tradition gave him more power than his head could cope with. Since Nadia’s elder brothers were already married and fully occupied with their own affairs, only the youngest, who was also his mother’s favourite, was available for supervision duty, and he took advantage of it. Farid’s advice to Josef to use presents and invitations to get around this guardian of virtue, or persuade him to turn a blind eye, would have worked in ninety-nine percent of such
cases. Girgi was the hundredth.
Josef desperately tried to shake off the shadow sticking to him all the time, but in the end it was Nadia who showed him the only way to do it. “I’m afraid there’s nothing for it,” she sighed, when Girgi had kept them from exchanging a kiss yet again. “We’ll have to get married.”
Next day Josef called Farid. “I need you,” was all he said, in a voice that cracked. When his friend rang the doorbell a little later, Madeleine let him in with visible relief. “You’re a loyal soul, like your mother. Josef is being impossible, shouting at everyone, even me. I don’t know what’s the matter with him. Please tell him he’ll never find another such well-bred, intelligent wife,” she said, patting his cheek and going to the kitchen. Soon she brought them coffee.
Josef was ranting, and Farid listened. Arab society, he raged, hadn’t moved on since the time of the Mongol hordes. Not only had it been mummifying its ancient customs for generations, it taught you to lie and deceive as well. Just as if cities had never been built but we were still living in the desert, the clan was everything and the individual nothing.
“But not an endless nothing,” Farid said, trying to make his friend laugh. It didn’t work. Josef was head over heels in love with Nadia, but he hardly knew her, and their engagement had taken her further from him rather than bringing them closer. More and more often, she struck him as a split personality. With her family she was conformist and docile, at the university she was an enlightened, lively woman.
And now he was to marry in haste just to get rid of her pest of a brother Girgi. “In Europe a couple can be happy or not, live together or part from each other, just as love dictates. Here you get married or divorced for hundreds of different reasons, and none of them has anything to do with love.”