‘It is only a fine title. The sultan is offering you what he doesn’t possess.’
‘He is anticipating victory.’ Shamil’s voice quickened. ‘If the Ottomans and their allies, Britain and France, launch an attack on Tiflis, I can attack from the east and cut off the Crimean peninsula from the rest of Russia.’
‘If they attack Tiflis …’ His teacher’s voice trailed off and then he started again. ‘Has Queen Victoria replied to your letter?’ Jamal el-Din had written the letter himself for his calligraphy was outstanding, and despite his age, his eyesight was strong. The letter would reach her through the British general-consul in Baghdad, who advocated supplying the mountain tribes with ammunition against the Russians, and was fluent in Arabic. Our resistance is stubborn, Shamil had dictated, but we are obliged, in winter, to send our wives and children far away, to seek safety in the forests where they have nothing, no food, no refuge against the severe cold. Yet we are resigned. It is Allah’s will. He ordained that we should suffer to defend our land. But England must know of this … We beseech you, we urge you, O Queen to bring us aid.
‘No, I have not received a reply.’ Shamil sounded more subdued.
‘Lord Palmerston was working on our side. His opposition to Russia is deep but he is no longer foreign secretary. As home secretary, his influence is reduced.’
‘I fear that the right time has passed,’ said Shamil. ‘That all of Britain’s efforts have sunk into the Crimea.’
Sheikh Jamal el-Din was quiet. He patted his hand on his knees and his head sank deeper into his chest. At first the prayers he was saying were inaudible, but Shamil caught the recitation of the beautiful names of Allah.
When Jamal el-Din finally spoke, he said, ‘I am filled with foreboding about this war in the Crimea. There will be much bloodshed and misery.’
This was a point of disagreement between them; Jamal el-Din the more peaceful of the two, the more eager to reconcile, negotiate and forgive.
Shamil repeated what he always said in these situations. ‘Wars are never won with kindness. If men respected compassion I would have been the first to grant it. But even our own warriors are only in awe of power.’ Nothing was more damaging than the weak Muslims who defected to Russia, who gladly or by force marched with the tsar’s troops. Or they became spies, hypocritically claiming they were on Shamil’s side and then reporting his secrets to the enemy. Or else they deliberately misled him so that he would walk into an ambush or launch an attack based on misinformation. He must always be on his guard, he must take nothing at face value. He must distrust.
‘The world is a carcass and the one who goes after it is a dog,’ Jamal el-Din murmured as if to himself.
‘Men of bad character punish their own souls.’ The leather shoe in Shamil’s hands was becoming darker in colour because of the varnish. Sometimes he was not sure who was the scourge of his life, the Russians or those who betrayed him?
As if reading his mind, Jamal el-Din said, ‘To get what you love, you must first be patient with what you hate.’
Shamil shifted his position so that his back was closer to the wall. ‘You speak the truth.’
‘Was it gunshots that I heard earlier in the afternoon?’ Jamal el-Din turned to look at him.
‘Five prisoners of war attempted to escape by smuggling a letter in a loaf of bread. They gave the loaf to a Jewish peddler and he was carrying it as part of his provisions for the journey. I will not tolerate treachery.’
‘A loaf of bread,’ Jamal el-Din repeated.
His tone made Shamil uneasy. When a prisoner faced his death sentence without flinching, Shamil spared him and gave him his due praise. But those who wept and fought were deprived of his mercy. Was he truly just? There was a hole in the heel where the leather was eroded. He searched the room for the necessary needle and began to mend it.
‘Come with me to Mecca,’ said Jamal el-Din. ‘Let us visit the house of Allah together.’
The words, the prospect had an instant effect on Shamil. He felt light and carefree. ‘Oh what a pleasure that would be, to put down my sword and take off my turban. To become a simple pilgrim dressed in rags chanting, “To you my Lord I come”.’
‘To you my Lord I come,’ Jamal el-Din repeated. ‘So what is holding you back?’
‘My son Jamaleldin …’ The words were heavy on his tongue, his fingers slackened. He felt it on his skin, that tingle of humiliation always associated with this particular defeat, this constant, eroding loss. ‘I wonder sometimes how I am able to sleep at night, to eat, to make my wives smile while my son is worse than dead.’
Jamal el-Din stiffened as he always did when he heard what he disliked.
Shamil continued, ‘I fear that not only is he a hostage but that the infidels have corrupted his soul and taken away his religion.’
‘Malicious gossip.’
‘It has been fifteen years. Fifteen years without my care or guidance. A strong adult might withstand such a trial but he was just a child.’ The sense of injustice was always fresh, never faded or stale. ‘Now on a night like this, I think what is he doing? How can the son of Imam Shamil be unclean and not pray five times a day? Even our language, he must have forgotten it by now.’
Jamal el-Din closed his eyes. ‘There is no strength or might except with Allah.’
Instead of repeating after him, Shamil said, ‘I will get him back. I will return him to Islam.’ For how long has he been saying this and every plan was thwarted, every hope turned to nothing? He had promised Fatima that he would bring her eldest child back to her but he had failed. Nine years ago, as she lay dying, she wept and called for her son and though she did not name him, everyone knew it was not Ghazi or little Muhammad-Sheffi that she wanted.
Shamil was on the battlefield. He had lured the Russians across the mountains, up to ten miles from his stronghold in Dargo. He had been patient, tiring them out as they made their way down the steep descent with their heavy baggage trains and lengthy lines. He had cut off segments of them by blocking the mountain paths with tree trunks and while they figured a way to overcome these barriers or broke into confusion, he sent his horsemen in a full attack or fired at them with hidden sharp-shooters. Disorder broke out as one Russian column after another fell back, low morale set in as the dead piled up and the chants of the Orthodox funeral services merged into one another. Shamil and his men were attacking them from every side and they could now barely resist or fight back. With ammunition and food supplies running low, they remained under siege for several days.
It was then that the news reached him of Fatima’s death. At first Shamil continued as he was, sending one of his men to see to the funeral. He was needed here where his own troops too were worn out and so hungry that they had taken to grilling the corpses of Russian horses. But his naibs urged him to return home and promised that they would, on their own, be able to defeat the besieged enemy. However, no sooner had news of his departure reached the Russian camp than the celebrations started. They banged drums and played their pipes. The following morning they had even more to celebrate. The relief force they had given up hope on finally arrived from the town of Gurzal. But it ended up being a costly, indecisive battle that left both sides entrenched in bitterness. And Shamil was left without Fatima, his link to Jamaleldin, she who kept alive the hope that he would return. Now Shamil was solitary in his memories, for very few liked to speak of his missing son.
He finished cleaning the shoes and broached the subject he had especially come to talk about, ‘Sheikh Jamal el-Din, I seek your permission to appoint my son, Ghazi, as my successor.’
His teacher turned to look at him with questioning eyes as if waiting to hear more.
‘It is unseemly to praise one’s own offspring but the lad has demonstrated courage, horsemanship and skill.’
‘I know,’ Jamal el-Din nodded. ‘Ghazi does not act arrogantly and he has insight and compassion. But you must gather the scholars and the naibs. Let them consider the matter and delibe
rate among themselves. Do not impose your choice upon them.’ He raised his palms up in prayer. ‘Lord, give Ghazi the strength to promote Your religion, to guard his community and to act with caution and justice.’
The joy and pride Shamil should have felt was weighed down by the implications of this step. He was admitting his loss in public. Not specifically that Jamaleldin would never come back, but that even if he were to return, he would not be fit to take his father’s place.
As if sensing that it was Jamaleldin and not Ghazi who was in Shamil’s thoughts, the elderly man asked, ‘What came of that hostage that you were going to exchange him with?’
‘He was not valuable enough. I ended up exchanging him for some of our men. But I will not give up.’ He needed someone more valuable. This was the plan he had been working on. And today he had sent out scouts.
III
Crossing the Frontier
1. SCOTLAND, DECEMBER 2010
I told Malak that I had seen, from the upstairs window, little islands of snow floating on the river. They must have fallen from the Grampians. We were sitting in the kitchen without the lights on, just the pale dawn from the window. Melting snow meant clearer roads. I could leave today and get to work. There was no excuse to stay here longer.
‘Would Oz like a lift to the university? I can wait for him to wake up.’ She agreed that it would be helpful, especially with the semester exams starting next week, and wrapped her shawl closer around her, held her mug with both hands. I was stalling for time, unloading the dishwasher, cleaning the coffee maker. Outside one side of the sky was completely dark, like it was still in night. But it would not be left in peace for much longer; daylight was ready to enter. If I looked closely I could see new vulnerable depressions in the snow, areas of relative warmth. The edges, too, were melting away, the solid mass shrinking. Yesterday evening I had offered to pay for my board and lodging but Malak refused. ‘We are happy to have you as a guest. We are enjoying your company.’ This was generous of her because I hadn’t really contributed anything; I should have, but I hadn’t, even offered to cook dinner. All I gave them was my interest in their past.
It had been a special evening, like a celebration of sorts, perhaps an unspoken agreement that it would be my last. Oz lit the fire and we sat on the cushions on the floor. I looked up at Shamil’s sword and down at the flames and I felt confident about my work, that I was on the right track, that I was worthy of my chosen subject. If I could get four papers on Shamil published in prestigious journals, I would have a bigger chance of promotion. I was saving too for a trip to Dagestan, to climb the Caucasus. ‘Come with me,’ I urged them both. The invitation tripped out spontaneously, so unlike me. I could tell by their eyes, by the way they exchanged glances that the idea piqued their interest.
Oz stood up and fetched his laptop. ‘Yes, let’s go this month, over the Christmas holidays. I’ll bet we can find cheap last-minute flights.’
‘It would be better to go in the spring,’ said Malak. ‘Early when the swallows fly back. There would be snow on the highlands, but the lowlands would be clear.’
‘Easter then,’ I said, my voice different with happiness. This would be my ultimate journey, my pilgrimage and they would lead me to Shamil, to knowing him better, to seeing the world through his eyes.
Oz, laptop on his crossed knees, was doing the research. He read out, ‘Tindi is a small picturesque aoul with a historic minaret, in the south-western mountains close to the Georgian and Chechen borders.’
‘That’s our place then,’ I said.
He kept on reading, ‘According to Wikivoyage, travel to Dagestan is extremely dangerous and strongly discouraged. And here’s the latest headlines: Russian security forces clash with militants in Dagestan, nine killed.’
This dampened us for the time being. I was and had always been a coward. Malak said there were plenty more ways to spend a holiday than courting danger. Only Oz, all bravado, still seemed keen. ‘You can’t believe everything you read,’ he argued. ‘Besides, we’re not tourists.’
‘What are you, Ossie?’ his mother smiled.
‘I won’t look out of place.’
‘You only have to open your mouth,’ she said. ‘Besides, your fancy trainers will give you away.’
He scowled at her. ‘I’ll get new ones from Primark.’
She laughed. ‘What a comedown!’
He was, I had noticed, proud of his clothes. But then many students nowadays were. They surprised me with their Uggs and Hunter wellies; their leather jackets and mobile accessories. The markets had them by the throat; they might be in debt, they were surely struggling, but they needed what generations before them had easily done without.
Perhaps if I wasn’t there they would have argued about his allowance. Instead Malak started to speak about her parents and grandparents; all those descendants of Shamil that history didn’t record. Stories that Oz hadn’t heard. It was a pleasure to watch a mother hand over strands of the family narrative to her son. She was talking to him as much as to me. ‘Our side of the family,’ she said, ‘followed the fatwa that with the collapse of Muslim rule in the Caucasus they should emigrate to the Ottoman Empire. Others stayed on and were deported by Stalin, and those who stayed struggled throughout Soviet rule. The mosques were shut down, it was forbidden to read or write Arabic and practising Islam had to be done in secret. Only the very tough could resist; most ordinary people lapsed. When I hear Muslims in the West complaining, I have no sympathy for them …’
Oz interrupted her, ‘Come on …’
‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘We have the freedom to practise and teach and bring up our children in our own faith. Can you imagine, Oz, what it is like when generation after generation grows up with all their Islamic teachings muddled up and pushed to the far side of memory? Snatches of verses here and there, a vague idea of Ramadan, no solid scholarship to back them, none of the blessing that comes from reciting the Qur’an. It is the biggest loss to become religiously illiterate, to be left without a choice. This is why my side of the family packed up and left. To spare themselves all this.’
I was surprised by her deeply held convictions. Too often she came across as malleable. Oz seemed surprised too but in a different direction. ‘You always said that your parents weren’t religious.’
‘They weren’t in the sense that you would understand it. My mother didn’t wear hijab, for example. But their faith mattered to them. I was the one who was the rebel. I ran away from home because I wanted to become an actor. I broke their hearts because I had grand ambitions.’
I would have liked her to say more but Oz stalled her with his question, ‘But they forgave you, didn’t they?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled at him. A smile I would always remember because of all that it held. ‘Parents will always forgive their children, no matter what.’
It mattered to him that she said that. I wondered what he had done wrong or what he considered to be wrong or what he believed would hurt her. I envied them the ease between them. I could not reconcile the idea of forgiveness with my own parents. With my mother who left my father for Tony. The sensibilities of 1980s Khartoum were mine against my will. That world where men owned the streets and women pretended to be shy even when they weren’t. That time and place where sparks flared up at the slightest provocation; where words like ‘betrayal’ and ‘disgrace’ undid lives. Over the years I had tried to rid myself of such baggage but never fully succeeded. I understood my father’s feelings of shame and, later, my own failed romantic attachments seemed like an apt punishment, because although I went through the motions, these casual relationships never felt right.
Nor could I reconcile the idea of forgiveness for my father whom I hadn’t seen in over a decade. He visited me once when I was in university. He came, he said, all the way from Khartoum especially to see me. I kept telling him I was busy with exams and I only met up with him twice. The first time he was waiting for me outside the library and I was ashamed to b
e seen with him around the campus. He was wearing flimsy clothes in one of the coldest springs, his English was rudimentary and I had, by then, almost forgotten my Arabic. So ironically my mother’s language became our only way to communicate. We must have looked weird. On the grounds of a Scottish university, an African father and a mixed-race daughter, dodging the rain and speaking Russian. I told him that my graduation was next week but I did not even ask about my grandmother or my old friends. There was only the resentment at his presence, the impatience to get rid of him. ‘I will attend your graduation ceremony,’ he said.
‘You can’t,’ I replied. ‘The seating is limited and I only have tickets for Mum and Tony.’
The second and last time we met he took me to lunch and I ate in silence, barely answering his questions. And yet on that occasion I was more relaxed; I even smiled at one of his jokes and noticed the new white in his hair. When he warmed up, he called my mother a whore and Tony a racist. ‘A thief,’ my father spat out, spittle flying from his mouth, who stole her away from him, as if she didn’t have a will of her own. As if she and I didn’t spend afternoons in Tony’s villa, me in the swimming pool hugging a Tweety inflatable ring, the chlorine jamming my nose and the two of them upstairs, behind a locked door with the air-conditioner humming. But I wouldn’t defend the indefensible; I tucked into my meatballs and left him to rant.
‘I should not have let you go with them,’ he repeated. ‘All my friends advised me to keep you but I didn’t listen.’
I sounded grown-up when I replied, ‘It’s been good for me to come here.’ I sounded confident, as if I had moved on and the past hardly mattered to me at all. I was doing well in my studies and this impressed him. He had little to offer me if I chose to return with him. Sudan was in a state of economic collapse, the civil war against the south was raging. He had, as expected, failed in every business venture he started – he had neither the necessary political connections nor the dogged perseverance – his was another brilliant mind burned out by a dysfunctional post-colonial state. The house he was building was still incomplete, his only car a wreck, his debts mounting. I was much better where I was. At the end of the lunch, which didn’t include dessert, my father gave me money. Five twenty-pound notes in a grubby envelope. Tony had stopped supporting me since I turned eighteen and I worked part-time in the student union shop, so I hesitated a little but then I took his gift.
The Kindness of Enemies Page 7