Amin speaks again. He’s also transformed himself, Sonia observes, from a slick, even oily, foundation professional into a death-camp leader. He’s physically shrunken, like the others, but this has only exposed an unexpected core of moral steel.
“The other decision we must make is whether to hold our conference now. Sonia tells us it is our tyrant’s desire. We must not suppose that he is really interested in what we have to say. It is most probable that he wishes to mock us. Nevertheless, I believe we should do it.”
There is some outburst at this, but he holds his hand up until they are quiet again. “This is why,” he continues. “We all stand for something and, if I may say it, different versions of the same thing. We stand for peace. We think it is possible in this world. We think intelligence, fair dealing, and moral clarity can help bring about peace, even in places where war is the only thing anyone remembers. Some of us have actually done this, so we understand that it is not merely a pious illusion. Some of us are inspired by religion. We think a compassionate God desires all His children to live in peace. Others of us are not religious, but believe that war is a crime against reason and humanity. None of us expected to be in this situation, with death hanging over all our heads. But consider our choices now. We can refuse to perform for this evil man, that is one way to look at it, or we can speak our truth, even in the face of death. This is what is meant by the word martyr, as I’m sure you know. Martyr means witness. And speaking only for myself, this is how I would prefer to die, with my truth on my lips to the last breath.”
In the silence after this, Sonia begins to clap, and the others join in with enthusiasm, all except Porter Cosgrove, who sits stunned on the edge of a charpoy, like a stuffed doll. But Annette claps, as does Ashton, although Sonia notices he is looking at Annette as he does.
Schildkraut now rises as the applause fades and says, “Let me add, if I may, one observation to my colleague’s remarks. I am the oldest person here, by a good measure. I was looking forward to my seventy-sixth birthday next month, and I suppose that in the normal course of things I would have volunteered to be the first to go to death. It would not be much of a sacrifice, I think, not of very much time anyway. But as it is, I will submit to the hand of fate, as Amin has suggested. I say fate and not God, you notice; I am one of Amin’s atheists. And as the oldest of you, I suppose I have been to more conferences over the years than anyone else. That is what we intelligentsia do in the modern world, we travel and talk and confer, all paid for by people like Mr. Craig there. It is one of the perks of such a life, quite pleasant-the nice hotels, the beautiful conference centers-yes, and I agree with Amin that we must do this thing now, to speak our truth, and I would like to add that, should any of us survive, we should propose this arrangement as a general principle for conferences. At every conference there should be a card drawing and executions. Everyone should speak as if their speech were their last words on earth. I submit that this would make for shorter meetings and a good deal less bullshit.”
He sits. After a frozen instant, Amin bursts into laughter and the rest of them join in, all except, again, Porter Cosgrove. He seems about to cry. Then he does cry, deep, almost soundless sobs. Annette talks to him softly, urges him to stand, moves him shuffling away from the others, and lays him down on a charpoy near the far wall.
Nobody comments on this. Instead they crowd around Sonia and Amin, seemingly reluctant to move away, as if these two have some powerful mana that will lift the curse of death, Amin because he is now the leader, and Sonia because… she doesn’t quite understand it, but it has to do, she thinks, with the experience she had in the cellar stable. Maybe they sense it, the shadow of God; maybe they think, even the rationalists, the atheists, that she can work miracles as a result.
Sonia says, “There’s something else you should know. I guess you’ve heard that I’m interpreting dreams for some of the locals, yes? Well, as Amin said, I’m not sure we can impress Alakazai with anything we do, but I have the sense that Bahram Alakazai is not well loved as a leader, and neither is his field commander, Idris Ghulam. It’s hard to lead Pashtuns, even if they respect you, and respect ordinarily goes through khel and tribe. They’ll take orders from people they don’t know if they believe it’s for a higher cause, like the jihad, but they don’t like it. If the jihad for some reason proves illegitimate, the whole arrangement breaks down. If their violence is not authorized, they accrue blood guilt for the people they kill. And they need not take orders from someone not in their clan hierarchy, which I suspect is the case here. Alakazai is a half-breed, and Idris has the look of a malang, a man of one of the menial tribes.”
“But even if this is true, Sonia,” says Manjit Nara, “how is this to our advantage?”
“I’m not sure yet, but dreams are very important to these people. I think I’ve almost won over the guard Mahmoud. I mean he’ll still torture me, but his heart’s not in it. And Alakazai doesn’t seem to want to go the full legal route to have me put to death under sharia law. Instead he’s whipped up this supposed psychological torture for me. That’s not Muslim, that’s simple sadism, and people won’t like it when they find out about it, and Alakazai will lose face when we foil that by putting the choice in God’s hands. Meanwhile, we can expect a big audience for the conference because Pashtuns love talk fests, and I intend to simultaneously translate the presentations into Pashto as you all speak. Among other things, we can make the case that murdering hostages is a violation of sharia law. Which it is.”
This produces an unpleasant snort from Ashton. “But surely you don’t imagine that nice legalities are going to stop these people from doing whatever they want. Mujahideen murder civilians all the time.”
“People who call themselves mujahideen commit all kinds of atrocities, true, but they need some corrupt mullah to give them leave to behave like that. The kind of criticism that the liberal press in Western countries generates has no effect on them, they think it’s hypocrisy. It follows that the only attack that might have some effect is from the right, so to speak, from real religion and not from what they consider Godless liberalism. These jihad mullahs are never challenged openly from within Islam, which is what I’ve done here and what I’ll continue to do. These people can’t stand to think of themselves as bandits, they can’t stand to think that if they die they won’t go to Paradise, and they won’t if they’re not in a real jihad.”
Schildkraut turns to Father Shea. “What do you think of that, Mark?”
“You’re asking me?”
“You’re our expert on comparative religion.”
The priest scratched at his newly bristling beard. “Yes, and as a Catholic I suppose you think I’m expert in both fanaticism and the furthest reaches of the right wing,” which produces a scholarly chuckle among the group. “Well, I don’t know that it’s a religious issue at all. I believe it was a countryman of yours, Schildkraut, who said, ‘Terrorism is the rage of the literati in its final stages.’ Al-Qaeda and its offshoots are a disease of modernism, however much they dress themselves in traditional clothing. It’s a kind of toxic nostalgia, which is something the Catholic Church only took about five hundred years to deal with, and we’re still not past it yet. They see the modern world of technology and mass media and libertinism and consumerism, and they both desire and despise it. I mean, that’s why we all came here, to talk about the diseased mental states that generate terrorism and violence in this part of the world. So I think it’s something of a stretch to believe that what you call real religion can have an effect. In fact, whatever they say, they’re not at all religious. Thou shall not commit murder is a pretty basic rule for the genuinely religious.”
Manjit Nara laughs and says, “Ah, at last we are having our conference.”
“Yes, and I believe, all things considered,” says Amin, “that we would have been better off holding it at the hotel in Lahore. But I think Sonia has another arrow to her bow. I find it interesting about the dream work you are doing with our hos
ts. Have you ever done this for traditional Muslims?”
“No, but my practice in America includes a number of American Indians and Chicanos, and those are both highly traditional cultures. I’m assuming the same techniques apply.”
“Perhaps,” Amin says, frowning. “It’s a risky enterprise. They already accuse you of witchcraft. What’s your purpose?”
“To promote harmony and help those astray to return to the true path,” says Sonia blandly.
Ashton says, “You mean you’re manipulating them to serve your purposes, which, since I assume we all have the common purpose of staying alive here, I must heartily approve.”
“No, I’m absolutely sincere. But I’m convinced the outcome will be the same.”
“Oh, spare us! You sincerely believe that these maniacs, and I use the term literally, will respond to your messing about with their oedipal complexes?”
“Not at all. Psychotherapy is culture-bound. In Western society the psyche is considered to be individual, and the therapist works toward individuation. Even Jung, who understood that this was an illusion, worked this way in his practice. The basic stance of the Western therapist is to resolve interior conflicts within the different segments of the individual psyche. We observe, for example, a dominant father figure who limits the freedom of the client. If you’re Freudian you try to bring the oedipal tension to consciousness; if you’re a Jungian, you try to integrate the paternal introject, and other brands of therapies try to do the same thing under different names, but the goal is always the same: the freedom of the individual to fulfill his or her potential without neurotic limitations. This is not the case with traditional Muslims.”
“It’s not?” says Ashton. “You’re suggesting they like being mad?”
“No, I’m saying it’s a Western delusion that all psychological problems are reducible to restrictions on individual freedom. In other cultures, including the one we’re talking about, the highest value is not freedom at all. It’s harmony within the family and the tribe and the sense that the person is doing the right thing with respect to tradition.”
“Are you serious? What if the family or the tribe or whatever is oppressive? Surely you wouldn’t justify the way our hosts treat women.”
“That’s quite besides the point, Harold. My job is not to justify a culture or to encourage rebellion from it, but to enable a client to live as successfully as possible within it, without neurotic symptoms. In the West, that means reducing interior conflict. In the Muslim world, it means reducing exterior conflicts.”
“If I may interpolate here, Harold,” says Nara, “Sonia is quite correct. Among my own patients, both Hindu and Muslim, any attempt to strengthen the supposed ego at the expense of traditional structures of authority inevitably results in the failure of the therapy. The patients either leave or they sink into a paralyzing depression. In fact, the symptoms we commonly see in practice are the result of conflict between the patient’s cultural expectations and his current situation. He has, for example, feelings of worthlessness because he tries to be a good Muslim and yet God does not favor him with success. Or a daughter feels she is being unjustly treated by her father or her mother-in-law. In such cases there is no point in trying to strengthen the autonomous ego because there is no autonomous ego, except of course in those who have been culturally Westernized, and they have a completely different set of issues. No, what we must do is to treat the situation, not the psyche as such.”
“So you just tell them to knuckle under?”
“No,” says Nara, “we try to restore harmony. We work with the family. We use quotations from the traditional scriptures. We don’t probe the intimate details of family life because these patients think it’s shameful to discuss such things. Instead, we use the unusually rich metaphoric life we find among such people and make suggestions that will result in real change and the alleviation of symptoms.”
Ashton is not convinced; he shakes his head like a bull. “But the end result is that the woman remains a second-class citizen and the man slogs away in a corrupt and impoverished society. I can’t believe you’re really defending this sort of thing. Good Lord, you’re all educated people! Surely you can’t want the perpetuation of Muslim or Indian society as it now stands. It’s the worst kind of patronization. It’s like saying only white people have the right to democratic governance, honest administration, civil rights, a prosperous society, the lot.”
Sonia, Nara, and Amin exchange looks. After a pause, Amin says, “This is the problem with cultural imperialism-”
“I beg your pardon! I am the furthest thing from a cultural imperialist.”
“Please, let me finish! The problem, as I say, with cultural imperialism is that it can be completely unconscious, which I believe is the case here. For example, you used the phrase knuckle under. By that you mean it is wrong or unseemly for people to submit their will-their whim, even-to a traditional authority. Yet all of Muslim society is based on submission to the will of God, and everything follows from that. You look at us and you see oppression; we see stability and harmony. You see corruption; we see ties of family, friendship, and mutual support. You see feudalism, we see mutual responsibility. You see the oppression of women, we see the defense of modesty. But then you say, but look at you! See how poor and weak you are and how rich and strong we are, because of our culture, which prizes freedom above every other human value-no, that destroys every other human value to secure absolute freedom. In response to that, sir, I ask you to look at two things. First, yes, we are poor, but until sixty years ago, you Europeans owned all of us, we worked for you and not for ourselves. So of course we are poor-it took Europe eight centuries to recover from the yoke of Rome and its collapse. I say to you, sir, have a little patience! And the second thing is, for all but the last two and a half centuries, the traditional society you condemn was quite successful. A thousand years ago London was a wooden village occupied by starving barbarians and Baghdad was the greatest and richest city in the world. So perhaps it will be that way again; who can tell what God has planned?”
Ashton is about to launch into a rejoinder, a scarlet blotch stands out on his cheeks and his mouth gapes, but at that moment there is a clatter at the door. It opens and in comes Mahmoud and Rashida and an older woman, carrying trays of steaming naan bread and cans of tea.
Amin claps his hands, beaming. “Thank God! It is breakfast at last. I tell you, my doctor has told me these many years, ‘Amin, you must drop ten kilos,’ although I am almost sure he did not mean decapitation. If we survive this he will be most pleased.”
Everyone except Manjit Nara and Sonia gathers around the trays, sits, and starts eating and drinking, as at a school picnic. Nara sits carefully on the edge of Sonia’s charpoy and says, “I will bring you your breakfast and we will chat, yes?”
He does so. The naan is soaked in clarified butter and is warm, greasy, and delicious. The tea is thick, sweet, milky.
“You have a different look,” he says. “At first I thought it was mere shock after what has been done to you, but now I don’t believe so.”
“No. They shut me in a dark stable and I thought I was going to die. Then I had a certain experience. It’s hard to explain. I did spiritual exercises that I had been taught long ago, in despair, you understand, and it was as if I dissolved, and what was left didn’t care about the pain and the fear. It was almost amusing. And now, sitting here, eating bread, talking about professional subjects, I feel I’m being drawn back into the world, and something in me doesn’t want to return. Does that make any sense?”
“Indeed it does. Some people are broken by suffering and others transcend it and become more than they were before. The Christian martyrs are examples, but we also see it in daily life, especially in places like India, where we are among the world leaders in suffering. If there were an Olympics in suffering, India would take all the gold.” He laughs nervously. “I must say, although it shames me, that I am glad we are to be chosen for death at random.”
“Are you? Why is that?”
“Because otherwise I would have been the first, idolator that I am, and representative of the most hated nation.”
“After the United States.”
He smiled at that and coughed politely. “Yes, but al-Faran is a Kashmiri insurgent organization. Rest assured, they would have picked me. And I have been trying to prepare myself for death, to meet it with dignity, but I find I cannot. My insides turn to water when I think of the moment, having my head cut off. When they hold up the severed head, will there still be thoughts in it, even for a few seconds? What horror to imagine it!”
Sonia says, “The self slays not, neither is it slain.”
“Yes, but I find the wisdom of the Bhagavad Gita is of little comfort to me now, knowing it is all a dream of Vishnu and I will be reborn, and so on. I have been poisoned by my education as a modern physician. The Brahmins are perhaps wise to avoid contact with the dead. Corpses are so undeniably real, it is hard to have lofty thoughts around corpses.”
He shuddered and drank the rest of his tea greedily, as if it were an elixir of amnesia.
“But I didn’t seek a private conversation with you only to expose my pathetic cowardice. I ask you to observe Mr. Ashton, over my right shoulder.”
Sonia looks. Ashton has brought breakfast loaves and cups to where the Cosgroves are sitting. Annette seems to be urging her husband to eat but he has turned his face away from her. His shoulders are shaking. Ashton is sitting next to her, his hand lightly on her shoulder.
“See? A comforting gesture, perhaps, or something more? Mr. A is a bit of a ladies’ man, yes? And the beautiful Mrs. Cosgrove may require a strong man to lean on in this time of trouble, with her husband having completely collapsed. I tell you, it was a surprise to me, this collapse, one would have thought that Cosgrove, with all of his oft-told adventures and dangers escaped, would have been the last to do so, but see, again, one can never tell.”
The Good Son Page 24