Irony was the great mood of the 1947 Partition of India. The faint, bitter smiles that still cross the faces of that older generation seem like the only fitting response to the friends left behind, the houses and land lost for ever, the wars fought against each other and the two countries made from one shared culture. And though it could be suggested that the same charlatan god who had put up what seemed like absurd divisions between my grandfather and his country was also responsible for landing him after all the violence with a half-Pakistani grandson, he would not have seen it that way. He didn’t let the absurdities defeat him. Through his untainted view of the other side, and the hopefulness my mixed birth brought up in him, he cocked a snook at the gods that carved up India. In his hands, the peculiar circumstances of my birth were not strange, unworkable facts but a kind of recompense for all that had been lost, a breach in the historical wall that had put him in one country and his regiment, his house and his ‘oldest living friend’ in another.
Syria International:
Notes from the Translation Room
I left Istanbul the morning after the Love club. My wish to see the city in snow was unfulfilled, but compensated in part by seeing Anatolia in deep winter. I was on the Taurus Express to Damascus, travelling on what had been the old Hejaz railway. It was built by the Ottomans in their last years, with the intention to connect Istanbul to Mecca, and was famous for being blown up routinely by T. E. Lawrence.
The sleeper was blue and white, the only carriage with Arabic letters on it, sharp-edged sickles and dots, which spelt out the equivalent of ‘CFS, Chemins de fer Syriens’. It was to fall away from the rest of the train when we reached the south-east. We drifted past a few coastal towns with red-tiled roofs before I fell asleep, making up for the late night. When I awoke it was just after one o’clock and the winter sun was almost hot. Outside, a brown stream was bubbling past rocks in a shallow chasm. The low branches that hung over it would have brought shade in another season, but were now bare and cast a long, thorny shadow over the water. A single white heron gazed indefinitely over at the muddied winter scene. All around, large, round rocks were heaped on top of one another as if in preparation for a child’s game, with snow and shrubs competing for the spaces between them. Gradually, the land became flatter and the winter scene more complete. By late afternoon, the train was racing past snow-covered towns, and only the occasional glimpse of a wall or collapsed house of honey-coloured stone spoke of a warm country. A pale, orb-like sun hung overhead and minarets poked out of the thick snow, forging new associations in my mind, unused to linking Islam with winter.
The next morning, after a night in the train, I was in southern Anatolia and the snow was gone. It was replaced by a landscape of grey boulders and gentle hills, with a sparse cover of thin, emerald grass. The rocks stayed, but the earth became red and the grass more lush as we continued south. There were few trees and the land’s mild, grassy contours met the sky further than the eye could see. Mid-afternoon. We were unhitched and waited for many hours for a new engine. After a small collision, movement one way and then the other, we set off again.
I stepped out of my cabin to ask our large Syrian attendant, with mascaraed eyes, for some tea when I caught a powerful whiff of marijuana smoke coming from the direction of the engine. I put my head out of the window and it was stronger. I followed the smell, walking the length of the sleeper, until I came to a door with two sealed windows. On the other side, two fine-featured Turkish soldiers with watery red eyes and berets were standing outside their carriage, choking and laughing over a blunt-sized joint.
When they saw me, they bent double with laughter and, arm outstretched, offered it to me. I made a gesture of helplessness: the sleeper doors were locked with a nut and a bolt and seemed not to have been opened in years. More out of courtesy to them than from any conviction that it would open, I tried unscrewing the nut. It slid straight off and the bolt fell into my hands. I pulled at the doors; they divided, but no more than six inches, just enough for the soldiers, now in hysterics, to pass me the joint.
In Turkey, military service is compulsory and they were completing theirs in the nearby town of Iskenderun. They spoke little English so we smoked and laughed, and I, more than them, kept looking behind me in fear of the Syrian attendant catching me. He didn’t come so we smoked the fat joint to its filter. At one point, we went through a tunnel and the soldiers took great pleasure in passing the burning end in the darkness. Soon after, the train slowed down and the soldiers shuffled off to duty. A few minutes later I saw them disembark. They waved, then pointed ahead, grinning and glassy-eyed. I put my head out and saw two sentry posts, with small Turkish flags, standing alone on a gently sloping grassy stretch. There was no sign of a town, just the changing gradient of the land. We were at the Syrian border.
The Turkish exit stamp came quickly and the train, passing a barbed-wire fence, rolled in the direction of a complex consisting of a grey building with a green roof, an ochre minaret and a water-tank. The sky was a mixture of rain and evening, and beams of religious light broke through the cloudy kaleidoscope on to the lower country ahead. More trains with Arab script appeared, then a portrait of the Syrian leader, Bashar al-Assad, a boyish, fleshy face and chinless; nothing like the tight-mouthed stare of his late father, Hafez.
They kept us at the border for hours. First, a Swiss consultant was questioned for many minutes about his profession. He appealed to me, but the words that might have worked in Turkish didn’t in Arabic. The immigration officer was young and casually dressed. He asked whether I spoke Arabic, if I was Muslim, then offered me a cigarette, and moved on to Leon, a Chinese-American software engineer. He was taken away for several minutes and returned shaken. ‘I’ll tell you about the little bit of theatre that occurred once we get moving,’ he said, with a weak smile. He never did.
The rain that began in Aleppo continued through the day and into the evening, following me to Damascus. An Egyptian film played on the Kadmus bus I had boarded. It was a black comedy of sorts in which the main character, a young man, was afflicted with a skin disease that only he could see; its portrayal was vile. I could barely bring myself to look at the green-black slime that spread over his otherwise pleasant face. The film’s garish colours and noise were hard to get away from. A soldier sitting next to me with a crew-cut and severe lacedup boots laughed uproariously at the blighted man’s fate.
The countryside beyond Aleppo turned to desert, not soft, sandy desert but flat, hard, gravelly desert. The yellowish-brown hills in the distance were bare and gritty. Every now and then we would pass a large mural of Assad père or fils. The older man’s murals were in 1970s socialist style: the grim-faced leader managing a smile as agriculture and industry, combine harvesters and mills, worked in the background. The colours were faded, and in some the paint had flaked off, leaving powdery white patches. The younger Assad had launched a campaign of his own, consisting of a young Syrian man and woman staring patriotically into the distance, with the red, black and white of the Syrian tricolour behind them. This, I was sure, was a response to the wave of international pressure Syria, after so many years in Arab nationalist sleep, was suddenly facing. As it became dark, the bus passed through the towns of Hama and Homs, both ancient, with rich classical histories. In the early 1980s, Hama had been the scene of a crackdown in which the dictator had levelled a good part of the old city and overnight solved the country’s Muslim Brotherhood problem, the Islamist movement that thrived in neighbouring Egypt. People spoke of the crackdown with awe; rumours circulated that the government had chased the Brotherhood into Hama’s sewers and electrocuted them.
The Kadmus bus dropped us off at a depot some way out of town. It was a bleak spot, open, unprotected and badly lit. There was little of the comfort or wonder of arriving in a new place, just rain, cement block houses and naked bulbs. The city’s skyline was low and indiscernible, green tube-lit minarets and white city lights dotting the gloom. The presence of the minarets in this
small, makeshift way, at once shabby and ubiquitous, gave the darkness an unexpected, neon edge. It was Christmas Eve.
I had first heard of the primacy of Syria as a destination for international Islam from Hassan Butt.
‘I do believe I’ve got a bigger role to play,’ Butt said, in the curry house in Manchester, ‘and when that time comes, I will make my preparations to play that role.’
He’d been hinting at it so I asked, ‘It’s martyrdom, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely,’ he replied. ‘It’s something that makes me really depressed, being stuck in this country, because I know I’m so far away from it. I know that if I was to pass away in my sleep, I would not have the mercy of Allah upon me because I have been such a bad person. And I don’t see myself getting into heaven that easily, except through martyrdom.’
‘Where would you go if you got your passport back?’ I asked.
‘Probably Yemen and Syria initially, because at the moment I’m wanted in Pakistan for supposed involvement in an assassination plot against Musharraf.’
‘And after Yemen and Syria, the enemy you would finally confront is the US, right?’
‘Yes, but maybe America will be destroyed in my time, maybe I’ll have something completely different to do.’ Then his face expressed new urgency. ‘But I need to learn Arabic! As an English and Urdu-speaking person, I can see the beauty of Islam from the outside, but I really can’t access it without Arabic. It’s like having a beautiful house and only being able to see through the windows how beautiful it is inside. That is how I view Arabic. I believe the Arabic language will give me the key to the things I don’t have access to at the moment. Once I learn Arabic, inshallah, I will get myself militarily trained. It’s like the Jews in Israel: conscription is incumbent upon every male and female.’
The presence of international politics and of the traditional enemies of international jihad were visible in Syria within hours of my arrival. On Christmas Day in Damascus, as I explored the city’s bazaars and baths, I saw a series of red banners, hung in a giant sweep across the breadth of the souk. Their yellow, orange and white painted letters read:
From Syria the country of peace and loving to the Aggressive Israel and its allied America . . . We are in Syria the country of self-esteem and homebred we refuse your democracy after what we had seen happen in Iraq and Palestine and how your democracy build on people’s bodies which you bombed on civilians innocents and when the matter reached the council of security in the United Nations and how you used the rejection right (the Vito) to save Israel for only a suspicious matter, and how America pursued the council of security to issue a decision against Syria followed by new decision even Syria executed first one, but the Syrian people not afraid and whatever the difficulties could be and they are resistant by leadership of dearest the President B. Al Assad.
On Valentine’s Day the year before, a bomb killed the Lebanese prime minister, Rafik Hariri, in downtown Beirut. Hariri had played an important role in rebuilding Beirut after its destruction during the Lebanese civil war and was known for his opposition to the Syrian military presence in his country. The Syrians were rumoured to have been behind the bomb, and after an outcry in Lebanon, they withdrew their army from the country. A UN inquiry into Syria’s role in the assassination of Hariri had implicated the Syrian high command, and the Americans, perhaps pursuing ends of their own, were putting pressure on Syria for its meddling in Lebanon and for supporting terrorism in Iraq. The air in Syria that winter was filled with rumour.
The country had been closed for decades. The regime, for most of its existence, had been socialist, intolerant of religious politics, and the people had only received propaganda. With their role in the world suddenly internationalised, the city was plastered with these cryptic, high-pitched messages. It was the government’s response to trouble in the world beyond. President Bashar al-Assad and the Syrian people were not kneeling before anyone but God. And so, in the absence of a free press, an intellectual life and a political culture, and under the watch of a fierce secret police, the mosque became the only place for people to congregate and discuss politics.
What struck me on that first day, as I read the banner, was how unusual and desperate a message it was, unfurled over the souk, the most public of public places, in the guise of a private citizen’s initiative. In Syria, where an email with sensitive content could get you pulled up by the secret service, the banners could only have dominated the great bazaar with the blessing of the regime. In another society, where it might really have been possible for an independent party to rent space and make a political statement, it would be difficult to imagine a message of its kind: a public shriek directed at international enemies, hanging over the equivalent of Times Square or Oxford Street. In India, I couldn’t imagine an international issue with enough following to warrant hysteria of this kind.
The shoppers in their polyesters, eating stringy ice-cream and walking down the covered souk, more reminiscent of a Paris passage than a traditional Arab souk, seemed oblivious to the banners. They were mostly young men with light beards, wide trousers and baggy jackets. They wandered about in twos and threes, often arm in arm, here stopping for something to eat, there for a soft drink, seemingly aimless, smoking at will. The main commerce occurred between women, in dark, heavy coats and headscarves, some fully veiled, and moustached shopkeepers with hard, round stomachs. Only foreigners, the odd group of Italian tourists, still visiting Syria despite darkening clouds, on their way to the magnificent Umayyad Mosque at the end of the covered market, stopped to read it. Indeed, the message, translated badly into both French and English, must have been intended, in some measure, for them too.
Syria that winter, despite the threat of war, was full of foreigners. There were English, French, Danes, Norwegians, Indians, Pakistanis and even Americans. And their presence added to a general air of international intrigue. Syria was the first police state I had travelled in; a wrong step could see me escorted to the border. And so, wishing to stay away from the closely watched hotels and to learn the ropes at my own pace, I decided to rent a flat for two months.
In my early days, I met a particular kind of foreigner, namely the international students at Damascus University, wanting to learn Arabic in the post-9/11 era. Though many were toying with an interest in Islam, it was the language that had brought them to Syria, not the faith. I had difficulty in imagining a man like Butt, who wanted Arabic but also a kind of immersion in the culture of the faith, spending his time among this crowd of foreign students. With him and Abdullah in mind, I wanted to find out what men like these, from freer, more open, more prosperous countries, came to Syria in search of. In Britain, and in Turkey, it was difficult to see them as more than individual voices. But because Syria was where they came to develop their ideas, I hoped to see them in the context of a community and to gain a more real sense of what they asked of the world.
It was in the interest of discovering Butt’s milieu that I first asked Even, a handsome blond Norwegian, studying Arabic and considering conversion, where he thought a man like Butt would have gone in Damascus. Having listened closely to all I had to say about Butt, Even compressed his lips and emitted a sound that was at once a sigh of understanding and impatience; it must have been annoying for him to listen to my speculations about where Butt would enrol, knowing all the time about Abu Nour. And as he began to tell me, his elfin face brimming with excitement, of a great Islamic university and mosque, drawing students from Mali to Indonesia, words failed him. He knew what I was looking for and his response now became a faint, secretive smile.
A few days went by before we could arrange a time to go to Abu Nour. Even had Arabic classes in the morning at Damascus University and it was late afternoon when we set out from my flat. We walked up an inclined street in the direction of the biblical Mount Qassioun, a pale, treeless peak with a city of cement shacks climbing its base. We passed the famous Jisr Abyad Mosque, with its rose dome, and the French Embassy where we wou
ld find ourselves under very different circumstances in the weeks to come.
Just before the foot of the mountain, we went right. The walk so far had taken less than ten minutes, but within a few hundred metres the city was transformed. Its wide main roads, apartment buildings and embassies fell away, and a tight, congested neighbourhood took its place. The narrow, crowded streets in this part of town had an authenticity that even the old city lacked. There were no tourists or antiques shops here, and the retail did not seem as much of a performance as it sometimes did in the old city. It was a fully functioning traditional souk, alive with oddities. At a butcher’s shop, a whole camel’s head and shoulders hung from an iron hook. In one covered section, a man spent the whole day drying trotters with a blowtorch. Near him, scorched goats’ heads with gummy grins and little teeth were arranged on a wooden table, decorated with fresh parsley. A small blue lorry ploughed through the crowd, with a man sitting in the back on a heap of pomegranates. Dates, olives, cheese and blood oranges were crammed in next to electrical-repair shops, and perfume sellers promising to replicate any Western scent. Old women rested their heads against the cool stone entrances of the Mamluk mosques with hexagonal minarets and stalactites.
Dressed in a dark Arab robe, his long, blond hair held down by a woollen skullcap and a camera kept discreetly at his side, Even was of a piece with the souk. It didn’t matter that he was foreign; the souk was a place of curiosity. He prayed regularly in the souk’s mosques and, as a white man, his interest in the faith was met with awe and admiration. He also spoke fusha, the classical, literary Arabic, rather than the dialects of the Syrian street, and this, too, must have created an impression.
We continued; the souk narrowed and suddenly, well before the university itself, the characters in the orbit of Abu Nour appeared. A couple of South Asians, in white with small faces and thick, black beards, conspicuous and beady-eyed, scurried towards us. They were like a sort of herald before the full diversity of Abu Nour came into view. Then we saw short Indonesians, with conical hats and wispy beards, vast West African women in colourful veils and European Muslims with red facial hair. There were Ethiopian Africans, with high cheekbones and small mouths, more South Asians, this time with English accents, and South East Asian girls, with diaphanous, rectangular veils. Nationality and race were my markers, but for the people coming to Abu Nour, these differences were trumped by a greater sense of allegiance.
Stranger to History Page 6