by Ibrahim Essa
Hatem sat waiting for Hassan at a table on the roof of one of the hotels overlooking a busy square. Down below he could see the vehicles and the pedestrians moving around—their paths crossing and diverging, similar and different, meeting and separating and moving in parallel or as opposites. It reminded him that we are just objects and that the world is too big for our thoughts to encompass. Hatem’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Hassan. He looked about twenty-three, with a baby face. He reminded Hatem of his own son, and Hatem shuddered, stung by the thought of his son making him sit through a session like this or any other horrendous ordeal of this kind.
He thought about how he would feel if God or fate decided to test him by using his son against him. His son was the keystone in his psychological structure. Without him he would fall apart. God the Omniscient knows our weaknesses and might use them against us, he thought. It’s bad enough to be ill or poor or to have one’s feelings hurt, but if one’s child plays a part in it, the effect can be devastating. And it’s even worse when the child brings disaster, if you discover that he’s a drug addict or gay or a thief, or maybe a murderer, or he might floor you by changing his religion. Whatever you are and whatever you imagined that you were, that is a moment you hope never to experience.
Hatem had called Hassan on the phone. When Hassan answered he said, “How are you? This is Hatem el-Shenawi.”
“Pleased to hear from you,” Hassan answered politely.
“I told your sister Farida that I’d like to see you and I told her you would agree.”
“And how did you know I’d agree?” asked Hassan.
“I didn’t, but you’re a bold man. Someone who says what you say and does what you do and handles what you handle wouldn’t be worried about meeting a sheikh who wants to see him. On the contrary he’d be eager to meet him.”
Hassan liked what Hatem said, even if it was melodramatic and exploited his inclination to be defiant. “Of course, it would be an honor,” he said.
So there they were, in a place that Hatem had chosen because it offered space and a view of the people in the square, as if he wanted to recruit them to his side against Hassan. It was also a place where it was extremely improbable that any bugging devices would be installed, because he was worried that the boy’s family, with means not available to anyone else, would be monitoring him and Hassan, and he didn’t want anyone to be able to hold anything he might say against him. Although he knew that some sophisticated devices could pick up voices from a distance and of course take pictures from even further distances, he felt comfortable sitting in this place, which even smelled reassuring.
“I almost died laughing when they told me what you did to Sheikh Fathi,” Hatem said.
Hassan was surprised. “What did they say exactly?” he asked.
“No, please, you tell me. I’m dying to hear. I’d like to have the pleasure of hearing from you what happened.”
Hassan laughed. “It was nothing,” he said. “He sat down with me and it was as if you’d turned the television on or started playing a recording, something you’ve heard again and again. He was hostile and pathetic and he thought he was sitting opposite an idiot. And imagine, he was shaking. His fingers were shaking.”
“Of course he was shaking. That sheikh’s a creation of your sister’s father-in-law and the regime you know from home, Hassan or Boutros or whatever you like to be called,” said Hatem, deliberately joking and clearly slipping in the reference to reinforce Hassan’s uncertainty and to suggest that his own attitude toward Hassan’s conversion was not as decisive as Hassan might imagine. He waited for a reaction but all he saw was a clever smile.
“The sheikh was worried about his job,” Hatem continued, “and the several thousand pounds a month he gets in bonuses and expenses and salaries. Besides, official approval depends on worldly things and he knew that if you turned against him, or if he failed with you, your family might give him a tough time and damage his career.”
“I’ve known him for ages, ever since I was a kid,” said Hassan. “I remember when he used to come to our house. The old duffer would act like he was Sheikh al-Islam. He’d sit and cozy up to my father and once he took a beach house on the north coast for his son as a bribe. Is that being religious?”
“That sheikh has little to do with religion,” said Hatem.
“Yes, but isn’t he the one who gives fatwas that people follow blindly and tells them what’s right and what’s wrong?” asked Hassan.
“Of course not. Good heavens! Look, Hassan, the first thing you need to learn when you’re talking about religion is to make a distinction between religion and men of religion.”
“Really?” said Hassan.
“Absolutely, a hundred percent.”
The kid was smart, but still young and reckless.
“What kind of religion is it that makes its sheikhs slaves to worldly things, obsessed with money, hypocritical and cowardly?”
“I told you there’s a massive difference between religion and men of religion, and that’s true of any religion,” said Hatem. “Take Islam as well as Christianity. I mean, okay, so you thought that sheikh was a total son of a bitch, with every possible vice, but on your family’s honor, and they’re good people, I bet you then went to Coptic men of religion, our brothers the priests. Did you find them to be brave, heroic, knights in shining armor? Before you say anything, I’ve found them just as cowardly as the sheikhs. If I went up to any pastor or priest in church or in the cathedral and told him, ‘I want to convert to Christianity, Father,’ he’d look around and be evasive and he might agree to risk the disaster of accepting the conversion of a Muslim. But if he knew that you’re so-and-so, the son of such-and-such, and who your father’s son-in-law is and who your sister’s married to, then he’d start talking to you about the wonders of Islam as if he were Sheikh al-Islam himself. Right? Or are you going to deny it?”
“No, you’re right. I’ve often been to the church in Heliopolis and I never said who I was. And of course I’ve spoken with people on the Internet and agreed to meet once or twice and I was very happy and felt I had found my way, but as soon as the priest found out who I really was he ran away from me. Everyone began to keep their distance so I started sending them messages complaining, then attacking them and accusing them of abandoning Christ and being cowards. But this drove me to continue on the path of light, and for me it was proof that Christianity and Christians are persecuted in this country. They’re so frightened that they can’t speak out against the injustices.”
Hatem looked at Hassan’s childlike face. He seemed relieved at the opportunity to express his suppressed emotions freely.
“I sympathize with the Copts’ demands,” said Hatem. “But for some reason I don’t sympathize with the Copts themselves. Is that because I’m a fanatic or an extremist? I don’t think so. But the truth is I don’t have it in me to sympathize with a group of people who get knocked about while they feel sorry for themselves and act the persecuted victim. But Christianity isn’t just the Copts. The world has billions of Christians and only six or eight million Copts. Christianity itself isn’t persecuted anywhere in the world, not even in Egypt. The Christians are the lords and masters of the world, and they are destroying it. They don’t act for a moment on the basis of Christ’s teachings, and they’re not persecuted. On the contrary, they pretty much persecute the whole world, not because they’re Christians but because they’re rich imperialist countries that rule the world according to their interests. In Egypt it may be the Copts rather than Christianity that is persecuted. There are the weak, poor Copts who look to the church for protection and who believe in the church, and there are the rich Copts, some of whom are corrupt and who are part of the corrupt autocratic class, rather like your father and his son-in-law and the group of rich people who fill your mansion for parties. The country’s divided into rich and poor, corrupt people and honest people, not Muslims and Christians, but to make sure that the poor of both communities wallow in t
he mud and never get out, it makes sense to set them against each other, so that the Muslims treat the Christians as infidels who must convert to Islam, and the Christians treat the Muslims as infidels who are racist oppressors.”
“What you say is politics, not religion,” Hassan replied.
“Look, my boy, the day Christianity left Bethlehem it became politics, and the night the Prophet Muhammad died Islam became politics. It’s idiots like you that we men of religion make fun of, in both religions. We delude them into thinking that it’s about religion, but the whole story is politics, my dear.”
“I’m not convinced,” said Hassan, as if to end the discussion.
“Well, be not convinced then,” said Hatem, as if relieved of a burden.
Hassan was appalled by what he’d heard. Just at that moment the waiter was taking away the juices and putting in their place a cup of espresso for him and the glass of tea that Hatem had ordered. Hassan glared at the waiter as if to tell him to clear off, and Hatem understood from the gesture that the boy was still unmoved, protected by his father’s wealth and the clout of his brother-in-law. Hatem decided to strike.
“Do you think,” he said, “that at the age of twenty-three you’ve learned all there is to know about this world and the next, that you’ve achieved all there is to achieve, that with your vast intellect and your genius insight you’ve understood the facts of Islam and the essence of Christianity? That arrogance is what Christ fought against, if I’ve understood his teachings correctly. If you want to know about Christianity, I’ll tell you, or do you really think I’m just a television sheikh, with more to come after the break?”
The conversation was getting heated—all the more reason for Hassan to jump in.
“You’ll make out that you believe in Christ and love Him and you’ll say the usual nonsense about Muslims being required to believe in Christ and in all the prophets, and that the people Muslims like most are the Christians because they have priests and monks. But that’s schizophrenic talk. You call them friends but you treat them as dhimmis and second-class citizens.2 You say Christ spoke in the name of God but then you say Christians are infidels and will go to hell.”
Hatem smiled.
“You know what? You’re right,” he whispered with a sigh.
Then Hatem sprang to his feet excitedly. Anyone who knew Hatem would have known he was acting, but Hassan didn’t know him, so he assumed the man was angry and was leaving.
“I’ll pay the bill and we’ll see each other soon, God willing,” Hatem said, adding to Hassan’s surprise.
Maybe he wanted to arouse Hassan’s curiosity, or give him the impression he had outargued a sheikh. Hatem himself didn’t know the real reason why he had stood up and stormed off in this manner, but he recalled the scene later and said he may have been imitating the angry outbursts that musicians tried in negotiations—something he remembered from playing the lute in the old days before he played the cleric.
Twenty-four hours after the first meeting, Hatem called Hassan on his cell phone. He noted that Hassan picked up after a single ring.
“Are you into satellite channels or do you just make do with your laptop?” Hatem asked.
Hatem had succeeded in making Hassan confused and curious to find out what he was planning, so he answered straight out.
“I have a television in front of me,” he said.
“Excellent, by the life of Jesus, watch the program that’s going on air in five minutes. The first ten minutes are all about you. Concentrate and then we can meet, please,” Hatem said.
He hung up. Hassan closed the pages he was reading online and turned the television on. He had to fiddle around with the numbers on the remote for a while because he didn’t know exactly what channel it would be on. But that didn’t work so he decided to seek help. He opened the door of his room to find his mother with some of her friends chatting about something silly and banal. He decided not to ask her, so he opened a window and called for the servant to come quickly. The servant appeared, dressed in the traditional costume that the household strictly insisted be worn to maintain appearances. “Do you know which channel Sheikh Hatem el-Shenawi’s program is on?” Hassan asked him.
Surprised, the servant picked up the remote control and switched to the right channel. Hatem had already begun. Hassan thanked him and pushed him in the back to get him out of the room so he wouldn’t hear what Hatem said in the program.
Hatem was sitting in the same position as in the hotel, but he was wearing his turban and smiling earnestly, looking straight into the lens as if he were addressing Hassan directly. “My younger brother, Hassan Abu Ali, was asking me about contradictions in the Islamic religion, or what he thinks are contradictions,” Hatem was saying. “Of course that expression will shock and upset some viewers, who might think it rather harsh.”
The camera zoomed in on Hatem’s face. “Before anyone gets upset, I’d like to say that our religion is strong and resilient, and so we shouldn’t be afraid of questions and skepticism that might seem insensitive. Do you know why? Because our Prophet, peace and God’s blessings be upon him, taught us that. This might not please Hassan. Okay, let’s go and tell Hassan Abu Ali that we have more reason to have doubts than Abraham. Yes, the prophet Abraham doubted, yes, the father of all prophets doubted the power of God and maybe also the existence of God, but on top of all that the Prophet tells us we should be skeptical, even more than the prophet Abraham. Look at the saying of the Prophet narrated by Abu Hureira in Bukhari’s collection of hadiths, number 4,537. In it the Prophet says, ‘We are more entitled to be skeptical than Abraham because he said, “O Lord, show me how You bring the dead back to life.” The Lord said, “Have you not believed?” He said, “Oh yes I have, but just for my peace of mind.”’
“You’ll find another version of the story with another number in the same hadith collection, number 3,372, and it says, ‘The Prophet of God, peace and God’s blessings be upon Him, said, “We are more entitled than Abraham to be skeptical because he said, ‘O Lord, show me how You bring the dead back to life.’ The Lord said, ‘Have you not believed?’ He said, ‘Oh yes I have, but just for my peace of mind.’ May God have mercy on Lot. Certainly he wanted to lean on a powerful support. If I were to stay in prison as long as Joseph did, I would have accepted the offer of freedom.”’
“What does this hadith mean, Hassan? I know you can hear and see me now, unless you have a power cut at your place, and that’s unlikely, or unless the satellite receiver is frozen, and that’s even less likely. So what does it mean? It means the Prophet is patting us on the back and saying, ‘Don’t worry if you happen to have doubts or if some devil comes and whispers doubts in your ear or if your faith is shaken to the point of atheism, don’t be too hard on yourselves, your ancestor Abraham had doubts, even Abraham wanted reassurance and wanted to be convinced that God exists and is omnipotent and could really bring the dead back to life and that there’s resurrection and a Day of Judgment. Abraham had doubts and he addressed God in His heavens.’ So how about poor humble mortals like us? In fact Hassan isn’t poor at all. He’s probably a millionaire, but there’s no reason to be envious. What matters is that the Prophet himself, despite his unique status, says, ‘If I were to stay in prison as long as Joseph did, I would have accepted the offer of freedom.’ In other words, he might have cracked. Of course the Prophet was the target of assassination attempts and raids and he was besieged by the Meccan troops at Uhud and people tried to tempt him, and all this was harder to bear than imprisonment for Joseph, but he didn’t compromise. But here he is, opening the gate of Mercy for us, offering us the chance to overcome our misgivings and rest assured that God will not judge us by what we think, but by what we do.
“Of course, Hassan, you haven’t understood any of this! You’re sitting there wondering when Sheikh Hatem will cut for a break. Okay, let’s meet again after the break.”
When the adverts started, Hassan realized that Sheikh Hatem really liked him, a
nd he also realized that he would defeat Hatem.
When morning came, Hassan found a message from Hatem on his phone. “Do your homework properly and come meet me,” it said.
“Where?” Hassan quickly replied.
He didn’t get an answer for three hours and even thought of calling Hatem. Then he reconsidered and thought of breaking off contact with him. Then he reconsidered again, and when he went back to sleep, another message arrived. “In any fish restaurant where you can afford to take me to lunch,” it said.
At first sight he knew that Dr. Muhyi, the psychiatrist who had seen Hassan, had lied to Hassan’s family or was afraid to tell them the truth, or else they had misled Hatem, because Hassan did indeed have problems.
“Of course he does,” Muhyi, speaking clearly, softly, and firmly, told Hatem in the garden of Hatem’s villa.
Hatem had contacted him after getting his number from the people who produced his programs. He had had several chance encounters with Muhyi in the corridors at the studios and had exchanged the usual pleasantries. The phone conversation didn’t last long. When Muhyi realized it was about Hassan, they both had visions of the president’s powerful son and decided that meeting face to face would be safer and give them more space. They discovered they lived in nearby compounds, so Muyhi came to visit in the evening before going off to his clinic. They sat down together to have tea in the garden. They both knew how important it was that the other should understand their role in the affair.
“Psychological problems?” Hatem asked.
“Yes, psychological. What else would you expect from the son of one of the richest men in the world and a relative of the people who rule the country?”
“So it’s his identity and background that are the key to his problems.”
“See how complicated the human psyche is,” said the doctor.