by Ibrahim Essa
“God says, ‘You had in the Prophet of God a good example for those who look forward to God and the Day of Judgment. That means we are commanded by God Almighty, Nashwa (he went up to her again), to emulate the Prophet, may God bless him and grant him peace. And what does ‘emulate’ mean? It means take him as an example, that we act as he acted. He is a model for us. So far so good. But then the question is: do we have to emulate the Prophet in everything he did? Or only in the things he told us to do?
“The early Muslim scholars”—he took a long look at Nashwa—“differed on this. Some said we could break the things the Prophet did into three categories: obligation, delegation, and authorization.” Kaaki in person came through Hatem’s earpiece, apparently very upset. He had pushed the director aside and taken charge of running the program.
“Enough of this big boring talk, Mawlana,” he said. “Simplify it, loosen up, and finish it off for God’s sake.”
Hatem complied immediately and smiled.
“What matters, guys, is that the Prophet only does good deeds and things that are halal.” Then he lightened up. “The Prophet had up to nine wives at a time but we’re not going to follow his example in that respect, because that was something that was limited to him. Okay, so what did the Prophet fight with? With swords and spears. Should we copy him and pick up swords to fight our enemies now? So when the enemy has tanks and planes, we’d have swords and spears. Of course not. So can you tell me, Nashwa, if that means we’d be violating the requirement to follow the Prophet’s example?”
Nashwa was about to reply but he stopped her by raising his hand and with a look that mixed admiration and warning.
“The Prophet used to eat without spoons or forks, with his hands. Is that what we should be doing now, to follow his example? The test is whether the Prophet, if he’d had knives and forks and spoons, would have said, ‘No, I’ll eat with my hands.’ The Prophet used to wear a gown that was cut short so that it didn’t get covered in the dust or the mud on the ground. But did they have suits and trousers and shirts and ties in the days of the Prophet, and did he refuse to wear them? The point here is that the Prophet asked us to be clean and neat and smartly dressed, but he didn’t tell us to wear a gown or anything else. If we imagine that instead of camels outside the Prophet’s room there were Land-Rovers and Mercedeses”—he could hear the director passing on hurried instructions: “no brand names because of the adverts”—“and other big fancy cars, would he have told us to forget about the cars and ride the camels in order to follow his example?”
“Wrap it up, Mawlana. You’ve got thirty seconds left.”
Hatem glanced at Nashwa and then looked up at Hassan.
“I leave you in God’s care and protection,” he said.
The program’s theme song faded away from somewhere over the studio set and some of the lights went out in the corners, above the tiers of seats and on the backdrops behind where Hatem was standing. The television screens went dark, turning into rectangular expanses of black. The lamp in the ceiling that had been on throughout the program went out and the place came to life with chaotic, random activity. The young people came down from the stands, some casually, others in a rush. The cameramen wandered away from their posts behind their cameras and the sound technician came up to Hatem to remove his microphone and earpiece. Then Kaaki rushed in, together with his men from the program team and his staff, beaming and smiling happily at the first program in the series. He heard cries of ‘congratulations,’ ‘awesome,’ ‘well done, Mawlana,’ ‘it’ll be a big hit,’ and so on in the distance from assorted flatterers and time-servers. But Hatem’s eyes were looking out for the girl with the pretty face, the athletic physique, and the feisty temperament. He was listening for her voice, which still rang in his ears and made his heart race. Nashwa had disappeared into the crowd or into the darkness. Several girls in the hijab went past, lingered, and stopped, but she wasn’t one of them.
Kaaki grabbed him, embraced him, congratulated him, and turned him toward the studio door, shouting, “Quickly, people.”
They did act quickly. A team in the uniform of a famous store appeared, pushing a table on wheels carrying a large cake decorated with sparklers lit in celebration of the occasion. The crowd gathered around the table, pretending to be celebrating, but the mood was somewhat marred by the tense way Kaaki looked at and whispered to his assistants and the way Hatem was checking all the faces that came and went around him. People wrapped their arms around Hatem and grinned into flashing cameras. Then Kaaki pulled Hatem off by the hand, followed by the director and the man in charge of production, apparently under a prior agreement to meet. They went into a room next to the studio that had large, low chairs, and as soon as they had sat down Kaaki let out all the anger he had been holding back.
“I want to know right now who let in that bitch who asked about rejecting the Sunna and the Mutazila and all that talk that’ll cause trouble. Who’s responsible?” he asked.
“It all worked out fine in the end,” Hatem volunteered.
“What do you mean, Mawlana?” Kaaki retorted. “Please, I may not know much about religion. I may have only one percent of your knowledge, but I do know about business and dirty warfare, and that girl had been planted to wreck the program and tarnish the reputation of Sheikh Hatem or start malicious rumors about him. I have full respect for the sheikh, who’s a learned man, but I translate it into money, into millions, and when the yellow press, or the green press or whatever, comes out with headlines about the program, with the sheikh saying ‘Don’t do what the Prophet did,’ no offense, but I’ll be screwed and we’ll be ruined. It’s true Sheikh Hatem hit back hard when he answered, but the trap was set and there might be some spillover, so I want to know right now who the girl came with and who she’s working for.”
Kaaki’s team was tense, frightened, and uncomprehending, especially when more of his assistants came into the room, drawn by his loud shouting. The smiles on their faces turned to absolute silence and smoke filled the room from the cigarettes they dragged on nervously.
Sparks started to fly when no one answered Kaaki.
“What?” he said. “You clowns don’t know who brought her or who she is?”
“To be honest,” said the director. “I saw all the girls and boys the production team chose and I ruled out a few of them, but that was all about the way they looked and the ratio of boys to girls, but I wasn’t responsible for the questions or the production and preparation.”
The producer quickly summoned his assistant, who was responsible for the audience. While he was on his way they pleaded with Kaaki to calm down.
While Hatem admitted that the fuss that Kaaki had made was entirely legitimate and that the danger he mentioned was real, he was more interested in musing on the girl’s face, which had a distinctly calming effect on him. He suddenly remembered Hassan with fondness and called him up to find out where he was. He was told that Hassan was waiting for him in the car with Sirhan the driver.
Kaaki leaned over toward Hatem quizzically, as if he wanted to set his mind at rest.
“But tell me,” he said, “who are those Mutazila, Mawlana?”
“They’re a group of soccer players who used to play for Ahli, and when they retired, they formed a team called the Mutazila,” Hatem quickly replied, playing on the fact that ‘mutazila’ could mean ‘retirees.’
Everyone laughed, after waiting for Kaaki to laugh first.
“You’re kidding, Mawlana,” Kaaki said.
Hatem smiled.
“Okay, let’s deal with the retirement you’re planning for me before we play,” he said.
The production official accused of bringing Nashwa arrived, looking as though they’d dragged him out of the bathroom. He was wet and trembling, and he soon admitted that one of the girls he knew on Facebook had told him about a friend of hers that would like to take part in Sheikh Hatem’s program. Clearly the guy had been boasting on Facebook that he was working on the program
, and he told her the time and place of the event after checking that she was pretty and wore the hijab.
“How did you check?” asked Kaaki.
“I looked at her Facebook page and saw her picture. She turned up and I gave her one of the questions from the production unit when she said she wanted to ask one.”
As Hatem got into his car next to Hassan, he asked Hassan what he thought of the program.
Hassan handed him his phone. “My sister wants to speak to you,” he said.
Hatem picked up the phone, surprised and exhausted by the strain of the evening’s activities. He thought about the ordeal that God had sent to try him and realized that he felt indifferent.
“Good evening, Madam,” he said.
“And good evening to you, Mawlana. I thought I’d congratulate you on the program. It was great. We benefit greatly from your learning, Mawlana.”
“God bless you, Madam,” said Hatem.
“How’s Hassan doing with you? We’re really imposing on you.”
“Not at all. It’s an honor to have him. He’s a great guy, a fine young man.”
“Is there any hope, Mawlana, that you can show him the right path?”
“God is the one who guides us, Madam.”
Apparently her husband was with her on the same line.
“Sheikh Hatem,” said the president’s son. “Of course we know it’s God who guides us, but if that’s the way it is we could have kept him at home and waited for God to guide him while he sat in his bedroom.”
Hatem was disarmed by the rude interruption. “You’re right, that’s true,” he said, regaining his strength. “But even if he sat by the Kaaba in Mecca every morning, there’d still be no guarantee that the good Lord would show him the way, sir.”
Farida stepped in to mitigate her husband’s nonsense and reassure Hatem.
“We have high hopes that the good Lord will guide Hassan through you,” she said.
“It’s all in God’s hands, Madam.”
He said goodbye, then threw the phone into Hassan’s lap. Hassan laughed vindictively.
“He treated you badly,” he said. “He’s arrogant and bad-tempered.”
Hatem denied it completely but he felt that Hassan was aware of his weakness when faced with his sister’s husband. He tried to act composed.
“Look, your sister’s husband is the son of the big man, the son of the president, and not just that, the inner workings of the whole country are under his control, so you can be proud you’ve given him such a hard time,” he said.
Hassan grinned, which seemed odd when he was so depressed and unemotional. “It’s true, and this happened after he gave you personally a hard time,” Hassan continued, “but look on the bright side, he doesn’t matter to you either way.”
“So does he matter to you?”
“I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not, but it’s you that matters to me now.”
And Nashwa too, he whispered to himself. Now how did she get hold of something he’d never said in public?
“But what does ‘Mutazila’ mean, Sheikh Hatem?”
“Nothing important. They were a group that was put in quarantine at Quraysh airport,” said Hatem, taking from his pocket a slip of paper with Nashwa’s telephone number on it.
Hatem found Omayma in the garden having breakfast with Hassan. He realized she was interested in him, that this young man had aroused her curiosity. As he went down to join them in the sunny calm, Nashwa’s face popped up in his mind. He tried to ignore it, but all night he had been wondering how a face he had seen only fleetingly could have found a way into his heart of stone.
“Excellent. Before long I’ll come down and find you two in the swimming pool together,” he said with a laugh as he approached them. Hassan didn’t understand what he meant, and Omayma just ignored the remark.
“What are you going to do after what happened on the program yesterday?” Omayma asked.
Hatem sat down and tried to relax.
“Thank God you saw it. What did you think?” he asked.
“Do you know that girl?”
“Nashwa?” he asked, with a sigh he failed to conceal.
“How did you find out her name?”
“So you didn’t watch the program. You only heard about it from others. What did they tell you?”
“No, I watched it.”
“Well, my good woman, I asked her what her name was and I said it several times. But what I really want to know is how your friends reacted to the program.”
Silence.
“Come on, I know you stopped watching me some time ago,” said Hatem.
“By the way, I saw the repeat early this morning,” Hassan interrupted.
“Did they do what I asked and cut out the bit about the Mutazila and denying the Sunna?” asked Hatem with interest.
“They certainly cut out the word ‘Mutazila.’”
Hatem smiled and nodded. “I believe you because that word Mutazila had a big effect on you,” he said.
“In fact the people who told me about it just said that the girl was obnoxious and they didn’t really understand the stuff about accusing you of denying the Sunna,” said Omayma.
Suddenly she lost interest in how Hatem might answer her question and turned to Hassan.
“So, Peter, have you become an Orthodox Christian or a Catholic? Or have you decided to be a Protestant?” she asked.
“You’re amazing, my dear wife,” Hatem said. “It’s a very good question.”
Hassan was at a loss, and he dealt with it by being argumentative: “You have Sunnis and Shi’a too!”
“That’s right,” said Hatem. “That’s why she was asking you how it is with your lot.”
“There are plenty of Westerners who’ve converted to Islam,” said Omayma with maternal tenderness. “And some of them have become Shi’a. I heard that myself. And besides, when you’re starting on something new and everything’s on offer for you to decide for yourself, then it’s a real opportunity to make a fresh start and choose based on what you think and want and how you feel.”
“The truth is I haven’t thought about that at all.”
“Do all those who convert become Orthodox like the Coptic Church?” asked Hatem.
Apparently Hassan hadn’t yet accessed that part of his brain, and Hatem continued: “Didn’t I tell you some people convert to Christianity here out of sympathy for the Copts, especially if the person converting is sentimental or sensitive or rather naive. So those people go straight to the sect that’s closest to them, and not to the sect they’ve studied and understood and are convinced about. Even the Christians who convert to Islam in Egypt operate on the basis that Islam means Sunni Islam. By the way, the Shi’a more than anyone else promote the idea that they’re committed to the Sunna of the Prophet. But which sunna? That’s the question, because we disagree over the authenticity of hadiths. It’s much the same in Christianity, where there are various sects as a result of ideological and religious and political and sometimes military conflicts, and bloody ones too. You come and say ‘I’m going to convert to Christianity.’ Okay, you’re free, convert. But wouldn’t it make more sense to know what you’re leaving behind and where you’re going?”
Omayma had ordered a breakfast especially for Sheikh Hatem. The servants took away dishes and brought other dishes as he was speaking, and when he was ready to eat he shut up and Omayma took over.
“In fact,” she said, “the Coptic Orthodox priests we have are very much like the Salafist sheikhs who appear on television, with long bushy beards that aren’t trimmed, and they henna their beards yellow rather than let them turn gray from old age. They all have square faces without mustaches and their faces are so hairy you can’t see their features clearly. Their faces start at the nose and end at the eyebrows. The Salafists put a white piece of cloth on their heads, not a turban or a skullcap, and what the priests wear is rather like that piece of cloth but with crosses printed on it. The Protestants, on t
he other hand, are really smart—no long beards, or short beards either, and their clothes are dignified and neat, with the white collar standing out against the neck of the black suit.”
She turned warmly toward Hassan.
“Protestant is much nicer, Hassan,” she said, “so that you can be different from your fellow converts and stand out from the crowd.”
Hatem laughed at the reasoning, and Hassan laughed too.
“So he should choose his religion based on the cut of the suit,” said Hatem.
“In fact being well-dressed does make a difference,” Hassan said. “The priests and the Salafists are just as Auntie Omayma described them.”
Hatem thought it was cute when Hassan called Omayma ‘auntie,’ but Omayma disapproved. “Auntie!” she said. “Is that what we agreed? My name’s Omayma.”
“Madam Omayma,” Hatem said. “Sectarian distinctions are especially common in Christianity and Islam because the two religions were widespread and open to everyone, in all their geographic, social, and cultural variations, unlike Judaism for example, a religion that’s confined to its adherents and has a horrible attitude to anyone who disagrees. Christianity came from Bethlehem and Nazareth but it spread as far as the English counties, Spain, and the backwaters of the Roman Empire. Islam was born in Mecca and Medina but it went to Persia, Byzantium, Sindh, and India, and political disputes over government and the struggle for power were undoubtedly the root cause of the disagreement between the Sunnis and the Shi’a. Then culture came along and added to the mix, but the big cause was politics.”
“Why don’t you say that on your programs?” asked Omayma.
He had a good laugh, then replied. “Because we want to sit in this garden, with the swimming pool in front of us and Omar in Europe, and have drivers and waiters and put up brother Hassan, sorry Boutros, in our house. We want to meet his sister’s husband, the real ruler of the country, and not the head of the prison service. There’s an audience for superficial religion and people willing to finance it, whereas no one understands serious religion and no one will fund it.”