The Televangelist

by Ibrahim Essa

  He had the impression that Hadhifa was taken aback by the unexpected question.

  “What do you mean, Mawlana?” he said. “All Muslims who pray develop a mark on their foreheads from prostrating themselves.”

  “Who told you that?” Hatem replied. “Come, let’s turn the television on and watch any Arabic religious channel and take a look at the sheikhs and the audience and the speakers, or let’s go to Mecca on pilgrimage and you’ll find that only the Egyptians, in the million circling around you, have prayer marks. Or go and get a picture of Osama bin Laden and Ayman al-Zawahiri together. They’re brothers in arms, they’ve slept in the same camp for years and prayed together in the same mosques for days on end, but even so it’s Ayman al-Zawahiri who has an obvious prayer mark on his forehead, whereas there isn’t a trace of one on Osama bin Laden.”

  “But it says in the Quran, their marks are on their faces, from the trace of prostration!” Hadhifa said in surprise.

  “And who told you, Hadhifa, that ‘their marks’ refers to prayer marks? Prayer marks have nothing to do with the marks mentioned in the Quran. There are different opinions on these marks. There are several accounts attributed to Ibn Abbas in which it refers to a radiance or a whiteness on their faces on the Day of Resurrection, in other words, nothing to do with this world to start with. There’s also an interpretation that says it means their faces are yellow from not sleeping, and in that version it says that if you saw them you’d think they were sick, but they’re not.”

  Hatem stopped when he saw that Hadhifa wasn’t concentrating.

  “But Hadhifa, who gave you the name Hadhifa?” he asked, getting back to basics.

  “My grandmother Mona. Because in a dream she saw Hadhifa the Companion of the Prophet and he told her he wanted her as a wife but only after you wear the hijab, Mona, he said. She woke up from the dream, gave up acting, and started wearing the hijab,” Hadhifa replied.

  Hatem liked the story.

  “That’s very strange!” he said, hiding his sarcasm. “I mean, Companions of the Prophet who are better known than Hadhifa might have visited her in her dream, but it’s very strange that it should have been Hadhifa in particular. Did your grandmother tell you how she’d even heard about Hadhifa?”

  “Didn’t you know she acted in the film al-Qadisiya?”

  Hatem was surprised. “Really? But what’s al-Qadisiya got to do with Hadhifa ibn al-Yaman?”

  “He was in the film.”

  “No, come on!”

  “Yes, and that’s why she remembered him.”

  “But I think Hadhifa took part in the battle of Nahavand and not the battle of Qadisiya,” said Hatem, “but it’s not important because it sounds like the actor who played him was amazing.”

  Hadhifa gave him the text of the advertisement and a small microphone attached to the computer and asked him to read it several times. Hatem sighed, then began to read.

  “The Muslim ringtone,” he said.

  Hadhifa interrupted him, finally took the tooth stick out of his mouth, and said, “No, Mawlana, we want it to be moving and solemn.”

  Hatem laughed heartily. “Okay, Hadhifa, I’ll be solemn right away,” he replied.

  Hadhifa finished the recording and started to pack up his stuff. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a wrinkled envelope with crumpled corners, and offered it to Hatem, who assumed it was his fee for the recording. The amount in the envelope clearly wasn’t very much, in fact so little that Hatem felt as insulted as he had been when he found himself doing voiceovers for adverts, like an amateur or a fading celebrity. Hatem declined to take the envelope and told Hadhifa that his work was a gift to his grandmother, but Hadhifa left the envelope on the desk anyway. Hatem felt his telephone vibrating. He glanced at the number and was curious, because the call was from a landline at the Media Production City, where the studios and television stations were based.

  “Assalam aleikum,” he said.

  “Wa aleikum assalam. Is that the evangelist Hatem el-Shenawi?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Medhat el-Shahhat, producer for the This Evening program on the Dunya channel. We’d like you to take part in a phone conversation on the program and give us your comments on the explosion at the church,” said the caller.

  Hatem was surprised. He assumed this was some young man who hadn’t heard he’d been banned from the airwaves.

  “I can’t, Medhat,” he said. “Forgive me but I’m busy right now.”

  Hadhifa took advantage of the fact that Hatem was busy on the phone. He shook Hatem’s hand and walked toward the door. Hatem took advantage of the call to accept the envelope.

  “But Mawlana, what you say at this time and about this incident is very important and we all need to hear it,” said Medhat.

  Hatem was shaking Hadhifa’s hand and escorting him to the front door. Sirhan then went out with him while Hatem tried to end the conversation without being rude to the enthusiastic producer.

  “I’m not playing hard to get, I just can’t do it.”

  The producer insisted. “We only need you for two minutes,” he said.

  “Who’s the editor-in-chief of the program, Medhat?” Hatem asked impatiently.

  “It’s Mr. Mushir el-Shenwani.”

  “Is he with you in the control room?”

  “Yes, he’s here.”

  “Okay, ask him. Tell him you’ve got Hatem el-Shenawi on the line and you want me to speak on the program. Tell him and let me hear what he says.”

  “But he asked me to call you. Anyway, here’s Mr. Shenwani for you.”

  The new voice was different, rougher. “Mawlana,” he said, “I miss the great scholar. We haven’t seen your face on screen for a while.” The tone was welcoming but a little harsh.

  “God preserve you, Mushir,” Hatem said sharply. “But it looks like young Medhat isn’t fully informed of the change in circumstances, so please accept my apologies for not being able to speak on the program.”

  Mushir reacted with a whole dramatic performance. “No, not at all, Mawlana, we’d be honored to have you speak. Don’t worry about us. I have with me a list of names sent by the Ministry of Information, on headed notepaper with a seal and from the ministry’s fax machine, and it lists the ten sheikhs and eminent scholars that the television channels should ask to comment on the church incident, and your name is number three on the list.”

  Was it a mistake? Would the person who made the mistake pay a price? Was it a gesture of approval to bring him back under their patronage? Hatem had no ready answer but before long he was doing a fifteen-minute call-in interview with the program, condemning and denouncing the attack on the church. He trod cautiously for fear he might lose the chance to go back on air that loomed on the horizon.

  When they punished him they gave him his freedom. When they pardoned him they put him back in their cage.

  Hatem was free when he was banned from television and from making any other public appearance: no one asked him to say anything he didn’t want to say or even to say anything at all. But now just by offering him, whether deliberately or by mistake, an opportunity to make a comeback, he found himself unable to resist the temptation. He began calculating what he could say and what would make them angry and what would make them happy and win their approval.

  He hated his own vulnerability, which followed him like his shadow. He started going over in his mind what had happened to Mukhtar el-Husseini and to him and Hassan, as a way to maintain his self-respect and keep his distance from the temptations of the limelight. But the lights certainly caught his attention.

  THE INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE EVENT were clear: “Brigadier Ahmed el-Faisal will come and take you himself because you won’t be able to reach the cathedral in your own car and because you’ll go with him first of all to the headquarters of the Sheikh of al-Azhar. Don’t worry, we’ll take you back home when it’s over.”

  Everything had happened in such a rush and in such confusion that he had aban
doned any residual objection to the idea of reverting to his old role as sheikh of the red light. For a time he had harbored hopes that he no longer needed to operate in their world. He thought that the fact that those in power were angry with him had put an end to the uncertainty and made his decision for him, but in just a few hours his powers of resistance had collapsed and the lure of resuming his role in the theater had taken charge. Once you start acting in the theater, you run the risk of becoming the person whose role you play and your life becomes a drama in itself.

  The invitation to the event in the cathedral strongly suggested they had put him back on the stage and that he was still a star that the director needed. His telephone had rung and the screen had shown a private number. He sighed and took a deep breath, then answered. The man on the other end was Abul-Makarem el-Sebai, the office manager of the president’s son.

  “Mawlana,” he said, “you were interesting and informative in your comments on television yesterday.”

  “May God honor you and keep you, Abul-Makarem Pasha. It was an honor,” replied Hatem, trying to disguise his jubilation.

  “It was a horrible and tragic incident,” Abul-Makarem replied, combining a somber, dignified manner with the tone of voice of a fridge thermostat. “It confirms that Egypt is being targeted and that foreign forces are lying in wait to attack this country, which is peaceful and stable. They’re trying to strike at us by creating strife and chaos.”

  He didn’t wait to hear what Hatem thought of his geostrategic analysis, but went on to explain Hatem’s assignment.

  “We’re all at the service of this country at a time when it needs us and expects us to save it from the crisis. Thanks to God’s will and the wisdom of our great president, who is a symbol and guarantor of stability for all Egyptians, the crisis will not give rise to any strife between the two elements of the nation. Mawlana, we’ve welcomed a great initiative on the part of our men of religion, who are going to get together as a delegation to visit the Pope in the cathedral to offer their condolences and preach in the heart of the church about Islam’s tolerance. They’re going to say long live the crescent and the cross and there’s no difference between Muslims and Christians, we’re all Egyptians. You’re one of Egypt’s greatest and most famous evangelists and people love you and trust you so you have to be there with us in the delegation, so that we, and the Copts and the whole world, can hear from you and from the other eminent sheikhs about how Islam condemns this cowardly terrorism. In fact, as soon as the interior minister and the minister of information put the idea to the president’s son he presented it enthusiastically to the president. Between you and me, they drew up the list of names themselves and you were high on the list, Mawlana.”

  The assignment declaration was over. Hatem thanked the man for his exhaustive and fascinating presentation. He obeyed the call with mumbled thanks for having confidence in him and with remarks on the great responsibility. Then Abul-Makarem told him that Faisal was coming to pick him up for the mission.

  It was still early and he didn’t know exactly when Faisal would come, so he decided to sit in his office browsing through books and do the kind of reading he had abandoned when he started making public appearances, because the material he used in his public appearances was all material he had memorized in the past and he didn’t need to review any of it. He asked for a cup of coffee to be brought to his office. He had opened the curtains and the rays of the sun flooded the room. He opened one half of the window to let the cool winter breeze refresh him. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the envelope that Hadhifa had left the day before. It seemed to be calling him.

  He sat on his chair and picked up the envelope, which was printed with the production company logo. “Hadhifa Islamic Media,” it said, and then “Private—to Mawlana Hatem el-Shenawi” in handwriting. Hatem tried to open the envelope where it was sealed, but the edges tore and a flash drive fell out. It took him by surprise. His trembling fingers continued to open the envelope and eventually he managed to pull out the pieces of paper without tearing them, irritated at how well sealed it was. He opened two folded pages. The first was in small, delicate handwriting. His heart beating and his veins throbbing, he realized immediately that it was written by Nashwa. She had signed her name at the end. Impatiently and with troubled thoughts he started to read it.

  “In the Name of God the Merciful, the Compassionate,” it began. “My sheikh, my teacher, and my love . . .”

  The words ‘my love’ hit him in the spot that hurt him most. The fact that the word came next to expressions of respect brought tears to his eyes.

  I know you’re angry with me and that hurts and pains me. While I respect your position and recognize your right to it, I am unable to ask you for forgiveness, because my sin is too great and unbearable. God alone knows how wretched I am and I don’t know what will happen to me if they find out that I’ve sent you a copy of the flash drive that Sheikh Mukhtar el-Husseini left in your charge. I stole it from your office on their instructions and I swear by God Almighty that I copied it for you that same day and didn’t look at the contents and never thought of trying to find out what was on it. I hid it somewhere that no one could ever come across it and I’m sending it to you through Mona Ramzi and I don’t have another copy, because it was left in your care. I no longer fear anything but God, whereas I used to be afraid of devils too. I ask God alone for protection and pray that you don’t come to any harm because of me.

  Hatem’s feelings and thoughts were confused and conflicted. He fluctuated between desire and pain, then he laughed with abandon in spite of himself as he read the last line.

  By the way, I’ve applied to do a doctorate on the thought of the Mutazila and my supervisor told me he was a colleague of yours at college and he’s sure you’re a Mutazilite. So I didn’t say anything, Mawlana.

  Had he forgiven her? All he knew was he now had visual and auditory hallucinations of Nashwa: Nashwa smiling and laughing, Nashwa frowning, Nashwa playful, stern, and wearing the niqab, with long loose hair, tense and dry when she announced her strange, fanatical opinions, her taunting dance in the film, the way she had stood up in his program and asked him an aggressive question, the way she lay in his arms with beads of sweat on her neck, the time when she stood in front of him draped in loose black cloth that made her look mysterious and gloomy, they way she flirted with him for days and moved closer until she touched him, while she spoke to her masters at night, telling them his secrets and violating his privacy.

  After sipping the coffee for a while he noticed the other folded piece of paper. With a nervous wave he again asked Sirhan to keep away for the moment. He made sure the door was firmly closed. He ignored the breeze that had picked up and was blowing the papers on the desk and rustling the pages of a book that was open on the shelf of the bookcase, making a noise like leaves on a windy night. The sun had withdrawn so Hatem put the electric lights on, and read the piece of paper. It was a letter of thanks from the production company for reading the adverts for the ringtones for free. He couldn’t help laughing out loud at Mona Ramzi and her grandson with the tooth stick, but he was grateful to Mona for intervening and arranging Nashwa’s letter. He thought back to what Mona had told him in the telephone conversation about how Nashwa had been unfairly treated.

  He put the flash drive into the laptop and opened the folder. There was a file that looked like a copy of a letter, an audio file that looked like a download of some recording, and a third file that looked like a long text file. Hatem opened the letter file and it turned out to be a scan of a handwritten piece of paper. Hatem thought it must be Sheikh Mukhtar’s handwriting, especially as the letter had a stamp that included his signature and his title as the head of the Sufi order. He tried to shift from his feelings toward Nashwa to his responsibility toward Mukhtar and to the onerous and oppressive question of what there was in this file that was so serious that they had to hunt it down when they were persecuting Mukhtar. He suddenly worried that Ahmed el-Faisa
l might have arrived or called, so he checked his cell and there was a message from Faisal warning him that he was on the way, so he hurried to find out what had made Mukhtar el-Husseini their enemy.

  The writer of these lines is Sheikh Mukhtar el-Husseini and this is my testimony to Almighty God, to meet my obligations to the truth and to set the record straight for all Muslims. Things have come to a head and it is no longer possible to remain silent. We have endured and we have stood firm. We have tried to resolve the disagreement and suppress the anger and pain that we feel. We have reached out to cooperate with good will, but all we have received in return is obstinacy, persecution, deliberate humiliation, the harassment of our families, and the violation of our dignity. We have only God to whom we can appeal for protection and we ask Him to remedy the injustice and ease our distress. We appeal to our ally on the Day of Judgment, our chosen ancestor, may God bless him and grant him peace, who was sent by God out of compassion and to show us the way, and whose family was cleansed by God of any impurity. How strange it is that some people lie in ambush for the noble, righteous, and saintly descendants of the Prophet and think God does not notice those who do wrong. God Almighty will eventually show you His signs and you will see what fate they meet, because we have been the victims of daily harassment and persecution—financially, spiritually, psychologically, and in our family lives—by unjust and corrupt policemen and Interior Ministry officials and by officials and civil servants in the provincial headquarters, who take orders from their masters.

  All this came about because of a sequence of events that began one day last year, when a former general in State Security came to us, apparently as a Sufi disciple. He came with a friend of ours, a judge who has regularly served the order since he was a young man and law student. Because we liked and trusted this man, we welcomed the general, especially as we do not turn away those who knock on our doors and we do not deny those who come to us with requests. The man cultivated our friendship and found time to help us for months, and one day, when there were only a few members in the place, he told me that Mr. Abul-Makarem el-Sebai had heard how highly people thought of us because of our relationship with God Almighty and wanted to arrange a discreet meeting with us at a quiet time. This was the first time I had heard the man’s name and I found out he was the secretary or office manager of the president’s son. We willingly agreed. We knew that people said good things about us and believed us to have special powers, although some of this is baseless nonsense. We also knew that in private people gossiped about us having something to do with magic. This idea was propagated by those who found fault with us and it was accepted and believed by those in whose hearts Satan had planted hatred for us and for descendants of the Prophet, because in fact the relationship between us and the Lord is like a lover’s attachment to his beloved. We worship Him in love, not in fear. We may not be perfect but we dissociate ourselves from anything associated with Satan or Iblis. When Abul-Makarem el-Sebai came to see us we found out that he wanted to arrange a meeting between us and the president’s son, who was seeking baraka from us, and we were delighted because, although we like to keep our distance from power and from rulers, we told ourselves that God had sent him to us to bring him close to God, to divert him from things that make God angry, to persuade him to do things that please God, and to put him in a position where he could help someone who had been mistreated.