The Televangelist

by Ibrahim Essa

  On the wall behind the Grand Imam, Hatem noticed a large picture of the president kissing a copy of the Quran. He couldn’t tell whether the reason for the picture was the president or the Quran. The room had arabesque stained-glass windows, high-backed dark brown wooden seats with padded arms, bookcases with glass doors on all four walls, full of books with leather bindings and gilt lettering, a massive chandelier that looked like a replica of the ones in the Fatimid mosques nearby in al-Muizz Street, and bottles of water around the table and small teacups with filigree holders. Some of the sheikhs had put their prayer beads in front of them on the table, next to their cell phones. They sat there, proud to be present and happy to listen to whatever was said. The Sheikh of al-Azhar spoke gently in a low voice. He talked about going to pay his condolences to the Pope the previous evening and how the wicked and criminal attack on the church could only have been committed by someone who hated Islam and knew nothing about it, and that on the Day of Judgment God would punish anyone who did harm to Egypt. He asked the Egyptian evangelists, sheikhs, and religious scholars present to come with him to visit the Pope and offer their sincere condolences and to enlighten the nation by explaining that Islam was not responsible for murders by the faithless or the sins committed by terrorists and attributed to Islam, a religion that, through its tolerance and compassion, will win over anyone who takes issue with it.

  The minister of information listened to the sermon with his head bowed like someone who was hearing such talk for the first time and had just now discovered that Islam was tolerant. His drooping eyelids and his regular nodding in agreement almost made Hatem feel seasick, and when the sheikh stopped talking, apparently satisfied that there was no need to explain what had already been explained or to repeat what he had already said several times, the minister leaned over to him and whispered something. The sheikh then said that now they would listen to the eminent scholar and esteemed professor, Dr. Rifaat Hashem, who might be able, by what he said, to set the outlines for what they should all make clear to Egyptians, Muslims and Christians alike, when they addressed the whole world in the cathedral. Rifaat Hashem, whose mission was apparently to pass on orders from the chairman of the religious affairs committee in parliament, who was the chairman of the same committee in the ruling party, started his speech by thanking the sheikh and praising him so profusely that Hatem thought they must be going to the Pope to thank the Sheikh of al-Azhar.

  Then Hashem recited from the Mumtahana chapter of the Quran: “As for those who do not fight against you for religion’s sake, and do not drive you out of your homes, God does not forbid you from showing them kindness and treating them fairly. God loves those who act fairly.”

  They all bowed their heads reverently, endorsing the compliment to Islam and flattering the Sheikh of al-Azhar.

  Hatem realized that the more anyone tried to make this farce succeed the more it would fail, but Dr. Hashem didn’t give anyone a chance to form their own judgment. Instead he added lots of words about the tolerance of Islam, as though he were trying to persuade his audience of it. Then he struck the blow that hit Hatem the hardest, with the subject most likely to make him angry: how Islam treats the People of the Book, such as Christian and Jews. He said the Prophet forbade their mistreatment or murderous attacks on them, as in the hadith recounted by Safwan ibn Salim, quoting several Companions of the Prophet as saying, “If anyone mistreats someone with whom he has contracted an agreement, or impugns their character, or makes excessive demands on them, or takes something from them with ill will, then I will argue against him on the Day of Judgment.” Abu Daoud and al-Bayhaqi related the hadith, and even toughened up the threat against those who violated the sanctity of their blood and attacked them without good cause. Bukhari, citing Abdullah ibn Amr, quotes the Prophet as saying, “Anyone who killed a person having a treaty with the Muslims shall not smell the smell of Paradise though its smell is perceived from a distance of forty years.”

  Hatem felt he would die if he couldn’t speak. Clearly these people hadn’t seen the bodies that had been burned or torn apart by the explosions in the church. They hadn’t heard the groans and the screams of the injured and the victims’ relatives. They hadn’t read what the Coptic websites were saying. They hadn’t seen or heard or understood the outbursts of Coptic anger and pain.

  “With all respect, Your Grace and Dr. Hashem,” Hatem broke in impulsively, to the annoyance of all. Hashem’s face turned pale and then flushed red, “if this is what we’re going to say in the church to console the Copts on their losses, then it would be best if we don’t go at all.”

  There were huffings and puffings and mutterings. Some of the people objected to him interrupting Dr. Hashem.

  “Be polite in the presence of your betters,” said someone Hatem couldn’t identify because he wasn’t looking in Hatem’s direction.

  Hatem tried to continue despite the disruption and despite the irritation evident in the silent reactions of the Sheikh of al-Azhar and the minister. “When you have people who are grieving and feeling persecuted and wanting revenge, it doesn’t make sense for us to go and tell them they’re dhimmis, which is a label they can’t stand in the first place. The country keeps saying “citizenship, citizenship” and then our sheikhs talk to us about dhimmis. Okay, so if the Copts are dhimmis, we should ask them to pay the jizya, stop recruiting them into the army and have done with it.”

  Sheikh Younis sprang up right in front of him, just like he did with members of his audience on the Rawda channel. “Do you want us to change our religion to please the Copts, Sheikh Hatem?” he said. “I swear, this is our religion and we’ll hang on to it and defend it and if people want to live among us by its laws they’re welcome and safe, but those who don’t like it can go and find themselves another country.”

  Hatem stood up and addressed the Sheikh of al-Azhar. “Oh, and by the way, Your Grace, I think we should tell the Pope his best bet would be to emigrate,” he said.

  There were shouts and cries and Sheikh Younis was so excited that some of the other people stood up and tried to calm him down. The minister of information whispered something in the ear of the Sheikh of al-Azhar, who then called for calm in a voice that was anything but. The uproar soon died down and the sheikh took the floor, maintaining the same soft tone.

  “In fact, this has been a useful debate and we have benefited from it, though it has been a little heated,” he said. “I have a suggestion from the minister of information, a responsible man who carries on his shoulders a burden that would crush a lesser man and who has our esteem for honoring the halls of al-Azhar, which always welcomes those who serve this country, which we hope will remain safe until God inherits the earth and everyone living on it. He suggests that it be a visit by a delegation of ulema to pay condolences in full view of the world and that the eminent sheikhs may then make individual statements to the media one by one but without a formal speech to the Pope and his priests by the delegation as a whole.”

  When everyone nodded in agreement, Rifaat Hashem looked defeated and peeved. Younis and the group that had rallied behind him were about to lynch Hatem, who suddenly found the minister coming up to him and shaking his hand warmly.

  “I thank you for your wise observation,” the minister said. “By the way, you ought to work with us in the Ministry of Information.”

  The minister was joking and Hatem answered back flippantly. “I could work as one of your many antennas,” he said.

  The joke shocked the minister and he glowered, but Hatem embraced him as if they were school friends. “Don’t be angry with me, sir. I couldn’t resist. And the dreary sheikhs you brought along rubbed me up the wrong way.”

  “I understand why the guys at the interior ministry recommended you. They told us you should be with us on the It’s Our Country program,” the minister said with a laugh.

  They were walking toward the place where the delegation was being herded onto a bus.

  “As for It’s Your Country, it rea
lly is your country,” Hatem said.

  When he got on the bus he looked at his watch and then at his phone. He was wondering whether Sirhan had reached Sheikh Mukhtar’s mother yet or if he was still on his way.

  The road was clear and they had an escort of motorcycles of a size that matched the volume of their sirens, ridden by policemen in helmets that covered their faces and boots that came almost up to their knees. They controlled the route taken by the bus, which was accompanied by some black cars in front and some others behind. As the bus approached the cathedral, the sheikhs looked through the windows at the hundreds of policemen lined up in front of the building with weapons, shields, helmets, and batons. From the direction of the cathedral in the distance they could hear the roar of people shouting or chanting, but the words were not clear. The bus drove down the narrow lane that led from the big gate decorated with crosses to the open space outside the cathedral. The sheikhs saw the tension in the police officers who were walking around in the company of church officials. Dressed in black, they were moving quickly and nervously and calling out to each other curtly and at cross purposes because they were so on edge.

  As soon as the bus drove into the open space in front of the building with the domes and the round arches, they were surprised to find thousands of Copts taking part in a demonstration at the cathedral, sheltered by its walls. They held up wooden crosses smeared in blood, carried statues of Christ coated red, and waved cloth and paper banners saying Christians were being persecuted, demanding vengeance for the massacre, and accusing the state and the security services and terrorists of committing the crime. Their eyes were red with tears and anger. The sheikhs muttered anxiously and some of them cringed in fear, murmuring fragments of questions as the bus inched forward. The protesters were mixed up with security people, and church officials who had come to welcome the delegation. Young people started jumping up and down to find out who was on the bus. One of them noticed a sheikh’s turban and let out a cry, then other people started jumping and peering and climbing up to discover that the visitors were Muslim religious leaders. Suddenly there was no restraint to their anger. The crowd started shouting curses and beating their fists against the sides of the bus, as they chanted in rage. The crowd began to hit the windows of the bus with their wooden crosses, sporadically at first. Then the pace picked up and the windows were smashed to pieces. The sheikhs were aghast and terrified. They huddled together for protection. Then people in the crowd started throwing stones through the broken windows and the sheikhs had to crouch on the floor of the bus to avoid them. They went down on their knees under the seats. The thousands of people shouting terrified the sheikhs, who started screaming and swearing and crying for mercy. Despite the mayhem, Hatem couldn’t help gloating over his companions in the delegation, who had imagined they were going to some kind of celebration or a condolence session on television. The Copts were so angry that the lives of this busload of sheikhs were now under serious threat in the chaos for which the authorities were completely unprepared. Some of the priests, the police, and some young Copts tried to calm things down but they were overwhelmed.

  Some of the demonstrators were shouting, “Murderers! Extremists! You kill the victim and then walk in the funeral procession! We don’t want condolences from you hypocrites. May the Lord exact revenge on you.”

  On the bus Hatem turned to Dr. Rifaat Hashem. “How about you going out, Dr. Rifaat, and giving them a lecture on the role of dhimmis in Islam?” he asked with cruel sarcasm.

  The sheikhs were now so frightened that they were pale and silent. They didn’t even notice when the crowd suddenly fell still and thousands of people moved aside to let the bus come through safely. It seemed that intervention by the priests and the cathedral security people had succeeded. But the sheikhs were still stumbling around in the broken glass, their turbans out of place, and their clothes soiled and trampled underfoot in the confusion. They didn’t get themselves together again until the bus door opened at the foot of a grand marble staircase that led up to a large platform with double wooden doors carved with Coptic symbols in bright colors. A few clergymen were standing there in their immaculate clothes, their awesome black headgear and cast-iron crosses hanging on their chests. One of them got on to the bus to welcome the visitors, apologize to them, and ask for their indulgence. The people in charge of the bus and some of the sheikhs recognized him as someone important in the church, so they stood up straight and smiled and some of the color returned to their ashen faces, especially when the camera lights came on and two cameras started to film the august arrival of the most famous and most important sheikhs and preachers in the field of Muslim evangelism, come to offer their condolences to the Pope and the church. A quick-witted clergyman quickly put up his hand and stopped them filming. He scolded the cameramen and pushed them out of the way.

  Dr. Rifaat Hashem, who was at the front of the delegation as the senior member, turned to Hatem and said, “Sheikh Hatem, why did that priest make the cameramen move away?”

  Hatem smiled, knowing how important it was for Hashem to be filmed.

  “For a start, he’s a bishop and not a priest. Secondly, it was so they wouldn’t take pictures of the damage to the bus and the broken glass, which would have ruined the whole story,” he said.

  Hashem embraced Bishop Mousa, who was standing to greet them with a dignified smile, a kindly face, and open arms.

  “Good thinking, Hatem,” the minister whispered to Hatem, who was being pushed forward by the crush behind him. “Stick by my side to give me cover,” he added.

  “Shall I tell them about the dhimmis?” Hatem whispered back.

  When they had finished hugging and kissing and were waiting for the rest of the delegation to do the same, Hashem turned to Hatem again.

  “What makes you think I’d distort my religion to spare the feelings of the Copts or anyone else?” he said. “Of course they’re dhimmis.”

  “You really think they’re dhimmis, doctor? Surely the conditions and requirements for people to be dhimmis came to an end hundreds of years ago,” Hatem replied.

  Hashem had walked on behind Bishop Mousa, who was going up the stairs. Both of them were muttering polite greetings such as “Pleased to see you” and “My condolences” and “Thank you for your efforts,” while Hatem was giving Hashem a piece of his mind.

  “If you think they’re dhimmis,” Hatem said, “we’d have to revive the slave trade and apply the rule that alms money can be spent on converting people to Islam. We’d have to give alms money to the treasury and people could atone for breaking the Ramadan fast or for failing to fulfill their oaths by freeing a slave. We’d have to exempt them from military service and we couldn’t get angry if the Byzantine Emperor Nicephorus treated the Muslims in his country as dhimmis too.”

  Hashem gasped in awe at the splendor of the place and leaned over to Hatem. “Okay, things are Byzantine enough without bringing in the emperor,” he said. “Let’s just make sure the next hour passes safely.”

  “If you go on longer than half an hour you’ll have to let the sheikhs make speeches, and if one of them drones on about the tolerance of Islam, we’ll pay the price and the several thousand Coptic demonstrators in the cathedral may well dissect us like frogs.”

  They crossed the carpet in the hallway, passing under a vast dome. In an opening in the center of the dome there was a stained-glass window showing the Virgin Mary carrying the baby Jesus. On the walls hung brightly colored pictures telling stories or illustrating parables or conferring benevolent power. Bishop Mousa slowed down and they all slowed down behind him. He looked at Hatem with a smile.

  “I’m a real admirer of yours, Sheikh Hatem,” he said warmly.

  The other sheikhs were surprised and the ones who preached on Salafist stations were annoyed. Hatem realized he had gone straight onto their lists of infidels, no doubt about it. He glimpsed something coded in the way the bishop was looking at him.

  “That’s an honor, Your Grace
,” he said.

  People were crowding around them now and the cameramen rushed toward them. They realized they had reached the Pope’s office, and the Pope had indeed appeared, in his black cassock decorated with crosses, his shiny black headgear, and his white beard flecked with black. He had the complexion of someone from southern Egypt and eyes that looked tired and old. He welcomed them with a smile and opened his arms for Dr. Hashem, while the others tried only to shake hands, keeping their distance or embarrassed by the hospitality or hesitant to be equally effusive in return. When Hatem shook hands with him, the Pope held his hand for a moment and looked deep into Hatem’s eyes, to Hatem’s surprise. Bishop Mousa went up to the Pope, who tilted his head to hear what the bishop was whispering into his ear. He nodded and squeezed Hatem’s hand hard.

  “Listen to Bishop Mousa, Mawlana,” he said.

  Before Hatem could take in the request the Pope had let go of his hand, turned to another sheikh, who shook his hand and muttered feebly, “I hope that next time we visit it won’t be such a sad occasion.”

  It was clear that the priests in the church were anxious not to say anything to the delegation of sheikhs about the noisy protest that was taking place a few yards away in the heart of the cathedral. Maybe they intended to send two separate messages: that ordinary Copts were angry and vengeful, and at the same time that their leaders were wise, moderate, prudent, patient, and willing to wait for the state to take the next step, but their calm was so exaggerated that it seemed artificial and temporary, or maybe it reflected a deep faith that transcended any desire for human intervention. They sat in the seats allocated to them in the hall while Dr. Rifaat Hashem sat in the chair next to the Pope. Just as he was about to speak, the minister sneaked a glance toward Hatem, who had taken a seat as far from him as possible.