by James Smythe
I had been on the tube and going to London Zoo on the morning that Princess Diana died. I remember that I had a friend down to stay from Manchester, only for the weekend, and we had been planning the trip for weeks. We didn’t hear about her death until we were on the train, when I saw it on the front of a newspaper that the man across from us was reading. Then we noticed the crying women at the other end of the train, and the driver made an announcement that, in way of tribute, London Zoo was closed for the day. No doubt the hippos wanted to wear black and curse at their gods for taking her, when she was still so young. Everybody remembered where they were when they heard the news, just as people used to say was the case when they heard that JFK had been murdered.
When I heard The Broadcast properly for the second time, I was in a cab on my way to my offices. The driver had put Radio 2 on, because he wanted to listen to the news, about the bombs in America, and he kept asking me what I thought about hearing God speak to us. I was telling him that I didn’t necessarily believe that it was God – like some mad empiricist, I needed evidence, not guesswork and hearsay – and he was exasperated, almost argumentative, and then the static came back in. I wondered for a second if it was just the radio, then remembered that we were entirely digital. It tuned in faster than it did before, the words coming in then slipping away again. The driver stopped the car, pulled over at the side of the road, got out and stood by the door. I’m sorry, he said, I need to stop. He stood there crying, and I listened to the newsreaders react, terrified, elated.
Do Not Be Afraid, the voice said.
My Children; Do Not Be Afraid.
Dafni Haza, political speechwriter, Tel Aviv
The voice was somehow more tangible the second time, but still, there’s no way to put a finger on it, or to say what it even sounded like. The closest thing I can describe it as is that voice in your head that you hear when you tell yourselves to do something, or to not, that moral niggle. It was that, but different. I don’t know.
Anyway, when we heard it the second time, I knew the public reaction would be worse still, or at least harder to deal with; especially in Jerusalem, because of the pilgrimages. We had a difficult time anyway, managing the people who came to us for their religious outlet, journeying from Bethlehem to Jerusalem, then driving to Nazareth; we knew that they would cause us more problems, and we had already put out statements urging them to return to their hotels and stay there until we knew what The Broadcast was. As soon as it told everybody Do Not Be Afraid we knew we would have more problems. It’s like a mother telling her children that they can’t have a treat: it’s only ever going to cause tantrums. And the American situation was tenuous at best: everybody knew that they were looking at Iran as responsible for the bombings, which meant they were looking at them for answers about The Broadcast as well. Wasn’t it conceivable, the Prime Minister asked me when she called after it happened, that they somehow engineered The Broadcast to give them an excuse for everything else that happened? When I got off the phone from her, I saw that Lev had called again, and then we started hearing about violence on our side of the West Bank, worse than it had been; they said that there were bomb threats being called in, that the PLO had taken that chance to make their move. Ever since we agreed on terms about how to divide the land it had been a threat, that their more extremist side would show its face. And we were so close to reaching peace – or something that resembled peace, after so many decades of it being hellish – that any sort of extremism was likely to ruin it all. As soon as we saw that on the news, I had another call from the Prime Minister, and we wrote a statement that tried to distance our government from any potential retaliation. I said to the Prime Minister, why are you talking to me directly? I’m just a speechwriter, and she said, the Head of Communications has just quit, so you’re what I’ve got.
I’ll take the job, I said. Of course I’ll take the job.
Dominick Volker, drug dealer, Johannesburg
Ag, that fucking place was a nightmare. I was out working, trying to collect from some of my dealers. I would sell to students, and they would sell it on for me, but I needed people to work the rough districts. I mean, nobody was going to fuck with me, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to be there. And then, just as I was getting nervous, the second Broadcast happened, and I thought, for a second, it was speaking to me, you get me? Do Not Be Afraid, like a heads-up that I would be alright.
Phil Gossard, sales executive, London
It happened again when we were back in the office. Three days after it first came into our lives, and we had stuff to catch up on; or, more realistically, prepare for, because the US branch wouldn’t open again for days, so we had to cover them. Jess’ school was still closed, though we still weren’t sure why. Karen had joked that the nuns were planning terrorist counter-attacks. They’re too busy building false habits from Semtex, she said. We weren’t even close to being as locked down as the US, though. Everything there that couldn’t be vigilantly defended, it seemed, was just closed, hang the consequences. There was something different about their government’s reaction, though, to whenever this happened before. I remember when I was a teenager, when 9/11 happened, and they were so aggressive, so bull-headed. And that’s not a criticism; it’s what they needed. Here, they just seemed resigned, like they were almost disappointed that it was so small, that there wasn’t more in the way of noise and fury. There were no planes crashing into buildings; this was grass-roots stuff at its finest.
The sandwich man came, because these things repeat themselves, foreshadow themselves, the universe giving you constant hints of what’s to come if you know what to look for; I had a ploughman’s. I was sitting down about to eat – it was only just gone eleven, but I hadn’t eaten any breakfast because of having to sort out sending Jess to a friend’s house – and then it – He, It – spoke again through the static. It felt like a goodbye, to me. Most people didn’t agree, but I thought that it definitely felt like a goodbye, or the first stages of one. It felt like one of those conversations you have with a girlfriend, when they sit you down and say that you need to talk. It felt like that, and everybody knows what that actually means, when you have that conversation.
Some of the other people in the office started crying. I didn’t understand that; I didn’t feel that way at all. Same with watching the people in the other offices. I went to the window just like we did that first time, watched them running down the street towards the tube station or the car park, frantic, like there was some real sense of urgency. What do we have to be afraid of? I asked, out loud, to nobody in particular. Some of the people in the street looked up at me, then their faces changed, whatever-they-were to scared, terrified. What’s wrong? I asked. He’s going to fall! one of them said, and for a second I thought that it was something prophetic and knowing; but they weren’t talking about me. They were talking about the roof, above my head, where Bill was; and they watched as he stepped off, plummeted past the window. I had been leaning out, to get a better look – because I didn’t know it was Bill before he did it – and I didn’t have time to get out of the way completely. He clipped my hand as he went, thudding onto a car below. Its alarm didn’t go off; he just smacked the roof, sank into it face down, arms outstretched, as if it were his bed. Some people ran over but it was already obvious that he was dead. The rest of the office cleared out, some quietly, some in tears, and they left me there on my own to shut down their systems for them, log them all out. When it was all done I sat in the office and finished the sandwich, because I was so hungry, and I rubbed at my hand where it had collided with Bill. It was bruising, dark purple and blue and angry.
Dhruv Rawat, doctor, Bankipore
I was lying in bed, because I had the day off. It was my day off the rota, and I had nothing to do, so I lay there and thought about the talk I had with Adele – which felt more like a fight, like an argument between friends than a conversation, and I was angry with myself for speaking the way that I did, for not vocalizing my thoughts bett
er – when the second Broadcast happened, and we were told to not be afraid. I didn’t react, because I wasn’t afraid in the first place. I lay there and thought about how the rest of the world would take this; and then the telephone at the side of my bed rang. I picked it up, and the receptionist told me to wait, that I had a call from another room. Adele, I said when the line clicked, are you alright? She sounded terrified. He says, Don’t be afraid (and she was already paraphrasing it, making it sound less than it did), but of course that’ll make us scared, of course it will. She spoke so fast, I could barely make out the words. I mean, what are we meant to do with that? I asked her her room number and she said, No, tell me yours, I’ll come to your room. Mine’s a state. Two minutes later I heard her tapping on the door, and I answered it. I had pulled a shirt on as well as the pyjama trousers I sleep in and had not yet changed out of; she was in the same clothes that she had worn the day before, as if she hadn’t even been to bed. I had tried to make my bed, but failed; I was terrible at those practical things. She didn’t even seem to notice.
I’ve called my parents, she said, and my sister; they’re fine, but they say it’s mayhem back at home. (She was from Manchester, in England.) I wish that I could go back, to be with them; or bring them out here, show them how calm it is. She laughed, I remember her laughing – a lot – during that conversation. I mean, you’re barely reacting, she said, you’re all acting like, I don’t know, like this is just a fly buzzing around, and it’s there and you can’t ignore it, but it’s not worth getting stressed about. I didn’t say anything. But it is worth getting stressed about, even if you don’t believe that it’s God, because there’s something that we all heard, Dhruv, and we all heard it at the same time. Isn’t that news? Isn’t that important? Yes, of course it is, I said, for sure it is. I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. I should go, she said, I need to get some sleep. I don’t know what I’ll do tomorrow; I’ll have to talk to the producers back in the UK, see if we’re putting a hold on filming. She stood by the door, hand on the handle, ready to leave. I should call them, I suppose. Sure, I said, perhaps you could do some filming here for them, you know, about The Broadcast. That made her laugh, and I asked why, what was funny about it. The news is full of people running around and bombs, and you think they want footage of you people standing around, trying to get on camera and not really having opinions on this stuff? Come on, Dhruv. She was crying; she let herself out.
Hameed Yusuf Ahmed, imam, Leeds
One man from the community was having doubts. Actually, no, they were all having doubts, it seemed, but this one man was almost vigilant about them, expressing himself in ways that went against almost everything we taught about how God should be treated. I have always wondered if our God is the only God, he said to me, which was an admission that I had never heard before. He said, I have always thought, what if we’re wrong? I recognized him, but again, I didn’t know his name, and he didn’t introduce himself; he assumed that I knew already. Talking to him then, I realized that I didn’t know everything. I was never that big-headed, to think that I did; but even locally, my community, those people who I should have been guiding, they were having doubts. The people coming into my office before him had all told me similar things, or expressed them; they were worried about what The Broadcast meant, and they might not have said it in those words, but they wanted to know what happened if it was a God. He is Allah, the one, I told them, from scripture; He knows your heart. They wanted validation; they doubted everything. This is what happens when your leaders don’t have absolute conviction; when faith isn’t enough. Many of them suggested that it could have been Allah speaking to us; I listened but didn’t speak, because that went against all I had taught them. If it was, they said, why would He have spoken in English? Surely He would use Arabic, or maybe a language even older?
The man who was having doubts was talking to me about them in the frankest way possible. What if we’ve all been wrong, have you ever considered that? What if it’s not about age, or who was there first, or whose laws make the most sense; what if the Christians were right all along? Or, what if, I don’t know, it’s actually about who shouted loudest? There are more Christians than there are members of Islam, right? I didn’t know what to say to that, so I cleared my throat, and then the static came again, and we all heard The Broadcast for the second time.
Do not be afraid? the man asked when it was finished. How am I not meant to be afraid? He turned to me, looked me right in the eyes – I didn’t realize it until then, but he hadn’t been looking at me, not right at me until that moment – and he said, You, this is your job: reassure me. What is this? You know it doesn’t work like that, I told him. I am not the voice of God, nor do I have a link to Him. I am only here to guide you in His ways. So what does He say about this? he asked me. He got up, opened the door, shouted to the rest of the people waiting, who were talking to themselves already, unable to talk about anything other than The Broadcast. What does our God say about this? he yelled. What does He say we should be doing now?
I did not have an answer.
Audrey Clave, linguistics postgraduate student, Marseilles
Patrice’s father was a priest, and he insisted on having the funeral the day after Patrice died, first thing in the morning. We got up and drove down there to his church, but it was just us and a few relatives that we were never introduced to. It wasn’t until halfway through the service that we realized that either his parents didn’t know that he was gay, or that they didn’t want to know, because it wasn’t mentioned, and nobody said anything about his life or his friends or even the sort of person that he was. His father just looked ashamed the whole way through, reading the bits about God’s love for us all, and loss. He didn’t talk about Patrice; he spoke about God. Fucking hell, Jacques said afterwards, what a pig that man was. I defended him, because he was just coping with Patrice’s death. We all were, and he was dealing with it the only way he knew how.
Afterward we stood in the graveyard and Jacques sang some of The Smiths as a joke – A dreaded sunny day, so I’ll meet you at the cemetery gates! – but nobody laughed; and we told stories about Patrice, about what we liked about him, that sort of thing. We were watching them burying him in the distance – they used a little digger to pick up and dump the soil, can you believe that? – when we heard The Broadcast. When it was over we sat on the ground and watched the digger quietly until Jacques broke the mood, reaching over and grabbing me.
Audrey’s afraid, I reckon, he said, and then he started singing ‘Girl Afraid’, another Smiths song. He knew all the words for some reason, so we just let him finish, his voice sounding wrong pronouncing the English words, this imitation, almost. Girl afraid, he sang, where do His intentions lay? Or does He even have any?
Isabella Dulli, nun, Vatican City
Do Not Be Afraid, the voice said, and that was when I realized that it could not be God; or, it could not be my God. My God would understand that we were not afraid, that we would bask in His light. The darkness was my own place for worship, away from the crowds outside. I could hear them, through the gates – the guards must have let them in, because we were to be a pilgrimage, and the only way that they could have held the masses back was with violence, and they would never have gone that far. I could hear them singing hymns, all in English, because they were tourists, and how could they know? Do not be afraid, for if you really love me, I will always be with you, rejoice, rejoice, rejoice. They were so happy, I could hear their voices through the walls of the tomb, vibrating through the Basilica. He is not your God, I said, and I heard myself say it for the first time, even though I had been thinking it; in the darkness, it came back at me, my voice but so distant, and I believed it. Before, He spoke to missionaries, or to those blessed. He spoke to those who loved Him or those who despised Him, but never like this. This was not our God, and I had to believe that. I recited His words to Him in that tomb, knowing that He had to be watching and listening to me, in this time when the w
orld had gone insane: Do not have any other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and the fourth generation of those who reject me, but showing steadfast love to the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my commandments.
Hameed Yusuf Ahmed, imam, Leeds
Samia bit her nails all night; I went out to pray before bed, and she chose to stay at home. I feel ill, she said, but she was lying; she was lazy sometimes, and we both knew it. I chose to ignore it. When I got back she acted like everything was normal, like she hadn’t been thinking of the questions she wanted to ask the whole time that I was gone, even though I knew that she had. Like I say, I chose to ignore it. She wasn’t subtle. I sat on the sofa and she threw the questions at me, casually: what were the people asking you today, what do they think it was, what do you think about it, what does it mean? She was stretching towards the questions I really didn’t want her to ask, and I pushed them away, batted them back. I don’t want to talk about it, I said to her. God will talk to us all in time, let us know His will.
She had always found it hard, this life. I knew it, and she knew it, but it was yet another part of our lives that we chose to ignore, because that felt like it made it all better.
Elijah Said, prisoner on Death Row, Chicago