by Tariq Ali
“Does this make any sense to you at all, Ibn Yakub? Nor to me. It is like being stabbed in the heart and hearing her voice say ‘Die!’
“I have a request to make of you. Will you please speak to Halima, and see for yourself whether or not I am mistaken? Perhaps where I have failed, you might succeed. The Sultan does not object to either Halima or myself meeting with you as often as we like. This is a well-known fact, there would be nothing secretive about such a meeting. If you have no objections, I will arrange it. Amjad will fetch you at the agreed time.”
Before I could agree to her proposal, she swept out of the chamber. It was not a request, but an instruction.
For a week or more I walked about in a daze. It was almost as if I had been infected by Jamila’s sadness. Her words had left a deep mark on me, yet I could not believe that Halima’s transformation could have been as profound as she had suggested.
I waited impatiently for Amjad the eunuch, and one morning he came to fetch me. His smile always irritated me, but I noticed that he could not help himself. It was a sign of nervousness on his part. I followed him eagerly through a long corridor to the same antechamber where I had met Jamila several days ago.
Halima was already seated on a large cushion draped with brocades. She saw me and managed a weak smile. I was stunned by her appearance. Her face was pale and the life seemed to have gone out of her eyes, which appeared hollow. Her voice was subdued.
“You wished to see me, Ibn Yakub.”
I nodded in silence.
“Why?”
“I wanted to congratulate you on the birth of your son and to inquire as to your own thoughts and preoccupations. If I may be so bold, can I ask why you appear so changed? Was the birth difficult?”
“Yes,” she replied in a voice so soft that I had to strain to hear her words. “It was very difficult. They put a special stone in my hand to ease the pain, and wound a snake-skin round my hips to speed up the birth. You ask whether I have changed, Ibn Yakub. I have. My son was born healthy only because of three spells that were written by a man of medicine. These involved a renunciation of my entire past and especially my relations with Jamila. The birth changed me completely. Even if the spells had not been cast, I would have wanted to thank Allah for giving me a son by not deviating from the path he has determined for us through our Prophet, may he rest in peace.
“It was not easy for me. As you know, Jamila and I used to spend all our time together. We used to joke, laugh and blaspheme in the same breath. If I were to tell the Kadi some of the things she used to say about our Prophet, peace be upon him, the Sultan himself would not be able to save her neck.
“Everything she taught me was false. She wanted me to doubt the word of Allah. She said that the wisdom contained in the writings of al-Maari, Ibn Rushd and Ibn Sina far exceeded that contained in our Holy Book. Allah forgive me for listening to such dangerous rubbish. I have repented, Ibn Yakub. I am no longer a sinner. I pray five times a day, and Allah will forgive me and protect my son. As for Jamila, I wish we did not have to stay in the same quarters. Her presence is a constant reminder of my sinful past. I know this will shock you, but I wish she were dead.”
All this had been uttered in a listless voice devoid of passion. Even her last sentence was spoken in a melancholy whisper. The change in Halima went very deep. I could see that now, and it upset me greatly. I had been wrong to doubt Jamila. This was not just a case of Halima deciding to break her friendship. She had turned her entire life upside-down. I made one last attempt.
“Lady Halima, if someone else had told me that you had undergone such a complete change I would have laughed in their face. Surely you must accept that not everything the Sultana Jamila taught you was evil. Did she not teach you to appreciate poetry? Are the songs that I heard you sing in Cairo defiled because she taught them?”
For a moment her face softened and I caught a brief glimpse of the Halima I had once known. But her features quickly hardened again.
“Her influence on me was evil. I thought she loved me, but all she wanted was possession. She wanted me to belong to her and to nobody else. I must belong to myself, Ibn Yakub. Surely you can understand my desire to become myself again.”
“You forget that I knew you before you met Jamila. Have you forgotten Messud? Can you not remember the way you spoke to the Sultan when the Kadi brought you to the palace in Cairo? It is true that you had not then been subjected to Andalusian philosophy, or to the erotic poetry of Wallada, but your mind was ready for a leap. Jamila, too, noticed that and helped to show you a new world.”
“Jamila played on me as if I were a lute.”
This was a travesty of the truth, and I felt constrained to defend the motives of the Sultana.
“Even though I resented her power over you, she played well. The music that the two of you made together was the envy of the palace. The eunuchs talked about you all over the city. They talked of two queens who cared for nothing but the truth. They described how your eyes were like a furnace when you denounced those unfortunates who believed in djinns and other imaginary creatures. Your fame spread everywhere. That was a kind of freedom, Halima. I say that to you as a friend.”
“You talk like a fool, scribe. True freedom lies in the commands of Allah and his Prophet alone. Why should we be so arrogant and assume that we alone, a tiny minority, speak the truth, while a majority of Believers who refuse to doubt are, by virtue of this refusal, prisoners of prejudice? Let me tell you something. I now know that Jamila’s blasphemies were like a breeze from Hell. You look shocked, Ibn Yakub. I should not be so surprised. How could a Jew ever understand the ways of our Prophet?”
I looked at her face. She averted her gaze. Everything between her and me ended at the moment. She had fallen for the honeyed words of false prophets and the bitterness of those who make a living by casting spells.
I rose, gave her an exaggerated bow and left the chamber. I was angry. Halima was a lost soul. Now I understood Jamila’s despair. It was not simply the sorrow of a forsaken and rejected lover. Jamila was sad not just because of the gulf that had now opened up between them, but because, together with their entire relationship, the knowledge and understanding of the world that she had so patiently imparted to her friend had also been rejected. Something terrible had happened. Both Jamila and myself had recognised the change. Halima’s thirst for understanding had disappeared. Birds were no longer singing. Flowers died.
I reflected on that conversation for several days. Her words swirled through my mind continuously and, in my head, I argued with her over and over again, to no avail. Halima was a ship that had sunk to the bottom. I reported my distress to Jamila, and a bond that had been lacking in the past grew between us, a closeness brought about by a common sense of loss, a bereavement for a friend in whom wisdom had petrified. She was surprisingly philosophical.
“I have been thinking a great deal on this matter, Ibn Yakub. I have come to the conclusion that the loss of a close friend, with whom one shared everything and in whom one had complete trust, is a far greater blow than being deprived of physical contact. Even as I say this to you, I ask myself whether I really believe this or whether by telling you I am trying to convince myself that the love between friends is of greater value than erotic love. There are times, increasingly few, when I believe the exact opposite. Times when it seems that my mind is on fire, and the flames must spread to my body. Times when I would sacrifice friendship for just one last passionate embrace.
“You see, Ibn Yakub, how even someone like me, strong and sure of myself, can be afflicted by love. It is a terrible disease which, as our poets never cease to tell us, can drive us insane. I know that you, too, were once in love with her. Is that why a veil of sadness covers your face as well?”
It was not the memory of Halima, who I pictured at her strongest, defiant in her love for Messud, her eyes blazing with passion, as she confessed her adultery to the Sultan in the presence of the Kadi, that had come over me. I felt trou
bled by the sight of Jamila, who was anxiously awaiting my reply to her question.
“It is seeing you in such a dejected state that makes me unhappy, O Sultana. My own passion for Halima did not last long. It was a childish desire for something unattainable, not uncommon in men of my age. It faded many months ago. What I do ask myself is why you remain unhappy. Anger, bitterness, desire for a cruel revenge, all this I could understand, even though it would be unworthy of you. But it does not behove a woman of your intellect to mourn for someone whose transformation is so complete that it makes one question one’s earlier judgements and ask whether this was always the real Halima. Was what you and I once saw simply a mask, designed above all to please you, not unlike those deployed by the shadow-puppeteers in Cairo?
“I also wonder whether what you really miss is the love and friendship, or something else. Perhaps what truly upsets you is that you have lost something that you regarded as a possession. Halima was always precious, but she had rough edges. In smoothing those down, and giving her a vision of a world much larger than the palace or even the city, an exciting world of ideas where nothing was forbidden, you brought out the best in her. All those who saw you together, including the Sultan, marvelled at the close affinity that marked your friendship. In other words she became your proudest possession, and possessions are not permitted to run away. Could it be this that has really upset you?”
Her eyes flashed fire, transcending the misery, and I saw the old Jamila once again.
“Listen to me scribe. Neither you nor that toothless old dog, Shadhi, nor those wretched eunuchs who report to him, have any idea of what it was like between Halima and me. It was not a one-sided friendship. I learnt a great deal from her, about other worlds and about the way people less privileged than me lived, but even that is unimportant.
“You and your beloved Sultan live in a male world. You simply cannot understand our world. The harem is like a desert. Nothing much can take root here. Women compete with each other for a night with the Sultan. Sometimes they ease the pain of their frustrations by finding eunuchs who will crawl into their rooms at night and fondle them. The lack of a penis does not always impair the capacity of the eunuch to provide pleasure.
“In these conditions it is impossible for any woman to have a serious friendship with a man. My father was very exceptional in this regard. After my mother’s death he became a true friend with whom I could discuss a great deal. As you know full well, I’m fond of Salah al-Din. I know that he takes me seriously. I’m not simply a mound of flesh on which he occasionally fornicates. He recognises the existence of my mind. Despite this, I could not in honesty pretend that ours is a profound relationship. How could it be in these times and in these conditions? With Halima I enjoyed something that was complete on every level. It has nothing to do with possession. After all, we are all possessions of the Sultan.
“You see, Ibn Yakub, I still think that she will return one day. Not to me, but to her senses. That will be sufficient. My hope is that one day she will teach other women what I have taught her, so that our time together will not have been wasted. Now I want nothing more from her. Nothing more! Her heart no longer responds to my voice. Everything is over. She is dead to me and for me. I will grieve alone. Sooner or later, solitude brings its own calming wisdom. My serenity will return and I will be happy again. Do you understand?”
I nodded, and a small, sad smile appeared on her face as she left the chamber slowly, with measured steps, almost as if she did not wish to return to the site of her pain.
I thought of Jamila a great deal after that meeting. If our world had been different, we could have become close friends, and it would have been me who benefited from the experience. She, more than any other woman I have met, exemplified Ibn Rushd’s complaint to the effect that the world of those who believed in Allah and his Prophet was disabled by the fact that half its people, namely the women, were excluded from functioning in the field of commerce or the affairs of state.
When one is cut off from what is happening in the world beyond the citadel, then events like the transformation of Halima acquire an importance that is undeserved. The minute the couriers, their clothes and faces coloured by a red dust, arrived with dispatches informing us that Aleppo had fallen without a battle, I recovered completely. Everything fell into place. The first courier who brought the good news was embraced by everyone. The fool who had resisted the Sultan had been forced by the populace to flee and return to Shinshar, the city of his birth.
Outside Aleppo, the soldiers who had guarded the city rode past the Sultan with their heads lowered in tribute. The people of Aleppo had loved Nur al-Din, and remained loyal to his successors, but they knew that in Salah al-Din they had found a conqueror who would both defend them and their city and also refuse to let anything stand in the way of the jihad.
The fall of Aleppo sent a wave of excitement through Damascus. There were celebrations on the streets. The taverns in all quarters of the city were packed with young men determined to drink their fill. It was as if our whole world had changed with the news. People felt this in their bones. Our Sultan was now the most powerful ruler in the land.
The next day my joy was circumscribed by the news that an inimitable voice had fallen silent. Ibrahim had died peacefully in his sleep. Our friendship was new, but I wept for him as one does for a father. Even the most hardened faces were wet the next day at his funeral. He had left me a small collection of books from his private library. They were accompanied by a note. I did not read it till later that evening in the privacy of my own chamber.
“The service of great kings may carry its own rewards, but the service of truth goes unrewarded and is, for that very reason, worth far more.”
Twenty-One
Jamila leaves Damascus and, hoping to regain her serenity, returns to her father’s palace; Salah al-Din falls ill and I hasten to his side
TWO DAYS LATER, AMJAD the eunuch brought me a letter from Jamila. He was neither grinning nor eager to offer information. He simply placed the letter in my hands and left the chamber.
I was startled by the beauty of her handwriting. I had never seen such exquisitely crafted letters except in the calligraphy of the great masters of the art. Whoever had taught her to write like this must have been a master or the descendant of one. As I write these lines I have the letter in front of me. Even as I transcribe her words I can once again hear her clear voice the way I heard it that day when Halima first introduced me to her. Her voice echoes in my ears, and her strong features appear in my mind’s eye.
Good friend, Ibn Yakub,
This is to let you know that I am leaving Damascus for a few months, perhaps longer. I am returning for a while to my father, who is now nearly eighty years of age and has not been well for some time. I wish to see him before he dies, and the Sultan, bless his heart, has never placed any impediments against my desire to travel.
Once many years ago I spent some time in Baghdad. That was a visit to improve my mind. I went to listen to the teachings of a great philosopher and poet. It was he who taught me the importance of reason. I can still see him stroking his white beard as he made me learn the following exchange between our Prophet and Mu’adh ibn-Jabal, the Kadi of al-Yaman.
Prophet: How wilt thou decide when a question arises?
Mu’adh: According to the Book of Allah.
Prophet: And if thou findest naught therein?
Mu’adh: According to the sunnah of the messenger of Allah.
Prophet: And if thou findest naught therein?
Mu’adh: Then shall I apply my own reasoning.
When I returned, I reminded Salah al-Din of this and he began to use it a great deal, especially when he was dealing with the theologians of the Fatimid Caliphs in Cairo. I felt then that I had achieved something, and that journey always stayed with me.
Now I leave in order to restore my state of mind. I have suffered a terrible blow, and I am convinced that in Dhamar I will not be troubled by t
he memories of Cairo and Damascus.
I want to smell once again the fragrance of the blossoms in the unique garden created by my grandfather, surrounded by the most beautiful wall that I have ever seen, a wall out of which grow the most lovely plants and flowers. I always used to think that heaven would be like our garden. Here I used to spend many hours in the silence among the trees, watching the birds coming down from the wall to drink water from a stream that had been contrived to create the impression that it was natural.
It was here that dreams were formed. I used to sit there in the shade for hours and dream, wondering what the world must be like outside Dhamar. Merchants would talk of Baghdad and Cairo and Damascus, of Basra and Calicut, and the strange and wonderful things that happened in these cities, and I would rush to my father and insist that I be allowed to become a merchant when I grew up so that I could go as far as China.
When I was fourteen, I often rode with my father. Sometimes we would go and watch the sea. How calming it is to watch the gentle waves and admire the work of nature. My father, too, used to pull up his horse next to mine, leaving our retinue of attendants way behind. Most of them were frightened of the water, which they believed was inhabited by djinns in the shape of giant fish, who ate humans. I remember galloping in the sand and then riding my horse through the shallow water, which splashed me as well.
My father would look at the sea and say: “Here, everything will outlast us and those who come after us. This same breeze will be felt by people several hundred years from now and they will marvel at nature just as we do. This, my child, is the voice of eternity.”
I did not fully understand what he meant till much later. Then I realised how lucky I was to have a father not given to believing that the world would end before his children grew old. Many people genuinely believed that Allah would bring the world to an end, and that the angels would open their ledgers and read out an account of our lives. My father was very different.