by Ted Halstead
“For example?” Grishkov asked.
“Well, I saw one article in the local paper that puzzled me. A man had been convicted of murder, and now after seventeen years had just been executed.
There is no lengthy appeals process here, so I wondered what could have accounted for the delay. I asked the warden on my next prison visit.”
Vasilyev paused, and was clearly thinking back to the visit. “When I asked him if he knew of the case, the warden laughed and said ‘Of course! He was at this prison. The delay was caused because under the law, the nearest male relative of the victim had to be given a choice of a cash payment from the guilty man’s family, or the man’s execution. This provision was put in the Koran to prevent endless warfare between tribes, with one revenge killing answered by another, by providing an honorable alternative. Of course these days the relative always asks for execution.”
“So I said, OK, but I still don’t understand the delay. The warden said with a smile, ‘Because in his case the nearest male relative was an infant. They had to wait for him to grow up to make the choice.’ I nodded and thanked him for clearing up the mystery. I then commented that such a thing must happen only every fifty years or so. He laughed and said ‘Not at all! We have a whole wing devoted to such cases!’ I must have appeared doubtful, because he then insisted on giving me a tour, describing the crimes and the sentences of each inmate as we passed their cells. I asked him about the mental state of these prisoners waiting years for certain death, and he laughed again, saying
‘Oh, they’re all quite insane.’ It is indeed a vivid memory.”
Grishkov shook his head. “I’ve heard that executions are public?”
Vasilyev nodded. “Yes. Though I’ve never attended, I have spoken to Russians who have. Both then and now, execution is carried out through beheading by sword.”
Grishkov shrugged. “Surely, an effective deterrent?”
Vasilyev shook his head. “You would think so, but not based on the TV coverage I saw.”
Grishkov frowned. “Surely they didn’t televise the executions!”
Vasilyev smiled, “No, certainly not. But every week, as part of the news there would be a map of the Kingdom with little dots appearing all over it, and the newscaster saying ‘Here is where executions took place this week, and what the criminals did.’ That’s when I first learned that besides murder, other crimes were punishable by execution.”
“Such as?” Grishkov asked.
“Opposition to the government, rape and adultery. Adultery, though, was not punished by beheading,” Vasilyev explained.
Grishkov nodded. “I think I have heard of this. An adulteress is killed by stoning, yes? And it would always be a woman, correct?”
Vasilyev gave an answering nod. “Correct. The old method involved a crowd that would chase the woman, pelting her with rocks until she died. The new method involves staking out the woman on the ground, backing up a dump truck full of rocks and dropping its contents on her. It is, at least, faster.”
Grishkov frowned, “I’ve also heard that they chop off hands for theft. That must scare off potential thieves!”
Vasilyev smiled ruefully. “You’d think so, but no. When I was with the Embassy I lived in a housing compound we shared with a local bank. Thieves broke into the homes of my neighbors many times, each time stealing only currency while the residents slept, so that once the thieves were in the street there would be no real evidence against them. After all, almost everyone carried multiple types of foreign currency. I, however, was never robbed.”
Grishkov laughed. “And how were you so lucky?”
Vasilyev snorted. “Luck had nothing to do with it. My neighbors, even after being victims of theft, persisted in believing that nobody would risk losing their hand and so were careless about locking their doors and windows. I knew that the thieves would, as long as they believed the risk of capture minimal. So, I locked my doors and windows. However, I did notice one thing that forced me to ask the warden another question on my next prison visit.”
Grishkov smiled. “And what was that?”
“Well,” Vasilyev said slowly, “I noticed that nobody I saw in the Kingdom in my first year was missing a hand. Not in airports, train stations, shopping malls, open-air markets — nowhere. This made me suspect that the entire business was a fiction designed to scare criminals.”
Grishkov nodded. “I would have had the same thought. So, what did the warden say?”
Vasilyev frowned. “Well, first he told me some history that didn’t really answer my question. He said there had been a period of about a year when it had proved impossible to carry out the punishment. He said this was because Saudi doctors began coming back to the Kingdom who had been trained in the US and UK, and refused to carry out the punishment. Everyone agreed that a doctor had to do it because simply cutting off a hand untreated would lead to death from shock and blood loss, and the punishment for theft was not intended to be fatal. He said that this impasse was finally resolved by the authorities wrapping the convicted person’s hand in cloth, pounding it with a sledgehammer, and then presenting the results to doctors for treatment.
Because of the damage, that treatment had to include removal of the hand.
Doctors quickly agreed that the intermediate step with the sledgehammer was unnecessary, and so removals were back on track.”
Grishkov frowned. “But that doesn’t explain why you weren’t seeing people who were missing hands.”
“Precisely,” Vasilyev nodded. “The warden went on to explain that in every case he had seen, the thief had been a foreigner. Though many Saudis are not rich, none are poor enough to have to take the risks involved with theft. The typical foreign thief had either reached the end of a work contract and stayed, or never been given their promised salary. So, after being caught and having their hand cut off they were then imprisoned for some period, and finally deported. So, the warden told me, if you want to see persons subjected to this punishment you need to visit Pakistan, Bangladesh, Yemen and the many other countries sending large numbers of foreign workers to the Kingdom.”
Grishkov shrugged. “It’s true that I have noticed many foreign workers in the short time we’ve been here.”
Vasilyev nodded. “Yes, but the proportion is far lower than it used to be.
Saudis are now in many positions that used to be manned exclusively by foreigners, and this is the result of a deliberate government program. The most expensive foreigners, Americans and Europeans, were the first to be replaced.”
Grishkov smiled. “I remember you telling me that you knew quite a few of them when you were here earlier.”
Vasilyev laughed. “They were an excellent source of inside information, as well as some amusement. One even drew cartoons!”
Grishkov frowned. “Dangerous, if they ever ended up in the hands of the authorities.”
Vasilyev shrugged. “They were not political, but you are correct that they could have easily led to expulsion. One that I thought summed up the viewpoint of many foreign workers quite well used characters from an American comic strip called ‘Peanuts’ without, I am sure, authorization.”
Grishkov smiled. “I know the strip. I’m quite sure you’re right.”
Vasilyev continued, “In the strip, Charlie Brown has a stick on his shoulders with a bucket at each end. Linus asks him ‘What are the buckets for?’ Charlie Brown replies, ‘One is for all the money I’m going to make.
The other is for all the shit I’m going to have to take. When one or the other is full, I’ll know it’s time to go home.’ In the next panel we see the same two characters and the same two buckets. The only difference is that one of the buckets is dripping. Without being asked, a glum Charlie Brown tells Linus, ‘I punched a hole in the shit bucket.’ Particularly after the 2003 bomb attacks that killed dozens of expatriate workers in their residence compounds, I think most Americans and Europeans have crossed the Kingdom off their overseas employment list without regret.�
�
Their conversation ended as the car pulled up outside an unimpressive two-story building that looked much the same as those on either side of it. All were the same drab off-white color, and Grishkov would have bet they had been built at the same time using the same blueprints.
The driver exited the car and without saying anything to his passengers walked to the door of the building, which opened at his approach.
Vasilyev looked at Grishkov, and they both shrugged and followed the driver.
Qatif, Saudi Arabia
It took a moment for Vasilyev and Grishkov to adjust to the gloominess of the interior, a sharp contrast to the bright light outside. They quickly realized that the only illumination came from a few narrow windows set high in the wall. Grishkov glanced at Vasilyev who simply nodded, and was sure he had the same thought. Whoever had designed these buildings wanted to make it impossible to enter except through the heavy metal front door.
As they emerged from the entry hallway Grishkov and Vasilyev saw an elderly man sitting on a heavy carpet, surrounded by cushions. A large, low wooden table was in front of him, which held a large teapot and a plate piled high with cookies. There were also three glasses full of a dark liquid that Grishkov fervently hoped was black tea. The man was stirring sugar into one of them, at the same time gesturing impatiently for them to come and sit.
“You will have to forgive my failure to rise and greet you properly. I regret that I am not as mobile as I used to be,” the man said, pointing to the cushions on the other side of the table.
Grishkov noticed that the man, who did appear elderly, nevertheless seemed quite alert and intelligent. He was dressed in a fashion nearly identical to Sheik Nimr al-Nimr in a picture Grishkov had seen taken not long before his arrest and execution, and was even thinner. The low white turban on his head marked a sharp contrast from the gutra worn by nearly all Sunnis in Saudi Arabia, and instead looked very much like the turbans worn by Iranian clerics.
Grishkov had a sudden moment of understanding. So, the Sunnis in this country saw the Shi’a as foreigners, no matter how many generations they had lived in Saudi Arabia.
This reminded Grishkov of a discussion about Chechnya he had engaged in many times with Vasilyev. Grishkov argued that you were either a rebel or someone who gave them material aid and deserved death, or you were an innocent bystander who deserved protection and the full rights of any Russian citizen. Vasilyev saw guilt or innocence as a continuum, with few people in such a long conflict either completely one or the other. So, shoot back at rebels shooting at you — absolutely. But for the rest, perhaps local autonomy and removing the right to vote in Federal elections made more sense.
Grishkov argued that such measures would only fuel resentment and increase support for the rebels. And so their arguments had gone. He wondered what Vasilyev would make of the situation here, and how it would affect their reports back to Moscow.
As they both sat, Vasilyev said, “First, allow me to compliment you on your excellent English. We have the honor to address Ayatollah Sheikh Massoud al-Ahmadi?”
The man smiled. “You do. And I have the honor to meet Anatoly Grishkov and Alexei Vasilyev?” he asked, pointed at each in turn.
Noting Vasilyev’s raised eyebrows, Massoud laughed and said, “I was told the older man would be Vasilyev. No offense.”
“None taken,” Vasilyev said dryly, noting Grishkov’s barely successful effort to suppress a smile. “I have always believed that with age comes wisdom. Or, it can if the person makes an effort in each passing year.”
Massoud nodded approvingly. “An important addendum. As for my English, I am sure you know that I went to university in England. It is one reason I was chosen to lead our community at this troubled time. We need to let the world know what is happening here, and the countries that the Saudis will listen to speak English.”
Vasilyev shrugged. “What you say is true. But as you have seen recently in Syria, Russia is not without influence in the Middle East.”
Massoud smiled and said, “Please, I am neglecting my duties as host. We must drink this tea before it gets cold. I understand that most Russians like their tea strong and black. Happily, so do I.”
Grishkov’s opinion of their host rose with his first sip.
Massoud pointed at the sugar bowl. “I took the liberty of adding some sugar to each glass, but you are welcome to add more. I find it is better to add it as soon as the hot tea is poured in the glass, or it will not dissolve properly.”
Grishkov found himself nodding. It was remarkable how such a small thing could make him look more kindly on a man the Saudis considered one short step removed from a terrorist worthy of arrest and execution.
Next Massoud pointed to the pile of cookies next to the teapot. “You must try these. They were made by my wife. These are called Nan-e Nokhodchi and are made of chickpea flour, so are safe to eat even if you have a problem with gluten,” he said with a smile.
Vasilyev and Grishkov were both surprised that a Saudi cleric had even heard of gluten, but both knew they had no choice but to try one of the cookies. Grishkov in particular disliked chickpeas either whole and cooked or puréed into hummus. Both were pleasantly surprised, though, since the cookies tasted nothing like chickpeas. Instead, the flour practically melted inside their mouth, and the flavor left behind was that of pistachios.
Well, that makes sense, Grishkov thought. Iran is world famous for its pistachios, and the Shi’a community here would certainly have access to a supply.
“These are excellent,” Vasilyev said sincerely, while Grishkov nodded vigorously and reached for another.
“Very good!” Massoud laughed, ”I must remember to tell my wife. Now, I understand that you are looking for information about what is happening here in the Eastern Province.”
Vasilyev nodded. “Anything you could tell us, even background information, would be helpful.”
Massoud leaned forward. “I am sure you have heard what happened at Al-Awamiyah, and the execution of my predecessor Sheik Nimr al-Nimr. You have probably heard about the execution of several of his relatives, as well as the summary shootings of several others.”
Vasilyev simply nodded.
“What you don’t know is just how many Shi’a died at Al-Awamiyah, and how many have been killed since. Now, anyone can toss around numbers, and have them dismissed as propaganda. We realize that. So, what I am giving you now is different. It is proof.”
Massoud held up a USB flash drive.
“On this device, you will find a complete list of all the Shi’a killed by the Saudis at Al-Awamiyah and later. For each name you will find their date of birth, Saudi national ID card number, and the date we either know they died or simply disappeared.”
Massoud paused, clearly working to keep his emotions under control.
“You know that in these times nobody can live without leaving a digital mark. You Russians have quite a reputation for being able to access any network. If any country can confirm that the people on this list are dead, it’s yours.”
Vasilyev nodded. “We will certainly pass this information on to our superiors.”
Massoud now looked particularly grim. “All we ask is that if we are wrong about any of the names on this list and you find evidence they are still alive, you will let us know.”
Vasilyev nodded. “Of course. I think that brings us to the obvious question
— what does your community plan to do in response?”
Massoud shrugged. “What can we do? A few of us have guns. As you saw at Al-Awamiyah, they are of little use against tanks. The sort of rebellion you saw in Iraq against the Americans is impossible here. There it was led by the men from Saddam Hussein’s army, who had hidden many of their weapons and explosives after their surrender. We Shi’a have nobody with military experience, and no vast store of weapons. Nobody from outside the Kingdom is giving us aid. Our demonstrations are crushed, and the world ignores us.
Without outside help, we are
doomed.”
Vasilyev cocked his head to one side. “Are you expecting the Russian government to intervene on your behalf?”
Massoud laughed bitterly. “After how it treated Muslims in Bosnia, Syria and Chechnya? Certainly not. If anything, we expect your government to continue selling military forces around the world the tanks they use to crush Muslim rebellions as long as they have the money to pay.”
Vasilyev pursed his lips. “Of course, I have no authority to speak for the Russian government. However, I must ask — if you expect no help, why see us?”
Massoud nodded. “A fair question. The answer is simple. We know the names on that USB drive I gave you may not change any minds at the Kremlin. But I have always believed in the power of truth. Who knows, maybe someday someone in your government will find a reason to care about what is happening here. At worst, we have nothing to lose.”
Vasilyev nodded and rose, followed by Grishkov. “I promise to pass what we have learned, including the information on this USB drive, to our superiors. After that, anything is possible.”
Massoud‘s answering smile had no warmth in it. “As you say. The driver outside will take you to your hotel, or back to the airport. Just let him know where you want to go. Safe journeys.”
As they walked to the door, Vasilyev’s cell phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and frowned. Grishkov looked at him questioningly, but Vasilyev just shook his head and opened the car door. The same driver was at the wheel.
“To the airport, please,” said Vasilyev.
Without a word, the driver put the car in gear and less than an hour later they were back outside the Dammam airport terminal. As soon as they left the car clutching their bags, the driver sped off.
The glass doors slid open in front of them, and Grishkov turned towards Vasilyev as they walked.
“So, here we are back at the world’s largest airport. I hope the next destination will be less a waste of our time.”
Without breaking stride Vasilyev laughed. “Waste? Is that really what we did?”
Grishkov shrugged. “Well, was there some part of our exchange I missed where we learned the targets of the planned attacks? Or when they will happen?”