#18. MOHAMED BIN-RAHMAN MOSQUE, OLD CITY, DAMASCUS, SYRIA
Friday July 3, 12:09
THE speaker's black beard bristled furiously. Knotted veins bulged in his temples like thick blue worms burrowing into his skull. Hot drops of sweat pocked his face. His right fist, throttling the neck of the microphone stand, was so tightly clenched that the knuckle-bones seemed poised to burst through the skin. The thick steel hook he wore in place of his left hand stabbed the air viciously over and over. His harsh, unyielding voice grated mechanically, metallically, distorted and occasionally drowned by ear-searing feedback wail.
''Those who kiss the feet of the infidel shall perish in fire and blood! Thus saith our God. Who shall stand before Him and say I let your enemies piss in your well? Who shall stand before Him and say I let your enemies shit in your house? What will God say to those who permitted such desecrations? Do you think God will forgive you, will say 'Kulu'u tamam, everything's fine. I know you were scared, that your life was too soft, that your faith was so poor that you no longer believed me when I told you I would take you to Paradise to be with me'? Do you think He will forgive your craven cowardice and say 'Yes, you may sit by my fountains and enjoy my gardens'? Do you think God Almighty, who can read your hearts, minds and souls, will forgive you for turning your backs on him? Of course He won't. God will condemn you to burn in Hell for all time, for all eternity. You who conspire to let the infidel burn God's Word and trample their great dirty boots over God's face… you shall die, and deserve to die!''
Ali sat cross-legged among the hundred or so young men and boys on the red prayer-rugs laid out on the marble floor of the Mohamed Bin-Rahman mosque. It was Friday jummah, midday prayers, and Talal Hafez was preaching hell-fire and brimstone.
''What can you give God? What can you do to show your obedience to Him? Your life is His anyway. He can do as He wishes with your feeble frame.'' The imam's dark brown eyes pierced the souls of the dozens. Bouncing off stone walls, crenulations, arches and minarets, his voice, issuing from speakers placed round the square, rang imperiously through the mosque overwhelming his listeners in a savage tsunami of sound.
Fidgeting on the cold, hard floor, Ali Hassan adjusted his thin-rimmed glasses and squeezed the right hinge of the frame to capture the preacher in the tiny chip concealed in the bridge. The tiny Barcelona badge he had peeled from Lionel Messi's shirt and stuck to the blue plastic clasp of the rucksack nestling between his crossed legs was transmitting Talal's sermon 'live' to the Walkman recording inside as well as to Hamza Madani's Acer Aspire on the coffee table back at the flat. It had a 120 GB memory and a two hour battery which he felt was more than enough. He had also located the school behind a green curtain at the rear of the prayer-hall. A narrow alley twisted round to three stone steps, a shallow porch and a green-painted wooden door with Dar-El Tawhid Madrassa daubed in gold on a plaque. Another picture.
He had got up early this Friday morning, washed carefully, trimmed his eyebrows and flossed his teeth, then he had dressed in a white, cotton, ankle-length galabeya and white taqiyah, the round, embroidered cap worn by the devout. He had perched the spectacles on the end of his nose, slipped on a pair of black rubber flip-flops and packed his bag. This day, in his new role as devout Muslim talib, or student, he would make contact with Talal Hafez and insinuate himself into the terrorists' circle.
''How do I look?'' he had asked Hamza.
''Every inch the fundamentalist,'' Hamza had replied, chomping an apple and laughing at Tom and Jerry chasing each other through a kitchen sink. ''When do you think you'll be back?''
''Not sure,'' said Ali. ''I hope to spend most of the afternoon down there, maybe even stay for the mahgreb prayers, so it'll be well after dark. I'll text you when I know what's happening.''
Hamza had grumbled about Ali leaving his dirty clothes on top of the washing machine. ''I wish you'd pull your weight,'' he had said irritably. He wanted to visit his parents on Friday.
Ali had grinned. ''Don't worry, Hamza. Before you do today's chores, you can listen to Talal Hafez 'live' from the Mohamed Bin-Rahman mosque. Enlightening and uplifting.''
Now he scanned the all-male crowd for familiar faces but saw none. He was sandwiched between a fattish man who was dressed in cheap, grey slacks and a cheap, beige and pink striped shirt and a boy of about eighteen who had rather feeble facial hair sprouting from his chin and was dressed, like him, in a pristine white galabeya and taqiyah. Ali had picked him because he looked like a talib and might be another route to the imam. Sitting on the red rugs in front of him were betel-chewing men with thick, black moustaches who punctuated Imam Talal's utterances with insha'Allahs and hamdullilahs. The talib frowned and tightened his lips to a thin white line.
''Do they not know,'' Ali whispered piously, ''That those who interrupt sermons go unforgiven?''
''Our duty is clear!'' Talal Hafez brandished his hook furiously. ''It is to resist, to struggle, to fight, even though our blood be shed, for earthly jihad leads to spiritual peace and is delightful in the sight of Al-Lah. Exterminate the enemy, and live forever!''
''What do you think?'' Ali whispered to the boy.
''Allahu Akhbar!'' chanted the boy robotically. ''God is great.''
Everyone stood, palms upturned, and chanted another unison prayer before kneeling on their mats and touching their foreheads to the ground one last time.
Still no sign of Moussa Bashir, and Ali had to approach Talal today. Hamza had insisted.
''No more hanging round in Penis Park smoking, sniffing glue and getting your rocks off,'' he had scowled, ''Not while I'm washing your smelly socks. You're here for a job, and I don't mean a blow-job.''
The crowd began to disperse, men and boys tucking rolled-up prayer-mats under armpits and wishing each other the blessings of God as they jostled in hot summer sunshine towards the door-side shoe-mountain. Talal Hafez sat on a ledge against the far wall next to the qiblah mopping his brow with a vast white handkerchief. The hook, resting on his knee, winked gaily in the sunlight as he exchanged a greeting, acknowledged a 'thank you', called out a 'Bless you'. He seemed enormous. The earnest boy started moving through the crowd toward him.
Ali caught him by the sleeve. ''What a brilliant sermon,'' he said, sounding lame.
The boy regarded him with disdain. ''Imam Talal is always brilliant. He knows everything there is about jurisprudence, the law and the history of the law...''
''I bet he's a wonderful teacher too,'' said Ali quickly.
''Of course.'' The boy's narrow nostrils flared with contempt. ''Who doesn't know that?''
He moved on, Ali dogging his heels.
''Do you go to his school?''
''Which school?''
''Dar El-Tawhid.'' Ali gestured towards the green curtain.
But now they had reached the cool shade of the interior. Ali felt the stones cold under his feet. Imam Talal heaved his bulk off the ledge and lumbered towards the earnest boy.
''Sala'am aleikum Osama,'' his deep voice rumbled.
''Wa-aleikum sala'am, my teacher and mentor.'' They kissed. ''Blessings be upon you, my master, for your wisdom and inspiration.''
Talal Hafez clasped the back of Osama's neck in his huge palm and kissed his forehead.
''My words come from God,'' he said. ''I am a mere messenger.'' His eyes strayed past Osama's face and locked onto Ali. ''You have brought a friend, Osama?''
''I have never seen him before,'' sniffed Osama. ''He clung to me like a stray dog.''
Ali swallowed nervously. ''Sala'am aleikum,'' he said, bowing slightly.
Talal Hafez slid his arm round Osama's shoulders. He dwarfed the young man.
''I wanted to thank you for your sermon,'' Ali said.
Talal and Osama started talking, took a pace away, turned pointedly from him.
''Your words set fire to my heart.''
Two paces forward.
''Moussa Bashir told me to come.''
They stopped walking.
&nb
sp; ''Moussa invited me, Hisham too.''
Talal Hafez turned his head.
''Moussa thought you could help me.''
Ali ran out of breath.
Now Talal Hafez turned, releasing Osama, who looked peevish and pained.
''Why?'' he said sharply. ''What is your problem?''
''My family is dead.''
Osama uttered a sound that combined scorn, contempt, impatience and boredom.
''So?'' said Talal Hafez. ''What is that to me?''
''I'm from Iraq,'' said Ali, ''From Baghdad.''
''Who isn't?'' Osama mocked, clicking his tongue in amusement.
Talal Hafez' face was a mask of total disinterest.
''I've kind of lost my way,'' said Ali, ''Since my family was killed. I used to be a good boy but now I run with druggies, sniffers and pickpockets.''
''Like Hisham,'' said Talal Hafez.
''Yes,'' admitted Ali.
''Try not to die,'' said Talal Hafez, laughing heartily. Osama bleated like a goat. Talal snaked an arm round his thin shoulders and shook him affectionately. ''My pupil Osama.''
''Sala'am aleikum.'' Ali steepled his fingers and bowed his head.
''Osama does not care for Hisham,'' Talal explained, ''Nor really for any of Moussa's boys. He has yet to understand their value.''
Osama's eyes, shining scornfully, suggested he knew their value only too well.
''What is your name?'' asked Talal.
''Amin,'' said Ali, ''Ali Al-Amin, Ali Hassan.''
''Well, Ali Al-Amin, Ali Hassan from Baghdad in Iraq,'' said Talal, ''Where do you live?''
''With my cousin in Mayasaloun,'' said Ali, adding, in a flash of inspiration, ''I don't like it there. He doesn't pray. All he does is abuse me and laugh at my faith.''
''Then we shall behead him for you.'' Talal laughed again. The smile which flickered across Osama's reptilian lips barely moved a muscle. ''Have you eaten, Ali Hassan Al-Amin?''
''Not yet,'' said Ali. ''I always fast before prayers on a Friday.''
''Join us then,'' said Talal, walking away with Osama.
Ali hoisted the rucksack onto his shoulder, adjusted the spectacles on his nose and followed across a thick red and gold carpet to the furthest corner of the mosque, far away from the door and close to the green curtain. He felt excited. He was almost in.
One of Talal's acolytes brought back a plastic bag of fuul sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, some plastic tubs of pickles, some cans of Coca-Cola. Half a dozen men sat cross-legged on the carpet. Talal sat with them, Osama slightly behind his right shoulder, Ali slightly behind Osama. Brown mashed-bean paste oozed sludgily from the thin bread and the Coke was warm and rather flat but Ali had fasted so tore hungrily into the sandwich.
The conversation, about religion, politics and war, was dominated by Talal's booming, passionate voice and hearty, full-bellied laugh. Osama said nothing, simply listened. Ali decided to do the same. He hoped the microdot on his rucksack clasp was still transmitting the sound to the safe-house. Fiddling absent-mindedly with his glasses, he photographed the whole group.
''Your cousin,'' said Osama. ''He is Syrian?''
''No,'' said Ali, ''Iraqi. Are you Syrian?''
''Yes,'' answered Osama, ''But Imam Talal is Iraqi, like you.''
''And where do you live?'' asked Ali.
''Our brothers in Iraq need our help,'' said Osama, ignoring the question.
Talal and his friends debated finer points of Islamic law for over an hour. Several times Osama hissed that Ali should go and each time, although his brain was almost as numb as his bottom, Ali said no, he was learning something really interesting. He had not known how fascinating medieval jurisprudence could be until today. Sourly he pictured Hamza Madani slapping his knees, heard his high, pealing laughter, imagined him rubbing his hands with gleeful rejoicing that Ali was stuck in this arid comparison of land inheritance rights across the four schools of Sunni thought, Hanafi, Maliki, Shafi'i and Hanbali.
Osama made one contribution, to say that the Maliki School had some particularly interesting observations on the number of camels that could be left to a minor and the number of yards of silk that might constitute an appropriate dowry for an orphan.
Talal smiled, patted his protégé's knee and drew one of the older men back into the discussion by asking his opinion as a faqih, a legal expert.
Ali tried hard not to fidget but his knees were starting to ache and he could hardly feel his bottom at all. He fiddled with the clasp of his rucksack and felt Osama's glare scorch his fingertips. His hands fell limply into his lap. He tried not to drift into sleep.
At about three o' clock, a bunch of noisy, younger boys entered the mosque, whooping and swarming across the sunlit yard towards the arcade where the men were sitting. Ali recognised Nour and Ahmad, the homeless huffers that hung out with Hisham, and Tamer, who raised his hand in a greeting.
''This, gentlemen,'' said Talal wearily as the boys fetched up on the step, ''Is my Qur'anic class for today.'' He stood up slowly. Again Ali was struck by his size and power, by the huge bushy beard, by the cold steely glint of the hook. ''Thank you for your company. It was a most stimulating discussion.'' He glanced at Osama then at Ali. ''I and my companions also thank you for the food. It was most generous.''
As Ali got awkwardly to his feet, bones groaning a protest, he registered, among the mutually murmured ''You're welcomes'' both Osama's softly whispered ''Join us'' and Talal Hafez's public description of him as 'his companion'. He really was in.
Talal's flock was herded behind the curtain, down the stone passageway and into a small room equipped with a blackboard, some crude wooden chairs and lots of dusty hard-backed books piled on the red-carpeted floor. There were a couple of small windows, two fly-spotted electric strip-lights and a rusty fan turning lazily on the ceiling. Some students, including Hisham, Anas and a weedy boy in a black and red striped Al-Jaish SC soccer shirt and filthy white shorts that was probably Firas, were already present. Moussa Bashir, wearing a cheap grey suit, an open-collared white suit and three days' stubble, was also present. His face looked more like a vulture's than ever. He nodded happily and muttered ''Hisham's friend, the one I told you about'' then the class began with prayers led by Osama, an invocation to Allah the Beneficent and the Merciful, the Bismillāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīm and a reading of the 88th Sura of the Qu'ran, the Surat Al-Ghashiya traditionally read on a Friday afternoon and telling of the Last Day.
Has there come to you the description of the Overwhelming Event?
Many faces on that day will be humbled, working hard, exhausted. They will enter into the scorching fire. They will be made to drink water from a boiling spring. There will be no food for them except from a thorny plant that will neither nourish, nor satisfy hunger.
Many faces on that day will be joyful, pleased with their endeavour, in a high Garden in which they will not hear any idle chatter. In it there is a running spring. In it there are raised couches and well placed goblets and scattered cushions and rich carpets spread around.
Will they not look at the camels, how they are created, and at the sky, how it is raised high, and at the mountains, how they are fixed firm, and at the earth, how it is spread out? So, keep on preaching; you are only a preacher. You are not the manager of men’s affairs, but whoever turns away and disbelieves, Allah will punish him with the greatest torment.
Ali took a photo as Osama unfurled a poster of the Ard-al-Hashar, the Plain of Assembly on Judgement Day. Moussa and Talal were conferring quietly in a corner.
''This,'' he explained, ''Is from a manuscript called Futuhat al-Makkiyya and drawn by the mystic philosopher Ibn Arabi in 1238. Here you see the Throne of God, pulpits for the Righteous, seven rows of Angels, A'raf , the Barrier, and the Hauzu'l-Kausar, or Fountain of Abundance from which the Righteous will drink for all Eternity.'' His long slender fingers moved over the ancient diagram.
Talal and Moussa were now deep in conversation. Ali inched forward on his
bottom but there was no way he could get close enough to eavesdrop. He would just have to wait for Osama to finish describing As-Sirāt (the Bridge), Jahannam (Hell) and Marj al-Jannat (the Meadow of Paradise) and then try to get nearer the board. He figured he could blame his glasses, say they were new or something, and he couldn't really see.
''All Mankind will stand on this plain,'' said Osama, ''And some will have faces of joy and some will have faces of sorrow. Some will drink from the clear, cool spring and some will drink from the boiling brook. Some will recline on soft cushions and some will sweat in the scorching fires. Some will be pampered by seventy-seven virgins, naked and luscious, ready and willing,'' Osama permitted himself a snake-tongue flicker, ''And some will be tortured by demons with red-hot pincers. Which group will you be in?''
''You have to decide, boys,'' Talal declared suddenly. ''Are you on the side of Satan or the side of Al-Lah? Ali Hassan!'' Ali's heart hit the base of his throat. ''Stand up. Which side are you on, I wonder?''
''The side of Al-Lah,'' said Ali nervously.
''You don't sound very sure,'' said Talal.
''The side of Al-Lah,'' said Ali more strongly. ''There is only one God, that God is Allah and Muhammad is his Messenger, Peace and Blessings Be upon Him.''
Some of the younger boys clapped.
''Why did you come here today?''
''To learn, Master.''
''And what did you want to learn?'
''How to give my life to Al-Lah,'' said Ali.
Something like a sigh spread through the class. Talal and Moussa exchanged satisfied smiles. The Call to Prayer burst from the minaret above them. Ali sat down again.
At the end, as the other students were leaving and Osama was folding up his diagram, Ali saw Moussa stroke Hisham's cheek and slide some bank-notes into the crotch pocket of his olive-green joggers. Ali approached the board.
''What happens now?'' he asked Talal.
''You go home to your cousin, eat your supper, go to bed,'' the preacher shrugged.
''I don't want to,'' said Ali. ''I want to stay here.''
Talal laughed. ''Well, I want to go home, eat my supper and go to bed even if you don't.'' He patted Ali's face. ''Come tomorrow if you wish. After prayers.''
Outside in the courtyard the sunlight had died. Shadows had lengthened across the white marble pillars and dusty brown flagstones. Lanterns glowed from the perimeter walls. Ali retrieved his flip-flops from the step then texted Hamza that he was on his way home. Some of the boys were larking about in the street. Tamer and Hisham were smoking.
''Since when did you wear glasses?'' asked Hisham.
''Since I needed to be able to see,'' Ali said sourly. ''Squinting at a blackboard for hours on end isn't much fun when you're short-sighted, you know.''
''You coming to the park?'' asked Tamer.
''No,'' said Ali. ''My cousin wants me home.''
''Screw him,'' said Hisham. ''Come and have a smoke, have some fun. After all that bloody religion, you need a release.''
Ali laughed. ''Tempting but I want to prepare for tomorrow.''
''Moussa may be out later,'' said Hisham. ''You could earn some money, have some fun.''
''Maybe,'' said Ali, crossing the road into Sha'alan. ''We'll see.''
Hamza was cooking macaroni cheese. The little windows in the little kitchen were steamed up. He said the bug had worked well, that he had successfully recorded everything, that he had emailed it as an audio-file to his supervisor.
''I expect they'll enjoy that chat about land inheritance,'' he grinned, ''Like you did.''
Ali wiped the condensation from the round lenses of his spectacles, threw a tea-towel at Hamza's head, stripped off the galabeya and crammed it into the washing machine.
Their relationship was beginning to change. Hamza was less hostile than before. They had discovered a mutual interest in motorbikes and spent a couple of hours comparing the merits of the Harley Davidson Sportster Forty-Eight's lean angles of 27.8 and 26.1 degrees and the Triumph Speed Triple's Brembo monobloc four-piston radial calliper brakes. They had also watched some basketball on the TV and gone jogging together around the Olympic Park. They both had sisters, and Ali had learned how protective Hamza was of Alana, how excited he had been when she had agreed to marry Mokhtar, his best friend, how upset they had all been when Mokhtar had vanished. Hamza told him he would do anything to bring him back.
''You got a girlfriend?'' Ali asked, forking macaroni cheese into his mouth. Hamza shook his head. ''Nor me,'' said Ali, ''Though there was a girl I liked. She was called Sour and she lived in Baghdad. Her brother died. Good mac 'n' cheese, Hamza. Thanks.''
Dr Phil was discussing what happens when one discovers one's husband is homosexual. They watched for a while, until Hamza snorted that the 'wifie was a sap' and went to wash up. Ali had a hot, soapy shower then settled on the sofa with a cigarette and a glass of milk to watch Friends, 'The One with the Prom Video', with Monica in a fat suit and Ross with an Afro perm. He laughed till he thought he was going to puke whilst Hamza copied the photographs from the spectacles to the lap-top and emailed them to the SOS office.
''How did you like the Old City?'' asked Hamza.
Old Damascus was a labyrinth of narrow, winding streets, many of which were blind alleys, cul-de-sacs culminating in courtyards lined with tubbed trees and potted plants, or doubling back on themselves like epileptic snakes. The walls were painted white and brown and the crowded, huddled buildings seemed to lean together like drunks. It was also dark and the lighting poor. It had taken Ali half an hour and several wrong-turns to find his way back to the Umayyad Mosque and Saladin's Tomb, the remains of the Roman temple, the souk of silk-sellers, nut-vendors and pot-peddlers, Bab Al-Jabiya, Hamadeyia Souk and the modern city he was now beginning to feel familiar with.
''I'm getting the hang of it,'' he said. ''I think I upset the doctor over the hallway. I saw him putting out the rubbish and wished him peace. He recoiled in horror. Obviously thinks I'm some nutcase fundamentalist.''
''Good,'' grunted Hamza, '' 'Cos that's your cover.''
He joined Ali on the sofa. ''Here's something that might interest you.'' He handed over a newspaper, folded back to reveal a photograph of a young man with dark curly hair and glasses. The headline ran 'JORDAN'S KING APPOINTS SON SUCCESSOR'. Yesterday, Ali learned, Prince Hussein, who had reached fifteen on June 28th, had been named as Crown Prince and Heir Apparent, and would assume his responsibilities immediately. One of these was to attend the opening of the Jerash Cultural Festival on July 16 with the Minister of Culture. The thousands of spectators and the new heir apparent would make an excellent target for Talal Hafez and the Dar El-Tawhid. But who would they choose, and how would they send him? The next stage of the mission would be to answer those questions.
''Get a good night's sleep,'' Hamza advised. ''You're gonna need it.''
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