‘So are you just going to sit there quoting the Qur’an all night?’
Roth swallowed the last of his wine and fixed Ben with intense eyes. ‘You talk about America like we’re always the instigators. Do you know when our country first had dealings with Islamic terror? It was in 1784, only just after we’d declared our independence. We were a completely new nation. Other than defending ourselves against British tyranny we’d never provoked anyone, attacked anyone, offended anyone, and all we wanted to do was get on our feet as a trading nation. That’s when Muslim pirates from Morocco captured an American ship, took its crew hostage and demanded ransom in return for no more hostilities. We paid over the money. And then they kept doing it, only the attacks got worse and the sums got bigger, until we were losing up to sixteen per cent of our federal revenue to pay them off. The demands were coming from the Bey of Tunis, who called himself “Commander of the Frontier Post of the Holy War”. In 1786 two of our Founding Fathers, Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, met with his ambassador in London and asked him in all sincerity, “Why are you guys doing this to us? What did we ever do to you?” You know what the ambassador’s reply was? That it was based on the teachings of the prophet, that it was all written in the book, that all nations who didn’t submit to Islam were sinners, that under Islamic law it was their right and duty to make war on us, and that any Muslim killed in battle against us would find a place in Paradise. In the end it took two wars between the US and the Barbary states, in 1805 and 1815, to put a stop to the attacks.’
‘So America declared war on them.’
‘And we damned well kicked their asses. But they started it, not us,’ Roth said. ‘Look. It’s like this, okay? In their belief system, the world is divided into two parts. One they call Dar al-Islam, the House of Islam. That’s the part of the world over which they have dominion, obtained historically through military conquest, systematic repression of other religions and forced conversion to theirs. The other is Dar al-Harb, the House of War. That is to say, the parts of the world still waiting to be conquered, including your country and mine. The Qur’an is real clear on this, my friend. Right there in black and white, it creates a canonical obligation for believers to remain in a perpetual state of war against all infidels, until the whole world is either converted or subjugated under Sharia Law. “So fight them until there is no more disbelief and all submit to the religion of Allah alone.” Qur’an chapter 8, verse 39. I could quote a whole bunch of verses that say much the same thing. And they take that obligation seriously. Just like they do when Allah proclaims: “I will terrorise the unbelievers. Therefore smite them on their necks and every joint and incapacitate them. Strike off their heads and cut off each of their fingers and toes.” I mean, come on, man. Doesn’t it seem a strange coincidence that they’re reading this stuff in their holy book, and then carrying it out in real life? Can anyone actually believe their motivation isn’t coming straight out of those pages? Who’re we trying to kid?’
Ben had heard all this before, many times. He knew all the arguments through and through. And in some regards, Roth was right.
Chapter 34
Ben had first come across the Qur’an and its associated texts when he was a theology student, and he’d been struck at the time by the aggressive note of many of its more belligerent verses that seemed to be a direct call to arms against unbelievers. Years later, finding himself up against its followers in combat, he’d witnessed the fierceness of their zeal first-hand.
But that wasn’t the whole picture for him, and he was uncomfortable with the open hatred Roth was expressing towards these people.
He replied to Roth, ‘I hear what you’re saying. But you’re talking about the crazies. I’ve known a lot of Muslims who were decent and peace-loving people. You can’t pretend they don’t exist.’
‘Those would be the so-called moderates,’ Roth said. ‘But what does that really mean, “moderate Muslim”? It’s just a term we made up after 9/11 so as to appear culturally sensitive or some such bullshit. If you think about it, it can only mean “a Muslim who doesn’t really adhere to the full message of their central religious doctrine, the Qur’an. One who just cherry-picks the verses they want to adhere to, and turns a blind eye to the many, many verses telling them to go to war, fight and die in the way of Allah.” In other words, a Muslim who doesn’t really take the teachings of their prophet, or the holy book that purportedly comes straight from the mouth of Allah, all that seriously. Could you even call that person a true believer in Islam?’
‘If that’s what they call themselves,’ Ben said. ‘You have to respect it.’
‘Tell that to their brethren who actually do follow the book to the letter,’ Roth said. ‘They would, and do, consider such moderates as vile sinners who deserve death under Islamic law, and will end up in hellfire along with the rest of us unbelievers. “If the Muslims fail in this duty, they will most surely be apprehended by the punishment of Allah.” Don’t take my word for it. I didn’t make this shit up, you know. Their own doctrine states quite clearly that you cannot be a moderate Muslim and a true believer. It’s all or nothing.’
‘You can be a moderate Christian,’ Ben said, ‘despite what the Bible teaches. The Qur’an isn’t the only book that calls for unbelievers to be killed in the name of God. Leviticus, 24:16, “Anyone who blasphemes the name of the Lord is to be put to death.” That goes for gay people, too, incidentally. Meanwhile, Deuteronomy chapter 20 commands the faithful to massacre non-Christians and plunder their property, including their women. And speaking of women, Timothy 2:11 teaches that they should submit to the authority of men, just like it says in the Qur’an. But here’s the thing, Tyler. Just because those verses are there, it doesn’t mean we have to take them literally.’
Roth smiled. ‘You know your Bible. Theology, wasn’t it?’
‘Long time ago,’ Ben says. ‘A false career start.’
‘Are you a Christian?’
‘A lapsed one.’
‘Lapsed or not, you do agree that it ain’t Christians who go around slicing the throats of disbelievers in the name of God, or persecuting anyone in their power who holds to a rival religion, or throwing gays off tall buildings, or murdering some poor young girl who looked twice at an infidel boy and calling it an “honour” killing, or stoning a woman to death in the street because she was forced by some a-hole rapist to be “unfaithful” to her husband? Whatever wrong things we might have done once upon a time in the name of the Christian faith, we left that kind of behaviour behind us a long time ago. Not like our dear, sweet Muslim friends, who go on acting like it’s the year 630.’
Ben said, ‘But you admit it’s possible to take or leave what it says in the book, and still call yourself a believer.’
Roth shook his head. ‘You’re getting it all wrong, buddy. The only reason we can allow ourselves to cherry-pick what the Bible preaches is because Christianity is weak and fading. It was already six centuries old when Islam hit the ground running, foaming at the mouth from Day One to attack, kill or enslave anyone who didn’t fall down and worship Allah. Pinning yellow badges on Jews? That was their invention, by the way. The Nazis only copied it, and that’s just a taste of what’s to come if we let our guard down for one minute. The Islamics have spent the last fourteen hundred years fighting for one purpose only, and they’re all fired up and ready for the next fourteen hundred. Ding, round two. Forget about the Bible. It’s had its day and it’s harmless now. The Qur’an is anything but.’
‘Only if a crazy radical chooses to interpret it that way.’
Roth replied, ‘Okay, so let’s say the majority of Muslims are peaceful, law-abiding citizens who happily ignore the call to arms that’s a central tenet of their religion, and have no desire to declare jihad on their neighbours and colleagues. Fine. I’m sure the vast majority of Germans in the nineteen-thirties and forties were peace-loving people too. Didn’t stop the Nazis from murdering fourteen million people in concentration camps, and cost
ing the world sixty million lives. How about Russians? Lovely folks, most of ’em, right? Didn’t prevent the Soviet regime from wiping out twenty million of their comrades, and that’s a conservative figure. What about China? Hell, I’d lay down my life for some of the kind and generous Chinese people I’ve met. And yet a tiny minority of party motherfuckers under Chairman Mao managed to slaughter forty-five million men, women and children in just four years during their so-called Great Leap Forward. You want me to go on?’
‘I get the idea,’ Ben said.
‘The moderate majority was irrelevant in all of those cases,’ Roth said. ‘Say just five per cent of Muslims are your pure, by-the-book variety, or what we like to call “radicals”. Islam has one and a half billion followers worldwide. That equates to seventy-five million hardcore jihadists who’ve fully digested every word their prophet told them and are willing to act out his supreme commands. They outnumber the United States military’s combatant forces by fifty-seven to one. And that seventy-five million is another conservative figure, because you can’t always trust that a self-proclaimed “moderate” ain’t just putting on a disguise to mask their true intentions.’
‘Taqiyya,’ Ben said.
‘You got it, pal. The Islamic doctrine of deception that authorises Muslims to hide their real beliefs, convictions, feelings, opinions, to trick the infidels into trusting them. Straight from the words of the Ayatolla Khomeini, when he said, “Allah taught man to lie so that we can confuse our enemies. Should we remain truthful at the cost of defeat and danger to the Faith? We say not.”’
Ben said, ‘I don’t care about their ideology. All that matters to me is whether a person is trying to inflict harm, against me or someone else. Then I have to try to do something about it.’
Roth shook his head harder. ‘You’re getting it back to front. The ideology is the driving force behind the whole thing. The individual nutjob trying to blow himself up and take out a hundred innocent people with him is just a symptom. The real disease is the ideas inside the book. You can’t just treat the symptom. You have to eradicate the root cause.’
‘So you’d want to round up every existing copy of the Qur’an and burn them.’
‘On a bonfire a mile high,’ Roth said with conviction.
‘If history has taught us anything, Tyler, it’s that you can’t ever hope to change what people believe, and you shouldn’t even try. We all know what happens when you try to suppress faith. The best you can wish for is to control their actions, if necessary. In this case, to make sure that the craziest ones don’t carry out their intentions. Then we can do whatever the hell we need to stop them.’
Roth laughed, the intensity in his expression suddenly softening. He stubbed out the remains of his joint. ‘Well, I guess that’ll have to do to be getting on with. We can continue this theological discussion later. It’s late, I’m pooped and I’m gonna hit the sack. There’s a spare room if you want it.’
‘What happens tomorrow?’
‘Let me sleep on it,’ Roth said. ‘I’ll let you know in the morning.’
After Roth had gone, Ben stood for a minute watching the ocean waves heave and crash, until he felt so exhausted that he crawled off to the spare room and curled up in bed, too tired to undress, his mind swirling with thoughts that he wanted to shut out.
As he lay there he could hear the steady, soft snoring coming through the wall. Roth might be sound asleep next door, but Ben lay awake most of the night as the storm lashed at the island. Sometime before dawn, he drifted off and began to dream.
Chapter 35
It’s been a long afternoon at the dusty roadside. A ragged column of civilian traffic moves slowly through the heat haze and comes to a bottleneck as it reaches the military checkpoint up ahead. A man wearing a long robe and a chequered red keffiyeh is leading a camel along on the end of a rope. A wizened older man is driving a makeshift cart with truck wheels pulled by a donkey. A group of women and children are hurrying nervously along the road, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the ground. The children are aged between about three and ten and walking single-file daisy chain with linked hands; the women are clad from head to toe in black with only their hands and faces showing. The hot, dry air is rank with the Iraqi civilians’ fear and tension.
All around, as far as the eye can see, the landscape is flat and arid, baked to the same uniform colour-washed hue by the relentless sun. A few low, crude block buildings stand in the distance, where some desiccated-looking chickens scratch about in the dirt and a dog is barking.
Formations of military Land Rover Defenders and US Army Humvees flank the roadside, filmed with dirt and sand and overlooked by a battle-scarred M1 Abrams tank whose turret gunner is hunkered down behind his Browning fifty-cal, watching the scene with an indifferent expression. A mixed unit of Coalition forces are stopping the traffic and checking people’s papers, inspecting cars, pickup trucks, carts and saddle-bags for anything suspicious before waving them on their way. Pedestrians have to be frisked, which is done with great caution, especially with the Muslim women and girls, so as to cause as little offence to the civilian population as possible.
The soldiers’ battledress is worn from hard use, day in and day out. Their weapons are scuffed and their eyes are grim and weary. Nobody wants to be here, any more than the civilians appreciate their presence.
Observing the traffic slowly pass through the checkpoint Ben is less interested in the contents of the vehicles, more in the faces of the drivers. Weeks have passed since the escape of Nazim al-Kassar, and Special Forces are on red alert to recapture him. A small group of SAS have been directed to assist the regular troops while identifying routes likely to be used by insurgents. This checkpoint near Karbala, about a hundred miles south of Baghdad, is one of those where their sources tell them they are most likely to intercept key personnel whose capture could potentially inform them of the whereabouts of the renegade JTJ commander or one of his lieutenants.
In other words, it’s a bloody wild goose chase and nobody really has a clue what’s going on. Ben feels his being here is a waste of time and a poor use of their resources. Apart from anything else, word will quickly have reached any of the militants who might have been considering using this route, and they will simply have altered their itinerary. There are plenty far more valuable things Ben could be doing to help find al-Kassar, but his orders have been clear.
Ben takes his cigarette pack and Zippo from a pouch of his tactical vest, leans against a low sandbag wall and lights up a smoke. He smiles to himself as one of the checkpoint soldiers has trouble hanging onto the camel’s lead rope while his colleague is patting down the animal’s owner. The army doesn’t offer camel handling as part of its basic training programme, but maybe it should. The comic relief over, the camel guy goes on his way. The soldiers circle a dusty pickup truck and begin their next search. This will go on all day, and then some.
From one of the low buildings in the distance comes a woman. Ben notices her from the corner of his eye and watches as she begins walking slowly towards the checkpoint. Like all the Muslim women who’ve passed through here today, she’s dressed in black, with the full hijab and niqab that cover all of her face except her eyes. From a distance it’s impossible to make out any details of her, but as she gets closer, it’s apparent that she’s heavily pregnant and canting her upper body back to counterbalance the weight she carries up front, with her left arm clutching her belly for support. She must be almost nine months gone.
As Ben idly watches her approach he’s thinking how sad it is for babies to be born into all of this misery and fear. How long will the child survive in the midst of this terrible war, and what kind of a life will it have growing up in the remains of a country shattered by endless death and pain? He has seen too many children die in this conflict, and others. He feels deep sympathy towards this poor young woman with such an uncertain future ahead of her.
The pregnant young woman comes closer. She appears to be having difficulty walki
ng, dragging her feet in the dust as though she’s sick. Ben wonders if she’s okay. She seems to be on her own. Perhaps she needs help. It’s not unknown for soldiers to have to help deliver a baby when a female civilian suddenly goes into labour far away from the nearest hospital. A delicate situation. He flicks away his cigarette, stubs it into the dirt with his boot heel and starts walking towards her.
Winning hearts and minds is an important part of the SAS’s mission here. He believes strongly in that role. He doesn’t want these people to see him as their enemy. If there’s anything he can do to help, he will, including calling in a chopper to get her to a hospital.
Ben picks up his stride as she shuffles uncertainly towards the checkpoint. None of the other soldiers are paying her any attention. He’s within thirty yards of her now, close enough to see the vacant look in her eyes through the slit in her black niqab. She looks hazy and unfocused as though she’s drugged out of her mind. Her left hand is still clutching her distended belly. Her right hand is out of sight within the folds of the hijab. The thin cloth over her mouth is moving, as though she’s mumbling to herself. Repeating the same words over and over again.
Now Ben can hear what she’s saying. It’s a prayer.
And it’s only then, at that very last moment, that warning bells start to jangle violently in his mind like a hundred fire alarms going off at once. His blood turns to ice and his stomach twists. It’s too late for anyone to do anything except take cover. A yell bursts from his lips: DOWN DOWN EVERYBODY DOWN!
But his words seem to have little effect. His voice seems to echo inside his head, as the soldiers and civilians around him appear frozen in time and unable to hear him. His own body feels immensely heavy and it takes a giant effort to move. The nearest person to him is a young British squaddie, no more than about seventeen. Ben hauls him behind the cover of one of the olive-green Defenders and drags him to the ground, covering the startled lad’s body with his own.
House of War Page 18