Dear Infidel (6 page)

All the while the radio had been on, broadcasting to dead ears. In the speed of his descent he’d forgotten to switch it off; all those jokes, snippets of punditry and sober news items had simply wafted off. News bulletins came and went. Sports roundups left Imtiaz unmoved. He didn’t know it but Pakistan were actually preparing for a big game, the Platinum Jubilee match being held in the majestic Eden Gardens, Kolkata. He’d have been excited by that, had he known – Eid 2004 was promising to be a real cracker. The present could wait, though, for he was deep in the past. Glory beckoned. He could almost taste it, they all could – but a change was needed. Wickets were needed. This partnership between Fairbrother and Lamb had to be broken.

Drinks break. The crowd takes a breather, the players take a breather. A cart is wheeled onto the pitch and everyone grabs some refreshment. Fairbrother and Lamb meet in the middle, away from prying ears.

‘Nice shot there, Lamby,’ says Fairbrother, praising his partner’s efforts. They greet by knocking fists, the batsman’s high-five.

‘Thanks, mate,’ states Lamb, trying to sound underwhelmed, but Fairbrother doesn’t buy it. Lamb’s mid-wicket stance, all leant up against his bat, is close to a pose. He’s chewing some gum, checking it all out and tripping his nuts off. Fairbrother meanwhile sees Wasim come in from the deep.

Wasim Akram. A legend, a natural-born leader, a prince among men. That’s all to come, though, for tonight he’s only twenty-five and a star-in-waiting. He strides with purpose over to his mentor, his gait graceful, fluid. Athletically built and tall, he looks down at Imran, whilst looking up to him. He sniffs the air, the night air – it’s nowhere
near damp but the day’s heat has dissipated, even within the cauldron of the MCG. It’s now humid. Perfect. He picks up the ball and inspects.

‘I think I should come back for my second spell, Captain. What do you think?’

‘It’s a bit early. Let me bowl a couple more and keep rotating Ijaz and Sohail from the other end.’

Wasim isn’t convinced.

‘There’s some moisture in the air now, Skipper. And look at this ball’s condition ... I reckon I can get it to reverse swing from the Pavilion End.’

Imran looks his protégé in the eye. He’s right – if these two keep going, the match could be all but finished in six overs. A cornered tiger always comes out fighting. Lamb is picking him off easily because he’s not getting any movement, whereas this kid can talk to the ball, make it dance for him. Imran places the ball in Wasim’s hand; he himself doesn’t let go.

‘Come on, Was,’ he both commands and pleads. ‘Do it for us. Get us some wickets.’ Mission accepted.

The drinks cart is wheeled off and Fairbrother sees Wasim adjusting his run-up marker.

‘Don’t do anything flashy against Was, just see him off,’ he warns Lamb.

‘Let’s not lose momentum. Look for five to six runs an over. And be sharp on the singles,’ Lamb retorts, re-asserting his seniority in the partnership. Meanwhile, Imtiaz crouches down behind the stumps with Wasim turning round at the other end.

Imtiaz was getting cold. The virus’s progress had been checked and his temperature had lowered. His chest, though, was still exposed and he was losing heat. He was nearly awake and nearly asleep and re-wrapped the duvet around himself. Facing the radio he lifted his groggy eyelids to check the time. 12.05. Then a word pierced his mental fug: Eid. ‘...
Tonight for most of our listeners is just another night. But for Muslims, not only in this country but worldwide, tonight marks the end of Ramadan, the annual month of fasting
,’ the broadcaster began introducing the new item.
‘And tomorrow is Eid, a day of celebration. However three years after 9/11, we have assembled a panel to discuss the issues facing Muslims, and Muslims in the West in particular. Can they respond to contemporary challenges whilst preserving their
identity? Can they be loyal citizens in Britain and in Europe, or will their first allegiance always be towards the
Ummah,
the worldwide Muslim community? Over the course of the next hour we’ll be putting these and other questions to our panel
.’ Imtiaz drifted back to sleep.

‘Ms Petiffer,’ began the broadcaster and chairman of the debate, addressing his opening question to the journalist, the counsel for the prosecution. ‘What do you see as the major challenges facing Muslims in Britain today?’

‘Well, as a woman I’ll begin with women’s rights. Women in the West enjoy freedom: freedom to work and near-equality in the workplace, ownership over their bodies, their femininity and reproductive powers. And education is their birthright. Muslims here not only have to respect this in theory, but embrace it in practice. We should no longer accept their daughters being smuggled out of the country to be forced into marriage. And we must make it clear that there is no place for the importation of barbaric, feudal practices, such as so-called “honour killings”.’ Looking over the rim of his spectacles, the broadcaster turned to the Arab gentleman seated alongside.

‘Dr Qasim?’

Dr Qasim gulped.

‘Nobody is going to defend honour killings or forced marriages, least of all myself, but it is simply not an issue for the majority of Muslim women, in this country or elsewhere.’

‘Are you saying these issues are unimportant?’ the lady half-turned, exaggerating surprise. Possibly a slam-dunk coming up within one minute?

‘No, I’m not saying they are unimportant. I’m saying that in the context of this discussion – the future of Muslims in Britain and Europe – it’s irrelevant.’ This was too easy – time to mop up.

‘Well I find that incredible. Incredible and offensive. How can we accommodate a religion that has misogyny encoded into its very DNA?’

‘Ms Pettifer, you misunderstand me. Forced marriages and honour killings are, of course, a stain on the cultures that perpetuate such practices. But it is simply inaccurate to maintain that this is part and parcel of the lot of a Muslim woman. To make out that they, as a rule, live under such threats, is simply incorrect.’ Dr Iqbal Qasim felt emboldened and patted himself on the back. Nevertheless his trimmed beard was now almost completely grey and he looked tired.

‘Oh come now, Dr Qasim, the lot of women under Islam is appalling. And we’re not just talking about isolated incidents. How do you explain the Taliban? Yet another blip? And at what stage do the blips join up to paint the complete picture? You can draw a distinction between theory and practice only up to a point.’

‘That’s a valid argument is it not, Dr Qasim?’ the broadcaster interrupted. ‘You can’t forever claim that the religion itself remain detached, wholly untainted by the way in which it is repeatedly practised.’

‘Indeed,’ impressed Ms Petiffer. ‘Is the case of Amina Lawal merely another blip? Do you want to defend the stoning to death of women for adultery? Doesn’t Sharia law show up Islam for what it really is?’

Dr Qasim made to speak but his throat was dry. When he went to sip some water, Ms Pettifer couldn’t help but smile.

Wasim’s first spell of bowling had been crucial, with him snaring Botham early on to take the first England wicket. He’d received a ball that bounced more than expected and caught the outside edge of his bat. And, positioned perfectly behind the stumps, Imtiaz took a regulation catch.
Out!
He never dropped those, did that scion of Pakistan. Ian Botham, an ageing lion with his dreams in tatters, walked off prematurely from the biggest stage of his life. And Aamir Sohail helped him on his way, taunting the Englishman: ‘
Hey Botham, send your mother-in-law in
!’ No one had forgotten his remarks on returning from a tour to Pakistan, where he described the country as ‘
the kind of place to send your mother-in-law to, all expenses paid
.’ It was no wonder that Wasim found an extra yard of pace for Ian Botham. But now he has to do it again. Unless he can take a wicket and separate Lamb and Fairbrother, it will have been a pyrrhic victory. Wasim begins running in.

‘Have you heard of the Lord’s Resistance Army of Uganda?’ Dr Qasim asked rhetorically. ‘The LRA, for your listeners, is a fanatical cult, whose “soldiers” in large part are merely abducted children. Their leader, Joseph Kony, is a self-declared prophet who wants Uganda to live by the laws of the Ten Commandments. Does any of this sound eerily familiar to you?’

‘Answer the question!’
came a sudden cry from the audience. ‘Indeed’, impressed Ms Petiffer, emboldened by the support. ‘I put to you, again, does not Sharia law show up Islam in its true light?’

‘There are over 1.5 billion people who consider themselves Muslim. It does not mean the same thing to all of them. The LRA recruited young boys and inducted them with unimaginable cruelty, forcing children to kill children. And so I feel obliged to ask, what should I take from this? What are its implications and how widely should they resonate? Sure it tells me something about the LRA, but what else?’

‘Well, beyond this tragedy confirming that Uganda has yet to find peace, more than forty years after independence, there’s little else to say.’

‘Really? Charles Taylor, the warlord supreme of West Africa, was a lay preacher. Once when challenged about the blood on his hands he retorted, “
Jesus Christ was accused of being a murderer in his time
”.’

‘You are demonstrating nothing to us here, other than that Africa still has many obstacles to overcome.’

‘Sure, but what part does religion, does Christianity, play in all this savagery? After all, in both cases the main protagonists claimed to be acting in Christ’s name. Should I take their claim seriously? And before anyone thinks this is solely a black African problem, let us not forget that the Afrikaners were not simply card-carrying Christians who happened to be racist, but rather their religion was used to explicitly justify their theory of racial superiority. And moving on from Africa altogether, what should I make of Christ’s holy warriors in Europe? Have you not heard of Milosevic or Radovan Karadzic?’ Dr Qasim paused, this time genuinely expecting a response. None came forth. ‘I’m counting quite a few “blips” now,’ he commented with a wry smile. ‘So can I too claim the right to paint my own picture? And can I apply it wherever I like? To a Catholic from the Philippines? To an Anglican in India? And as an Egyptian shall I slap it on the face of my Coptic brothers and sisters, and henceforth look upon them too with greater suspicion?’

Wasim bowls. He hits the deck hard and the ball tears into its flight path. It traces parabolas, the first from release point to pitching being close to a straight line, with the second arc being more discernible. His sense of urgency is apparent and the delivery is fast, but his aggression has not been controlled. The ball doesn’t pitch in line with the stumps and it swings way too much. The umpire judges it wide and thus a bonus run is awarded to England. Wasim turns immediately.
He doesn’t want to discuss anything and neither does he wish to dwell on a poor first delivery – he needs to think about the next five. This is make or break.

‘Oh come on,’ began Ms Petiffer, sounding too relaxed for Dr Qasim’s liking. ‘The madness in the Balkans was
ended
by the West, the Christian West, at a time when the Arab and Muslim world could only blow hot air. And your reductionist suggestions with your African examples are just laughable. Africa suffers from manifold problems, each complicating the other. Poverty, disease and corruption interweave to create a dark, dark shroud, covering much of that continent. To say that Christianity stands alongside that unholy trinity is in very poor taste. Frankly you surprise me.’

‘I said nothing of the kind,’ he stated. ‘In fact, I agree. I was playing ... how do you say, Devil’s Advocate. My point is that the Taliban say no more about Islam than the LRA do about Christianity. Can you accept that point?’

Second delivery, thirty-fifth over. Wasim slides the ball up his hip, removing any excess sweat. He begins running in. His expression tells of an introspection that belies his youth: countless millions are focused on him and Wasim is meditating. Gathering momentum smoothly he exchanges the ball from right to left hand.
Take aim ... Fire!
His coil and spring action is effortless, poetry in motion, and he releases the ball. He’s looking to get it to dip in, pitch in line with off-stump and then move away late. It doesn’t happen, though. Instead of altering its line and coming back into the batsman, the ball continues from off-stump to leg-stump. Fairbrother plays a classic on-drive. The batsmen run three and thus exchange ends. Alan Lamb will receive the next ball.

‘Dr Qasim, you live in England. You live here and enjoy our freedoms – freedoms that were absent from your own country. Here you are free to come on the radio and criticise; criticise
us
. Criticise our country, our culture, our politics and our religion. And you can go back home and no agent from the state will be waiting for you in the shadows. And you can then visit your mosque and pray to whichever God you like. Why? Because we are free. The Christian and post-Christian world is overwhelmingly free, Dr Qasim, and the Islamic
world is overwhelmingly enslaved. It is driven by basket-case regimes that suppress their own and foment envy, and a religion that foments hatred. The Taliban lie at the end of a very large wedge, and therefore the association between them and Islam hold, in a way in which that between the LRA and Christianity doesn’t.’ Ms Pettifer’s nostrils flared and she looked at her accuser with wide, glaring eyes. With her greying-blonde hair Dr Qasim thought she looked like an aged Valkyrie.

Fifth ball, thirty-fifth over. Wasim’s third and fourth deliveries were tight and Lamb was unable to score. He’ll be looking for runs now. Wasim releases the ball with its seam, the six lines of stitching down its middle, angled slightly to the left. The rougher side is to the fore, with the smoother, more polished, side behind. The ball is travelling extremely fast and turbulence is created as air passes more quickly over the smooth side. The ball swings in. It pitches in line with off-stump but then changes line. Alan Lamb doesn’t see this, though. He’s shaping to play a textbook on-drive, waiting for the ball to come onto his legs, but instead it’s hurtling towards his off-stump. Wasim hears ball shatter wood. Lamb hears the terrible sound too and he looks round to confirm the worst. One heart breaks, the other soars. 85,000 people erupt. Wasim screams with joy and pelts towards Imtiaz, who from behind the stumps was the first to see Lamb’s defences breached. They meet in the middle and high-five before hugging, sheer relief the overriding emotion. Team-mates dash inwards and flock around but Wasim can’t acknowledge any of them. Still hugging Imtiaz, he is more being held up by him than being embraced, such is the release of tension. ‘
What a great delivery
!’ gushes the commentator. ‘
Left-arm round the wicket. Alan Lamb has been cleaned up. And perhaps so too have been England
.’