THE BROTHERHOOD (2 page)

‘What do I tell your son?’ he whispered, but it was a question to which he already knew the answer. He wouldn’t tell his son anything: Aazim’s life depended on it. There was only one person who could stop Sam, and Ilias had to see him personally.

Work was Aazim’s only escape and distraction. Technical jargon was like another language that occupied his mind, neutral and unassuming. And work was where he first met Rami, a person he could confide in and a fellow Arab, a warm chubby character with an Egyptian background. Their friendship had grown during their frequent conversations over lunch and coffee, from tedious time-passers to open and personal discussions about life in Australia.

Rami, a devout Muslim, accepted that his friend was not a man of the Quran like he was. He respected Aazim’s opinion but also felt it was the right time to encourage him on a path to a fulfilled life, a path to true Islam. A starting point was mentioning the local mosque and the interesting people he would meet there, a lot of them with similar stories to tell, young and educated professionals like him.

‘You should come one night and just look around,’ Rami would say, knowing that gentle and tactful persuasion was needed with a person like Aazim. He also told Aazim about the job opening at Aust Global Fund, a position for a technician in a specialist server role at the finance company. Sam, a manager at Aust Global Fund, was looking for someone with the right credentials to join this successful and growing firm in the Melbourne CBD.

The offer sounded attractive to Aazim. He was aware that his parents had worked there – his mother as an accountant – but his knowledge of the firm was limited as the family had never discussed work matters.

‘You’re wasting your brain here, Az. You should be earning twice as much. Here, have a cookie.’ Rami took out a chocolate-chip cookie and handed it to Aazim. His work drawers were stuffed with the things and crumbs clogged his keyboard, hence his nickname of Cookie Man.

Aazim conceded that a change of scenery would be good, and if the money was right his decision was already made.

Rami gave him a little background on the company: it was of dual ownership, one a Middle Eastern partner and the other Australian. ‘Sam’s real name is Saeed, but he uses his preferred name with business contacts and everybody calls him Sam now.’

‘Do you know the partners?’

‘No, just Sam. He’s half French and half Algerian but he’s lived most of his life in England. He worked all over Europe before being sent to Aust Global Fund to oversee the IT operations department.’

‘Yeah, okay, when do I meet him?’

‘Have you ever been to Masjid Saad Mosque, Az?’

‘My dad took me a few times as a kid but I can’t remember much. I’m not the most religious person, you know, but I have been to one.’ Az was a little embarrassed. He had never taken an interest in religion or really contemplated the idea of a higher being looking down on him. His parents had brought him up with education as his religion and time hadn’t afforded much else.

‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ Rami replied, ‘we can’t all be perfect.’ His belly wobbled as he laughed and took another cookie from his pocket. He gave Aazim the address of the mosque and said he would organise a meeting with Sam.

‘You’re gonna overdose on those things one day and turn into a ball of blubber,’ Az remarked.

They looked at each other and burst out laughing, crumbs flying out of Rami’s stuffed mouth.

Az visited the mosque on a week night. He programmed the address into the car’s GPS, a satellite-positioning unit that gave him the exact location of and shortest routes to his destination. He loved playing with gadgets and electronics: like a kid in a toy shop he was completely carried away by the eBay wave, becoming so addicted that he bought items simply for the challenge of outbidding other contenders. Electronic equipment – mostly stuff he didn’t need – lay all over his bedroom, such as a stun gun for forty-five dollars that had never been used.

He didn’t mention his expedition to the mosque to his father or anyone else. He wasn’t even sure why he was going. As he drew near, the first thing he noticed was the minaret towering above the dome-shaped building: a tall, graceful spire stretching towards the moon with what seemed like an onion crowning its top. Large spotlights beamed upwards from the ground, highlighting the elongated white shaft. Their original purpose was as watchtowers, later evolving into a vantage point to summon worshippers to prayer by the
muezzin
, usually someone with good vocal cords and a favoured character.

A few people were chatting outside while others slowly made their way inside the building. He spotted Rami talking to a clean-cut man with southern Germanic features, and his friend turned and smiled as Aazim approached them.

‘Ah, you made it, my friend, right on time. Let me introduce you to Sam Hammoud, the manager I was telling you about from the finance company.’

The stranger scanned Aazim from top to toe. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aazim. I’ve heard so much about you from your friend here I feel no introductions are necessary.’

‘Likewise,’ Aazim replied, before they all exchanged pleasantries and shook hands.

‘I know your parents, Aazim. I’m sorry about your mother. She was highly respected by everyone and the tragedy shook all of us at Aust Global Fund.’

‘Thank you.’

‘How is your father? I haven’t heard from him since he resigned.’

‘He’s doing fine,’ Aazim stated, politely indicating a sensitive topic. He noted Sam’s almost intimidating self-confidence; he was undoubtedly a leader, an ambitious man with piercing eyes that seemed to know the contents of one’s soul.

After a few minutes Sam excused himself, promising to meet up with the two friends later so they could discuss the job vacancy.

Aazim took the opportunity to reacquaint himself with his Muslim roots, and as they made their way into the mosque, he took in his surroundings. Taxis were parked outside the building while their drivers, who were of Pakistani, North African or Indian origin, dropped in for their daily prayer and a catch-up chat with friends. The mosque was the size of a suburban church and all the walls were whitewashed. A large entrance took them directly into the dome-shaped hall, which had a high ceiling and a grand chandelier in the middle.

Upon entering, the first thing Rami did was to place a ten-dollar note in a donation box next to the entrance. ‘For good health,’ he explained, and Aazim followed suit.

Splendid carpets with beautifully coloured patterns covered the floor. A number of worshippers crouched on their knees, bowing down in a prayer position with foreheads pressed to the floor. Some preferred a private space of their own while others gathered in groups and prayed in unison. Women were generally allowed in mosques to pray alongside their male counterparts but Aazim did not notice any. It felt to him like a men’s social club where worshippers hung out and talked among themselves. He’d expected to see people wearing white robes, turbans and a lot of facial hair. However, only a handful of worshippers were in such garb and most were dressed casually, maintaining trimmed moustaches or a modern goatee and sideburns.

Assalamu alaikum
, or peace be upon you, was the common form of greeting when one Muslim met another. The other person, in turn, would respond with
wa alaikum assalam
. And on you be peace.

Aazim turned to Rami and said, ‘I’m surprised how many people here know Arabic.’

‘The greeting doesn’t come from any Islamic custom. It’s more of a cultural tradition used by Muslims around the world, like Latin or English is used by Christians,’ Rami explained. ‘People from Arabic backgrounds, for example, have slightly different traditions to those from India or Indonesia, but Arabic is a binding language and that of the Quran.’

He led Aazim through a door at the back of the building that took them outside the mosque and into an adjoining room that was smaller and more intimate. Before they were allowed in, Rami whispered something in the ear of the grave-looking man guarding the small room. They sat down in a far-end corner and observed. Everyone was involved in their own conversations and showed no interest in the newcomers. The carpets lacked the colour and extravagance of the main building and the room was bare, save for a few tables covered with religious reading material that was all in Arabic. A group of younger men were sitting on the floor cross-legged, some dressed in traditional robes. They were involved in a debate hosted by an older man positioned in front of them.

‘Who’s that?’ Aazim pointed discreetly at the old man.

‘That’s Hanif. He’s been around for years and he’s a close friend of Sam’s. He serves as a mentor to a lot of the younger worshippers on their path to Islamic teachings.’

Rami directed Aazim’s attention to the cleric, who was dressed in traditional Pakistani garments. Due to the number of different nationalities in the room the debate was conducted in English. Everyone was considered an equal and had a right to voice their opinion. They were discussing the recent case of five Muslim youths who had been jailed for gang-raping a girl in a Sydney suburb. Daily coverage of the incident on television and in newspapers had incited a number of violent attacks on mosques, schools, and individuals dressed in anything resembling Islamic garb. The Islamic Council of New South Wales and prominent religious leaders delivered a statement condemning the youths and distancing themselves from what they called ‘a radical element of our society’. The radical element referred to Sheik El Balagi, who transferred the blame onto ‘indecently dressed women’ and spoke of an ‘understandable lack of restraint’ by the youths.

A young member in the group was particularly infuriated at the media for sensationalising the case and highlighting the youth’s religion. ‘It happens all the time, so why don’t we hear about it in every newspaper and TV channel?’ he asked.

Around the room heads nodded in agreement.

‘We can’t go through airport security without everyone staring at us, our bags are always searched, they ask stupid questions and our women are told to reveal their faces. They think we’re all terrorists and rapists!’ another said.

‘We have more right to be in this country than they do,’ a younger man commented. ‘I came here with a passport and money, and their ancestors were convicts brought on boats. What does that tell you?’

Laughter erupted around the room.

Aazim was taken aback by the anger and frustration written on the young faces. While observing their intense expressions, he couldn’t help but be a little swept up by the energy of the group, especially when the topic of all Arabs being terrorists was raised. It went on and on, and he found himself absorbed in a political banter that was close to his own heart. They were blaming the ‘infidels of the West’ for all the trouble and stagnation in the Arab world, and singling out the United States as the worst perpetrator and the root of all evil.

‘It’s every Muslim’s right and obligation to stand up to them,’ one young man said.

Aazim was curious about the fact that no one mentioned the Australian government, almost as if the walls had ears and no one could be trusted. Someone behind him yelled out the word
jihad
, which grabbed the attention of the cleric, who raised his hand. Everyone fell silent and listened intently.

His eyes scanning the group, hand rubbing his white beard, the elder asked the men what could be achieved by
jihad
. ‘There are various forms of
jihad
, brothers,’ he explained. ‘Do you speak of the struggle in the cause of God? There is no one true meaning I can explain for you to understand such a complicated word.’

Aazim listened intently as the cleric carefully chose and polished his words.

‘Many in the West see it as a call to arms or “
jihad
by the sword”. This one form is the most glorious but it is much more than that. There is “
jihad
of the heart and soul”, the inner struggle of good and evil. Another is “
jihad
by the tongue”, a struggle against evil by means of speech and writing. “
Jihad
by the pen and knowledge” is a struggle against evil by intellectual means, and the last one, “
jihad
by the hand”, is a struggle by force. This
jihad
can be carried out by political means, infiltrating the enemy in furthering the cause of Islam,’ he added.

With those final words the debate was concluded and the crowd slowly dispersed. On their way out the two friends discussed the value of the visit and Rami turned to the subject of the debate. He had observed Aazim’s interest in the topic and decided to delve a little further.

‘What did you think, Az? Did you enjoy the discussion?

‘I understand the anger felt by these guys, but some Muslims contribute to the problems we face instead of fixing them.’

‘I agree. Western companies are invited to our countries by our own governments. They exploit our resources while we take on their values. We can’t even live together. The Shiites and Sunnis kill each other, the extremists want a theocracy, the moderates want a secular government, the Middle East is a mess, Iraq is holding together by a thread and Afghanistan is still in the middle ages,’ Rami expounded. 

Aazim shrugged. ‘No wonder Westerners are scared and confused. I can’t understand it myself.’

‘Westerners are not doing us any favours, Az. TV and newspapers these days show people getting blown up, kidnappings and shooting rampages, and it’s all done by those “crazy Muslims”.’ Rami made a gesture of inverted commas. ‘The other side of Islam is just not interesting enough. No one cares about all the literature, architecture, mathematics and astronomy we gave the world. Instead, bloodshed and reality TV make the highest ratings in this country,’ he added, shaking his head.

They waited around for Sam but he didn’t return. Eventually the two friends decided to call it a night and went their separate ways.

The following day Sam called Rami and passed on his apologies to Aazim. Apparently urgent matters at work had required his immediate attention.