The Flame Tree (15 page)

Mr. Suherman grinned. “What do you think, Isaac?”

“It’s like the Bible,” Isaac said. “It’s even written in King James English, which nobody ever speaks anymore. Isn’t there a more modern translation?”

“This is the Pickthall translation,” Mr. Suherman said. “It is closest to the majestic harmony and melody of the original Arabic. Listen.”

Mr. Suherman composed himself, took a breath, and began reciting in Arabic the latter passage of Abraham’s sacrifice in the ululating cadence that Qur’anic Scripture readers use. In Mr. Suherman’s recital was the majestic harmony he spoke of, which began to register itself on Isaac’s ear and mind, trained to the scaled melodies of Western songs and hymns.

Isaac’s wonderment must have been written on his face, for when Mr. Suherman finished, he smiled softly and asked, “Do you hear some of the heavenly music? Can you imagine what it must have been like fourteen hundred years ago for the first listeners of blessed Muhammad’s terrible ecstasies?”

“Terrible?”

“Indeed. He did not seek them. They were forced upon him. It is said that he felt as though his soul were being torn from him. He was, initially, a most reluctant prophet.”

Isaac said, “I don’t know Arabic. I do know English, and this English doesn’t sound majestic. It sounds thick and hard to understand. It’d be more interesting for me to read a more modern translation.”

Mr. Suherman was frowning, but not in displeasure. He was thinking. “Would you say that someone from the Bible Belt of America might find another translation of the Holy Qur’an more interesting to read?”

“If there is anyone there who wants to read a Qur’an in the first place, yeah.”

Mr. Suherman said, “You don’t think anyone there would?”

Isaac chose his words carefully. “It would be unusual. Islam is a totally different culture.”

Mr. Suherman’s “No!” rang loudly. “Not a culture, but the straight path. It is the Truth of Allah, and He will find those whom He will, even in the Bible Belt of America.”

“Still, a lot of them couldn’t read this English.”

Mr. Suherman pondered this, measuring out his thoughts
with slow distinct nods of his square chin. “Isaac, I do believe that Allah has brought you into my life just as much as He has brought me into yours. I never thought of this. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Isaac said, perplexed by Mr. Suherman’s gratitude. His suggestion wasn’t all that much to be grateful for. Most Americans wouldn’t be interested in reading any version of the Qur’an. Isaac was quite literally a captive audience. He had no choice in the matter.

“This is enough for today, I think. You look tired.” Mr. Suherman took out a ruled notebook and a pen from the Gucci case. He jotted down something. He ripped off the sheet and handed it to Isaac. “I want you to read and study these verses before our next lesson tomorrow.”

Isaac took the sheet reluctantly. He was sick, locked up, separated from his family, not knowing what was going to happen, and now, on top of all that, he had homework to do.

“Any questions?” Mr. Suherman asked, like a teacher.

And Isaac, like a student, knew better than to ask any. Except there was one that had nothing to do with the Qur’an. “What’s the Tuan Guru really like?”

“The Tuan Guru is the father I wish I’d had. He is strict and stern yet loving. He is a…” Mr. Suherman paused, searching for appropriate words.

“A kidnapper,” Isaac said.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Suherman said, and then understood. His eyes hardened in anger. He said, with words cold-rolled from the steely press of his anger, “Tuan Guru Haji Abdullah Abubakar is
a true servant of Allah, and whatever he does in the name of Allah is just and righteous. You are here because it is God’s will. There is no reason other than that. Do not speak evil of the Tuan Guru, for the evil will come back to you.”

“Sorry,” Isaac said again.

Mr. Suherman put his Qur’an back in the leather case. He rose from the chair. Isaac, like a well-bred Javanese boy, automatically followed suit from his cot, his head respectfully bowed. “Don’t forget to study those verses,” Mr. Suherman said. It was a warning rather than a reminder. At the door he paused. His face was still rigid. Then he sighed, and his facial muscles relaxed. “Come here,” he said. Isaac obeyed. Mr. Suherman blew into his right hand and passed the palm of it over Isaac’s neck and chest, lingering over the heart. He recited something in Arabic and then said in English, “O Allah! Lord of the People, Remover of Trouble! Heal this sick one with the healing that leaves no ailment, for You are the healer, and You alone.” Mr. Suherman smiled at his student. “And for the sake of your tradition, Isaac, I add: For yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory. Amen.”

Mr. Suherman left. Isaac sat down on the cot, perplexed. Mr. Suherman had meant well, but did God count that prayer for healing as a witch’s spell to be abhorred?

“I didn’t ask for it,” Isaac said loudly, reminding God of that.

Later Ibu Halimah asked, “What do you think of Kiai Suherman?”

Isaac answered politely, “He is a good teacher.”

“Yes. He is one of the best and brightest young men we have. He is going to be the Nahdlatul Umat Islam’s first missionary to America.”

“He told me.”

“The Americans want to bomb Afghanistan and kill Muslims. But Kiai Suherman wants to go to America and tell Americans about the straight path of Allah. That, Isak, is true Islam.”

M
R
.
SUHERMAN SAID
, “You have read those verses I gave to you to read?”

Isaac said, “They were about Jesus. The Qur’an says that God created him out of dust. That’s wrong. Jesus is the Son of God. God the Father, God the Son, God the—”

“Nonsense! Is Allah some commonplace fornicator of the flesh to have a child with a woman? A monstrous thought! Sura 112, verses 1 to 4 say in the translation of Pickthall, ‘Say He is Allah, the One! Allah the eternally Besought of all. He begetteth not nor was begotten, and there is none comparable unto Him.’ The Christians claim they believe in one god, yet they actually believe in three.”

Isaac, recalling one of Pastor Cornelius’s favorite analogies, said, “But three in one, like a rope that is a single rope but made of three strands.”

“Sophistry. Your own Scriptures show how you believe in three gods. In the Bible story about Jesus being baptized, you have a god in heaven and you have a god as a dove and you have a god in the water. Don’t use semantics to try to wiggle out of it. There are three gods in three different places at one time. By Allah, what sort of monotheism is this? How can your Bible as it is today be
considered holy with such monstrous corruptions in it?”

Isaac felt as he always did in the presence of a grown-up who was telling him something for his own good, whether he believed it or not.

Mr. Suherman said, “You are scowling, Isaac.”

“If Islam is such a wonderful religion, why do you convert others at the point of the sword and behead those who refuse to convert? Do you have a sword packed for America?”

Amazement stretched across Mr. Suherman’s handsome face. He said, “I have been warned that Americans have a common misconception of Islam being the religion of a bunch of bloodthirsty fanatics. You grew up in Java, and yet you ask such a question?”

“Mr. Suherman, Muslims robbed us. Muslims burned my church. And this,” he said, touching his finger to his healing eye, “all this happened in Java. By Muslims.”

Mr. Suherman expelled a breath and rubbed his hands on his knees. “Isaac, I have told you that unfortunately there are many misguided, immature Muslims, easily confused and deceived. Muslims can and do sin and perform deeds that Allah condemns. The U.S. State Department calls the Nahdlatul Umat Islam a terrorist organization, but what else would the Great Satan say about faithful Muslims struggling and fighting for the cause of Allah against Christian missionaries from America who actively seek to turn Muslims into apostates? This is a very serious matter that I am not sure a young boy can understand, but you must try.”

Isaac exclaimed, “But the doctors, my parents—they are nobody’s enemies. They are here to help the poor and the sick.”

“The poor and the sick and the oppressed are always the easiest prey. I have nothing personal against your parents, and, Isaac, Isaac, I would welcome them with wide arms were they purely humanitarian doctors who worshipped their Jesus within the confines of their own religious community. But they are proselytizers, and so they are not welcome here. This is partly the fault of the Muslims who have allowed them to be here and of the Muslims who do not take care of their own poor and sick. Nonetheless, the presence of a Baptist mission with a subversive hidden purpose of converting Muslims is intolerable. This is a gross sin against Islam, which no true Muslim can tolerate. However, as the Tuan Guru explained to some of our hotheads, the Nahdlatul Umat Islam is not a
komando
jihad group, and he was not about to issue a
resolusi
jihad for holy warfare.”

“But you want to be a missionary yourself.”

“I bring the true Word, Isaac. I bring, in the message of the prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings upon him, the culmination of what Jesus
alaihi as-salam
originally taught.”

“So what’s going to happen to me, now that I know about Islam? Are you going to let me go on my merry way as a Christian?”

“Are you willing to surrender to Allah?”

“To Islam? No.”

The kiai tugged his ear as he pondered something and then said slowly and reflectively, “It would be wrong for me to pretend there are no differences of opinions, even strong beliefs, among Muslims about the faith. The Shiites and the Sunni, for example.
And we of the Nahdlatul Umat Islam are Sunni; yet even within the Nahdlatul Umat Islam, there are differences of opinion, and you, my boy, have stirred up a major debate. What should we do with you? Why has Allah seen fit to give us this opportunity to make you an example to the world?”

Isaac really didn’t like the sound of that. To be made an example wasn’t, as far as he knew, a generally positive experience.

The kiai continued in a reflective mood, “There are those who argue that you should be forced into Islam as a lesson, as outright punishment against the Union of American Baptists’ mission for its sins in Wonobo.”

Isaac stared at him in horror. There came to this chamber the sound of wings beating on air. The room darkened. The beast was at the door. Isaac felt faint, his blood as thin and poisonous as turpentine.

“Isaac! Isaac!” Mr. Suherman said sharply. “By Allah, you stare at me as if I am a ghoul about to devour you! You are safe with us. It is only a few of our ignorant and tempestuous members who speak so foolishly. The Holy Qur’an says that there is no compulsion in religion and that punishment for disbelief in Islam is for Allah Himself to administer in the hereafter. You are safe here. I’m sorry I spoke so bluntly, I forgot that you are only a child.”

Isaac said faintly, “So I won’t be beheaded?”

“Beheaded? Who has said anything about beheading?”

“You won’t force me into saying the Muslim creed?”

“Of course not. That would not make you a Muslim. We are
not laboratory rats, that if we press this button, we get this reward. When we accept Islam, we must accept, not grudgingly, but with love: You must love Allah first, with all your heart, all your mind, all your soul. Sound familiar?”

So familiar that again Isaac slipped into a déjà vu moment.

“And this, Isaac, is how the
shahadah
should be said.” Mr. Suherman paused, withdrawing deep into a stillness. His eyes closed. He inhaled softly, and then words came out of his mouth, but not words, a cry, but not a cry, an ululation of song, but not a song. It was a soul taking wing to its creator.

“Ashhadu anna la illaha ilia allah wa ashhadu anna muhammadan rasul allah.”

Isaac had heard this creed sung many times over mosque speakers and by Muslims in prayer, but he had never heard it as he heard it at this moment, swelling to fill the small room and then echoing up to the very ramparts of heaven. Isaac’s scalp prickled. Tears came to his eyes, and he was pierced with a swift longing to experience the certainty and the ecstasy of Mr. Suherman, who, for that moment, was in communion with his God.

As for Isaac, nothing filled the vacuum that was his soul.

On Tuesday, Ibu Halimah said, “I know your mother. She has treated some of our women. She’s a very good doctor.” Then she made a face. “But she’s a Christian. The Tuan Guru was very angry when he heard about those visits.”

“She’s trying to help people, is all.”

Ibu Halimah replied in the same refrain as Mr. Suherman, with the same notes of holy righteousness: “She and the others are trying to convert Muslims to Christianity, and that is nearly the most wicked thing you can do. I myself was a warrior in the jihad of prayer against the American Christians. I spent many hours in prayer, and Allah has heard and has driven them away.” Her tone softened. “I know they are your people, Isak. We are not cruel, but we must do what is right.”

“So how much longer am I going to be held captive?”

“Captive? That is not the word to use; you are here at Allah’s will. You will be released according to His time. But keep your spirits up. Your malaria is nearly cured, I’d say.”

That prompted a memory. “Ibu, last night there were mosquitoes in the room. Can I have some repellent tonight?”

“We don’t have mosquitoes here. We spray regularly.”

“Truly, there were mosquitoes. Please, can I have at least some mosquito coils to burn? And the medicine you give me isn’t helping me sleep as well as before.”

“That’s because I’m reducing the dosage. It can be addictive.”

“No, please don’t reduce the dosage.”

Her high, arched eyebrows arched higher yet, nearly meeting the forehead band of her veil. “Surely you aren’t addicted yet.”

“I only want to sleep without dreams.”

The eyebrows fell back into place with a clunk of understanding. “It is necessary to dream,” she said. “There are bad dreams from the devil, yes, and when those come, seek the shelter of Allah with prayer. But also remember that the hadith says
that good dreams come from Allah and that the truest dreams are those that come at dawn.”

“What happens when we die?” Isaac asked Mr. Suherman during his lesson later that day. He had meant to ask what Muslims think happens when we die, because he, Isaac, actually knew the truth of it. But he was tired and those were the words he said.

Mr. Suherman said, “Sura 32:11 says, ‘The angel of death, who hath charge concerning you, will gather you.’ In other words, not only is death an inevitable fate for all people, but it is also a planned and purposeful fate. All humans have souls, and when we die, our souls await the Day of Judgment, when Allah will decide which souls are to be punished in hell and which souls shall enter paradise.”

He paused, and then continued. “One of my favorite verses says, “That day will faces be resplendent, looking toward their Lord.” In this life we perceive Allah only in part and with desperately longing glimpses, yet in the hereafter His presence will be full and glorious. Oh, to be in the presence of Allah, eternally bathed in the light of His glory and in His love.”

The longing that had crept into Mr. Suherman’s voice trailed its fingers across Isaac’s heart.

“And hell?” Isaac said.

Mr. Suherman gestured to the page of the Qur’an that Isaac had read from. “It says there that it is a place of fire and desolation. Yet God is love and mercy still, and there is a saying I love that says the doors of hell will one day sway crookedly in
the wind like those of an abandoned and empty house. Even Satan will be forgiven.” A soft smile of wonder and joy tugged at the corners of Mr. Suherman’s lips. “Is not such a merciful and compassionate God worthy of our full love and devotion, Isaac?”

Isaac thought but did not say,
My God damns forever
.