The Kindness of Enemies: A Novel (39 page)
Chuanat looked up at Zeidat, who was now not only covering her ears but swaying from side to side in exaggerated agony. ‘You are so rude. When Anna was with us in Dargo, she was often complimentary of the azan and never complained about it.’
He smiled at Chuanat. In the months before she came to Kaluga he was anxious that he would lose her. She could have asked the Russians to return her to her family in Armenia but she didn’t. Instead, she chose to join him in exile. Her presence made all the difference. Here she was evoking the memory of Anna. It was right to do so. He said, ‘Anna is a princess and she conducted herself like one. You must distinguish, Chuanat, between royalty and a tribeswoman.’
Zeidat snorted. ‘I am proud of my heritage, Shamil Imam.’ The daughter of Sheikh Jamal el-Din had every reason to be.
‘Your heritage should have given you more sensitive ears. Listen to what these bells are saying.’
She made a face. ‘There aren’t any words, just a ding ding.’
He paused to listen to the bells but not with his ears. ‘They are saying “Haqq! Haqq!”’
Zeidat raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that what they are saying to you?’
‘Yes, they too can remind us of Allah. If you listen carefully you will hear them say His name. Truth! Truth!’
There were quarrels in the house because everyone was cooped up together. The young ones were bored and when they were bored they quarrelled. The air was not as pure as in the mountains. Ghazi’s wife fell ill with fever. Permission was granted for Shamil to build a mosque in the garden. Good, resourceful Runovsky facilitated the whole process. As time dragged on the mosque become a haven for Shamil, a place to escape to. He spent longer hours there, reciting the Qur’an in a place where it had not been heard before, kneeling down on a piece of earth that had never been pressed by the forehead of a believer. There was a sense of peace in this. To be told don’t fight any more, you have done enough, stand aside, stand aside and worship. That was how he interpreted his defeat in Gunaib. It was a command from the Almighty to stand aside and worship because the years were running out.
Gifts came to him from the tsar and from other dignitaries. He could not accept the gold tea tray and when he found that, instead of returning it, young Muhammad-Sheffi had hidden it in his room, Shamil ground each cup under his feet. He made Chuanat cry when he tore her new green dress. ‘When women in Dagestan can afford silk, then you can wear it,’ he shouted. A subtle danger was creeping into his household.
Often he thought of his son Jamaleldin. This was the world he had been thrown into when he was eight years old. No wonder
it had seeped into him, weakening his resolve, gnawing at him from within. So strongly did he feel Jamaleldin’s presence that he was not surprised when on one fine summer afternoon, a peasant woman knocked on the door and said that she had known Jamaleldin. In the reception room fitted for visitors, furnished in the Russian style, she sat across from Shamil, her kerchief knotted around a wide face, and told him that she had been Jamaleldin’s nanny, long ago, when he first came from Akhulgo. He listened to her, as the shadows in the room lengthened, describe a shy little boy who could not speak a word of Russian, a child cut off, bereft and still restrained because his mother and father had taught him to be brave, had told him that an Avar mustn’t break down into tears. She visited again, bringing an officer who had been Jamaleldin’s childhood friend, bringing others who had known him well. These people nurtured his son when he could not and, years later, were still loyal to Jamaleldin’s memory. They could not be Shamil’s enemies. He owed them friendship and gratitude.
But what did the Russians want from him? To command every fighter in the Caucasus, whether they were Circassians or Chechens or Dagestanis, to lay down his arms? He would. To swear allegiance to Emperor Alexander II? He did. To support the new policy of enforced mass deportations of the highlanders, robbing them of their ancestral lands? He would not.
The best of guests came to stay. Sheikh Jamal el-Din brought with him blustery rainy weather and memories of the Caucasus. The young felt grounded once again. Zeidat was on her best behaviour. While Shamil, in the presence of his teacher, had the chance to feel mature but not old, still protected and not quite an orphan yet.
Jamal el-Din filled him in on the news from home. They were alone in the mosque after evening prayers. Over time, the Tatars of Kaluga had been joining the prayers and the circles of zikr which Shamil led. Now that Sheikh Jamal el-Din had taken over, the feelings in the gathering were refreshed as he added weight and substance to what was already there.
‘When the coffin arrived in Ghimra,’ he was referring to the recent death of Ghazi’s wife, ‘people said, “This isn’t how we imagined Shamil’s family would come back to us.”’
‘Ghazi took his wife’s death badly,’ Shamil said. Unlike Muhammad-Sheffi, who embraced Russia and wanted to join its army, Ghazi was bitter and unwilling to change. Often he would lie in bed balancing an unsheathed sabre on his finger, only rousing himself up to pray. Neither old enough to be content with reflecting back on an illustrious career, nor young enough to be flexible, Ghazi’s position was unenviable. Shamil worried about him.
Sheikh Jamal el-Din said, ‘A new wife would compensate his loss.’
Shamil pondered on the logistics of arranging a marriage while they were in exile. Russian approval would be needed to bring over a bride from Dagestan.
‘I heard you were suffering,’ Jamal el-Din was saying. ‘That’s why I came.’
‘I am well, as you can see. What you heard must have been exaggerated reports.’ Shamil’s voice was low. Not because anyone was around to hear him, but because of a new inner flatness.
Jamal el-Din’s eyes looked bright. ‘It is good to reassure myself.’
‘We are honoured by your visit.’ It was more than that. A sweetness in the general gloom, a reason for optimism.
Lightning made him see his teacher suddenly aglow. He was older than Shamil but it was as if he had levelled off at a certain age while Shamil’s hair and beard had turned white. With the rumble of thunder Jamal el-Din murmured,
‘The thunder extols and praises Him, as do the angels for awe of Him …’
Shamil listened out for the quickening fall of the rain. It lifted his spirits further, dissolving the distance between earth and sky.
‘You have my permission to go on pilgrimage,’ Sheikh Jamal el-Din said.
Shamil was taken aback. He thought that he had always had his teacher’s permission, that it had been his for decades. It was the tsar he was waiting on. Last year the tsar had turned down his request, saying that the situation in the Caucasus was still unsettled.
‘I will join you and we will go together,’ Sheikh Jamal el-Din said.
Shamil bowed his head in appreciation. He must write to the tsar again. ‘Unless the Caucasus is completely pacified, the Russians won’t let me go.’
‘They fight amongst each other. The blood feuds which you repressed have now flared up again,’ Jamal el-Din said. ‘The Chechens have gone back to how they were before they were governed by Sharia.’
‘Let their new masters crack down on them now.’ He did not feel any grudge or nostalgia for the past.
Jamal el-Din nodded in agreement. ‘And those who don’t want to be ruled by the infidels are packing up and moving to the Ottoman Empire.’
Shamil sighed. He would go there himself, if he had the chance.
Their conversation meandered. The rescue of Shamil’s books from Gunaib, memories of past and better times.
‘I ask myself what went wrong,’ said Shamil. ‘Almost overnight I lost control. One day I commanded thousands, the next day I was on the run and even then my wagons were robbed on the way. Something happened, something changed.’
Sheikh Jamal el-Din closed his eyes. ‘You changed.’
‘How?’ He was fully alert now, his senses sharpened as if waiting in the dark for an enemy to pounce.
‘You began to think you were invincible.’
‘No man is invincible.’
‘True. But you no longer believed that you needed my spiritual support. You began to believe that your naibs were strong and that your tactics were excellent. You began to believe in your
own abilities and you said to yourself, what does that old man know about warfare, what does that dervish understand besides mysticism?’
‘I have always revered you.’
‘And I prayed for you. All through the decades of your success. Then you became arrogant. I am your teacher, you swore allegiance to me. It is my right to chastise you. So I raised up my palms to Allah Almighty and read Al-Fatiha.’
‘As if I was already dead.’ Shamil did not feel pain, only interest.
‘A week later you were captured by the Russians.’ There was no anger in Sheikh Jamal el-Din’s eyes, no vindictiveness, no malice.
Shamil leaned forward and kissed his hand. He had asked the question and received the answer. Let the Russians think what they wanted to think. Let them understand in their own logic, in their own language how he resisted them for decades and why, almost overnight, he fell. But he had his own answer now, to hold to himself. Without spiritual support, nature took its course. Without blessings, without miracles, one and one made two and an object thrown up in the air fell down; a man could not see in the dark, fire burned and bodies needed food. Without blessing, without miracles, the physical laws of the world govern supreme and those strong in numbers and ammunition sooner or later must defeat the weak.
A crop he had tilled and watched, with pleasure, its vegetation grow green, now lay yellow and dry before him, flaking. There was now only one direction for him to go in, carrying his sincerity and long years of devoted service. One last journey to make.
The news that Oz had dropped out was passed around the department with relief as if we were well rid of him. One of our best students. After yet another dismissive shrug, I hid myself in the Ladies’ and cried with anger, ashamed that, even now, I could not stand up for him. I could not say that when he was in my class and I marked essays, I would leave his to the end, just so that I could look forward to it, just so that I could tolerate better the awfulness and apathy of some of the others’. His would be always rewarding, worth the effort I had put into my lectures and worth the facilities in place.
I’m making the right decision,
he recently wrote.
I can’t go back there now. I don’t want to. Malak isn’t too happy with me moving to Cardiff but at least it’s not South Africa.
The Non-Academic Complaints Panel, with Gaynor Stead accusing me of breaking her finger, was held immediately after the Easter break. During the run-up to it, I was consumed by stress and lack of sleep. In the end Gaynor could not prove that I broke her finger but the Complaints Panel acknowledged that perching on her desk might have been construed as a violation of
personal space. I was admonished to be more careful in the future but without the university declaring that a terrible wrong had been done to the student. Not a triumphant outcome, my confidence was shattered, but I was relieved that it was all over and that I still had a job I could call my own. I developed a stutter and a tremor in my cheek that persisted for a long time afterwards. I supposed my colleagues would have supported me more if the anti-terrorist squad hadn’t searched my office after Oz’s arrest. Even though this was never mentioned during the hearing, understandably the two things compounded with my being away for such a long time and caused a coolness between myself and my workmates. Natasha Wilson denoted a person who was smeared by suspicion, tainted by crime. I might as well have stayed Natasha Hussein! Even though my laptop and mobile phone were returned to me, even though no formal charges were ever levelled at me, still, it now took conscious effort to walk with my head held high. My voice became softer, my opinions muted, my actions tentative. I thought before I spoke, became wary of my students and, often, bowed my head down.
I kept in touch with Mekki and with Grusha and Yasha more regularly. When I told them that I missed them, I meant it, aware now of that parallel life I could have led if my parents’ marriage hadn’t ended. I valued the sense of belonging they gave me, the certainty that I was not an isolated member of a species but simply one who had wandered far from the flock and still managed to survive, for better or for worse, in a different habitat. Chatting with them, we would skip from Russian to English to Arabic and I relaxed without the need to prove, explain or distinguish myself. Nor squeeze to fit in, nor watch out of the corner of my eye the threats that my very existence could provoke in the wrong place in the wrong time among the wrong crowd.
A last-minute Call for Papers for an international conference on Suicide, Conflict and Peace Research galvanised me into preparing a submission. I wanted to compare Shamil’s defeat and surrender, how he made peace with his enemies, with modern-day Islamic
terrorism that promoted suicide bombings instead of accepting in Shamil’s words, ‘that martyrdom is Allah’s prerogative to bestow’. How did this historical change in the very definition of jihad come about?
The Easter break passed in a daze, the days getting longer but the cold still teasing; generous hours of light but the temperature refusing to rise. It was, though, a relatively warm Sunday in May when the telephone rang and it was Malak talking to me as if we had only just seen each other the week before. I could tell from her voice that she was outdoors, somewhere windy.
‘I’m not far from you,’ she said. ‘At Dunnottar Castle. Are you free to come over? I know it’s short notice. But you came to my mind, just now, and I thought why not call and see. Just in case.’
And I was driving again, this time with a few drops of rain on my front window. Clouds that started to clear as I neared my destination. I sensed a welcome purity in my motivation, an energy that made the drive effortless, the distance bridgeable. She had always given me a sense of communion with Shamil, oriented me towards the unexpected, and guided me to what could never be written down in history.
