Jason Elliot - The Network

‘How do you know such a thing?’ He ignores the implication of the question. ‘Did you fight or not?’

‘I lived as my friends lived. So I lived with them, ate with them, fought with them, prayed with them.’

‘You prayed with them?’ His hands settle deliberately on the edge of the table, as if he’s about to get up.

‘Omar,’ says Jameela, ‘let him eat.’ The conversation is making us both feel uncomfortable.

‘Yes,’ I say, recalling those serene moments at dusk when the men would lay their weapons quietly aside and turn their minds to God before resuming their worldly preoccupations. ‘Sometimes. Not always. It would have been strange not to.’

‘But you are not a Muslim?’

‘Omar,’ says Jameela, with a note of protest.

He looks at her then back at me as if to say, I’m talking; don’t interrupt me.

‘In wartime everyone prays in their own way. There it was a part of life.’

‘You did not feel…’ he looks up, searching for the word. Then he finds it, and his eyes fix on mine again with new intensity. ‘You did not feel like a hypocrite?’

‘Oh merde! That’s it, I’m leaving,’ says Jameela. She pushes her chair back abruptly and stands up. Her cousin looks up at her like a lizard, imperturbable, and then directs a strangled smile at her as if he’s found a hair in his food but is too polite to say.

‘It’s fine, Jameela,’ I tell her. ‘Your cousin is asking a legitimate question. He has his interpretation and others have theirs. That’s the basis of ijtehad. It’s what makes Islam interesting.’

‘How do you know such a thing?’ he asks again, almost angrily, as if his religion is a secret that no one else has the right to take an interest in.

‘He can’t talk to you like that. You’re his guest. This is not Islam.’ She utters the word with a sneer.

Omar ignores Jameela’s outburst as if it’s beneath him to respond to it.

‘The answer to your question is no, I did not feel like a hypocrite. God speaks many languages, not just Arabic.’

He sighs tolerantly, like a teacher who’s been let down by a promising pupil but sees that this isn’t the moment to pursue the issue.

‘I would be most interested to speak to you more about this subject. Perhaps you can come back and I will introduce you to some friends who would also be interested. We can make a small interview and you can also read some verses of the Holy Qur’an for the radio. There are many other things we can discuss.’

‘I would be happy to do that,’ I say. It’s a lie because I have no intention of allowing him to exploit me for his own style of propaganda. His version of religion is too political for me.

Later, after the conversation has changed direction, I wonder whether I’ve judged him too harshly. Perhaps he is just genuinely curious and has never been exposed to the notion that you can be interested in a different culture and religion without becoming a fanatic. But the atmosphere never quite recovers.

‘I’m so sorry,’ says Jameela when we’re back in the car. She’s more distressed than I am. ‘He can be such an idiot. Only religion matters to him and his friends. They’re so medieval, and they’re all like that.’ She calms down a little. ‘I was mixed up with them for a while.’ She starts the car and we pull away.

‘How mixed up? You’re scaring me.’

‘Family stuff,’ she says, as if it’s a chapter in her life she prefers to forget. ‘Ils sont tous des fanatiques.’ She looks at me. The smile has gone from her face. ‘I married one of them. Have you heard of Osama bin Laden?’

‘I think so,’ I say. ‘He’s becoming quite well known.’

‘I married one of his brothers. He was a good man.’ She pauses. ‘But he changed. Osama’s people changed him. Osama was a good man. He did good things for Sudan. But they changed him too. I used to see him and his people, and every time he was becoming more extreme.’

‘I don’t think I want to know about them,’ I say. ‘Watch the road.’

‘You have to understand,’ she says as a look of sadness crosses her features, ‘there’s a beautiful side to Islam and an ugly side. You’re a Christian. Christians have done cruel things. Evil things, I mean. But cruel people will always find cruel things to do. You don’t judge a whole civilisation on them. At the heart of Islam there’s a… a peace, an unimaginable peace and beauty. You find it in the simple people here, in their lives. Their gods are the sky, water and trees. Real Islam accepts all that. The Prophet was from the desert. He was a simple man who understood hardship.’

We drive in silence for a while. There’s something raw about this issue for Jameela, and it’s exactly the kind of discontent that a proper spy would try to exploit, deepening the grievance to obtain information. But there’s no need to try to bring it out. It bubbles up again a few minutes later.

‘You don’t deny your religion and civilisation because there are some fanatics who call themselves Christian? You don’t deny all the goodness and beauty because there is some ugliness. You don’t have to feel guilty because the Church ordered the crusades, or a massacre, or – I don’t know – a Hiroshima or a Srebrenica, or because your Christian leaders built concentration camps or enslaved millions of innocent people? But if a Muslim is involved in something unspeakable, in the West they always point out his religion. They talk about Muslims as if a single word could describe a billion people, as if the word was really useful.’

We pull up outside her home. The engine is still running, so I reach towards the ignition and turn off the engine. Jameela turns to me. She’s still upset. The issue has caused a division between us like an argument, and cast a shadow over the closeness I feel for her.

‘Do you know who the most extreme ones are?’ she’s asking. ‘They’re from Saudi, Egypt, Palestine. The ones who have the closest contact with the West. That’s where they learned their politics and their violence. And they’re always the ones you hear about. You never hear about the millions and millions of people who live quietly and tolerantly and peacefully and with the happiness that Islam brings to the heart of their lives.’

But I’m not really listening. I lean across, reach behind her head with my hand, and draw it gently towards my own. Then I kiss her on her lips.

‘I am in love with you,’ I say quietly. ‘And each time I say goodbye to you, it hurts.’

She looks at me in stunned silence. Her breath is uneven.

‘Go,’ she says. ‘Just go, please. Va t’en, je t’en prie.’

Her letter arrives the next day. Kamal brings it to me while I’m drinking tea on the balcony.

A mon tres cher Antoine,

I cannot describe my feelings at this moment so I will not try. I am happy that we have met and I will always treasure the time we have spent together. But soon you will leave Khartoum and we will both be alone. When that happens, I know only that for one of us, or both of us, there will already be too much pain. Let us not make that pain greater than it needs to be. Please respect my wish that we not meet again.

Je t’embrasse,

J.

Her housekeeper is outside, watering the bougainvillea, and greets me with a smile. Jameela is not at home, she says. I know, I tell her. I just want to leave her a present, I explain, and take the bags upstairs to her bedroom. The rose petals are fresh and fragrant. They are mixed with hibiscus and jasmine. I plunge my hands into them and scatter them over every surface, across the bed and dresser and bookshelves, until there is a thick layer of them from one side of the room to the other. The note which I leave on her table, by way of an answer, reads: ‘Please come to a picnic on Friday morning, to discuss your important letter (bathing suit optional).’