James Smythe - The Testimony

The man who was having doubts was talking to me about them in the frankest way possible. What if we’ve all been wrong, have you ever considered that? What if it’s not about age, or who was there first, or whose laws make the most sense; what if the Christians were right all along? Or, what if, I don’t know, it’s actually about who shouted loudest? There are more Christians than there are members of Islam, right? I didn’t know what to say to that, so I cleared my throat, and then the static came again, and we all heard The Broadcast for the second time.

Do not be afraid ? the man asked when it was finished. How am I not meant to be afraid ? He turned to me, looked me right in the eyes – I didn’t realize it until then, but he hadn’t been looking at me, not right at me until that moment – and he said, You, this is your job: reassure me. What is this? You know it doesn’t work like that, I told him. I am not the voice of God, nor do I have a link to Him. I am only here to guide you in His ways. So what does He say about this? he asked me. He got up, opened the door, shouted to the rest of the people waiting, who were talking to themselves already, unable to talk about anything other than The Broadcast . What does our God say about this? he yelled. What does He say we should be doing now?

I did not have an answer.

Audrey Clave, linguistics postgraduate student, Marseilles

Patrice’s father was a priest, and he insisted on having the funeral the day after Patrice died, first thing in the morning. We got up and drove down there to his church, but it was just us and a few relatives that we were never introduced to. It wasn’t until halfway through the service that we realized that either his parents didn’t know that he was gay, or that they didn’t want to know, because it wasn’t mentioned, and nobody said anything about his life or his friends or even the sort of person that he was. His father just looked ashamed the whole way through, reading the bits about God’s love for us all, and loss. He didn’t talk about Patrice; he spoke about God. Fucking hell, Jacques said afterwards, what a pig that man was. I defended him, because he was just coping with Patrice’s death. We all were, and he was dealing with it the only way he knew how.

Afterward we stood in the graveyard and Jacques sang some of The Smiths as a joke – A dreaded sunny day, so I’ll meet you at the cemetery gates! – but nobody laughed; and we told stories about Patrice, about what we liked about him, that sort of thing. We were watching them burying him in the distance – they used a little digger to pick up and dump the soil, can you believe that? – when we heard The Broadcast . When it was over we sat on the ground and watched the digger quietly until Jacques broke the mood, reaching over and grabbing me.

Audrey’s afraid, I reckon, he said, and then he started singing ‘Girl Afraid’, another Smiths song. He knew all the words for some reason, so we just let him finish, his voice sounding wrong pronouncing the English words, this imitation, almost. Girl afraid, he sang, where do His intentions lay? Or does He even have any?

Isabella Dulli, nun, Vatican City

Do Not Be Afraid , the voice said, and that was when I realized that it could not be God; or, it could not be my God. My God would understand that we were not afraid, that we would bask in His light. The darkness was my own place for worship, away from the crowds outside. I could hear them, through the gates – the guards must have let them in, because we were to be a pilgrimage, and the only way that they could have held the masses back was with violence, and they would never have gone that far. I could hear them singing hymns, all in English, because they were tourists, and how could they know? Do not be afraid, for if you really love me, I will always be with you, rejoice, rejoice, rejoice. They were so happy, I could hear their voices through the walls of the tomb, vibrating through the Basilica. He is not your God, I said, and I heard myself say it for the first time, even though I had been thinking it; in the darkness, it came back at me, my voice but so distant, and I believed it. Before, He spoke to missionaries, or to those blessed. He spoke to those who loved Him or those who despised Him, but never like this. This was not our God, and I had to believe that. I recited His words to Him in that tomb, knowing that He had to be watching and listening to me, in this time when the world had gone insane: Do not have any other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and the fourth generation of those who reject me, but showing steadfast love to the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my commandments.

Hameed Yusuf Ahmed, imam, Leeds

Samia bit her nails all night; I went out to pray before bed, and she chose to stay at home. I feel ill, she said, but she was lying; she was lazy sometimes, and we both knew it. I chose to ignore it. When I got back she acted like everything was normal, like she hadn’t been thinking of the questions she wanted to ask the whole time that I was gone, even though I knew that she had. Like I say, I chose to ignore it. She wasn’t subtle. I sat on the sofa and she threw the questions at me, casually: what were the people asking you today, what do they think it was, what do you think about it, what does it mean? She was stretching towards the questions I really didn’t want her to ask, and I pushed them away, batted them back. I don’t want to talk about it, I said to her. God will talk to us all in time, let us know His will.

She had always found it hard, this life. I knew it, and she knew it, but it was yet another part of our lives that we chose to ignore, because that felt like it made it all better.

Elijah Said, prisoner on Death Row, Chicago

The new guard in charge of our corridor was called Cole, and he liked to think of himself as a hard-ass. That was his phrase when he introduced himself that day, before the second Broadcast , and he slammed his fists together as he said it, clenched, the knuckles cracking. He went down the corridor and spoke to Finkler and myself individually, keeping his voice hush-quiet so that the other prisoner couldn’t hear. Finkler was so loud that I heard every part of his side of the conversation; it was nothing, just words. Then he came to me, acting like Finkler had told him secrets. Finkler didn’t know any to tell. You’re one of them Fruits? he said, laughing. They enjoyed that; mocking a role, a title, a calling, a purpose. I know all about you guys, all about you. I know all about you. His voice was ruddy, reedy, stained with years of cigarette smoke. Finkler’s conversation had been gentle, amenable; he was suggesting that it was something other than it was. He came right up to the bars, speaking quietly. You and them Islamic brothers of yours killed all my people, right? Hijacking planes, planting bombs, hiding in caves. Sure, I know you people. I moved to the bars, grabbed his head in one motion, pulled his face to the metal. You don’t know anything, I said. We are nothing like those murderers; we are innocents, and true. I dropped him – he had been on the tips of his feet when I held his head – and he rushed backwards, gasping for air. He shouted something, but I cannot remember what it was, and then we heard it. Do Not Be Afraid.

Shit, shit, Cole said, what is that? It was as if he had forgotten about the first Broadcast . Was that you? He panicked, moved down to Finkler’s cell. Did you hear that, Finkler? Of course I did, oh wow, I mean, we all did, right? That’s what they say? Everybody hears it, everybody hears the voice of God, that’s what the papers say? He sounded almost sanctimonious in his pleasure. Holy shit, Cole said. It’s amazing, isn’t it? I could hear Finkler grinning.