Alexandra Lapierre - Between Love and Honor

Bahou-Messadou ran her free hand lightly over the handle of the small dagger that she carried hidden beneath her tunic. It was nothing unusual; all the women of Dagestan wore a kinjal tucked into their belts.

She was not afraid. Her fate was written, and what would be would be. She had no fear for herself. She only worried about protecting her grandsons and all those dear to Shamil. Losing the water this morning was a bad omen.

She set off again down the path to the well, with the same measured steps, thanking Allah in his mercy that not a soul in Ghimri had witnessed her weakness and her mistake. She had known that this day would be difficult, but her journeys back and forth gave her a sense of peace. She felt at home here, on the path to the river.

The night and these desolately rocky surroundings—the peaks that loomed, somber and threatening, the raging river at the bottom of the ravine, these abysses so black that bats flew there in the middle of the day—this was all she knew. She loved the impassable massifs that had shaped the men here for so many centuries, even if their immensity made unity among the different villages impossible. How many times had she heard Shamil repeat that Allah desired the union of the “believers” of the Caucasus, and that their union could only be achieved through their faith in God and respect for his law. He said that there were hundreds of thousands of Muslims in the mountains, most of them in Chechnya and here in Dagestan. Of the thirty tribes of Dagestan, 125,000 people were Avars, like themselves. But among the Avars, the Darghis, the Laks, the Lesgiens, the Chechens, and the Inguches, no one spoke the same language. There were forty languages in Dagestan alone. How could they ever come to an understanding?

There was always Arabic, but only the mullahs and the religious leaders spoke it. She herself did not understand it. She knew how to listen, though, and she was interested in the people who lived in the villages around her. When Shamil returned, whether from battle or after delivering a sermon, he always came to see her, because he knew he would find an attentive ear. How could they achieve union, he pondered, how could they unify for freedom and the glory of God, if not by marching together in the service of Allah?

On this point, he had convinced her. The believers could not revive their power, their influence, their prestige, or the grandeur of their past and resist the infidels unless they returned rapidly to their faith and its original principles, the laws dictated by God in the Sharia . The Muslims had no choice. Catastrophe was imminent unless they reestablished the laws of God everywhere. The coming of the Russians and the propagation of their corrupt ways threatened all with defilement and extinction.

Shamil’s confidence in the wisdom of his old mother flattered Bahou-Messadou. But what advice could she give him? She knew the holy war began with oneself, within oneself, with the reconquest of purity and the return to God. There was no other way. Through sermon and example, Shamil must convince those who remained unconvinced on this point. And if his eloquence was not enough, he must use force.

It was this war that Bahou feared above all. The terror her son bred within his own ranks, the death and destruction he wrought among his brothers against all who did not follow him—could that war ever end?

This was the price of freedom, in Ghimri, in Ashilta, and in all the villages of the Caucasus.

And now?

Dawn was about to break, and Bahou was still on the mountain path.

And now? What was happening in the mosque at Ashilta? Had Shamil succeeded in asserting himself as the supreme leader of the entire Caucasus? Had the tribes joined together under the authority of the Montagnard, whose stronghold had been razed by the Russians? Had he triumphed over the powerful Chechen Hadj Tasho, who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca and considered himself more worthy of the title of imam? Bahou-Messadou was counting on the influence of Shamil’s spiritual mentors, the courage of the faithful, and Shamil’s own deft handling of the situation.

But would he be able to return to Ghimri to save his family?

She set down the jug carefully, and propping it solidly upright with a handful of stones, she sprinkled a few drops of water on her henna-tinted right hand, then on her forehead and her face.

Then, steadying herself, her right side, shoulder, and knee jutting out slightly over the void, she knelt on the incline, facing southwest.

Forehead against the rock, eyes closed, the old woman listened to the echo of her prayer, the one that she had repeated all her life. She murmured fervently,

Far above her, the cry of the muezzin awakened the believers.

“Neither Russian cannon, nor the imam’s saber! Death to the heretic! Death to false prophets!”

As she reached her home, the spectacle before her confirmed Bahou’s fears. In the courtyard, children circled around her daughter-in-law, chanting the words they had probably heard in the madrassa, their Islamic school. Fatima, dumbfounded, had not had time to react. Draped in a brown veil, her water jug tied to her back, she had just stepped out to go to the well.

Her two little boys followed her. Barefoot and in rags like the other children, they had close-cropped hair and wore old, rust-colored shirts that fell to their ankles. She could count on the feistiness of Jamal Eddin, her eldest son. He shouted louder than all the others and kicked and punched anyone within reach.

He looked about six, but he was actually much younger. Tall, slender, and dark-haired like his mother, he wouldn’t let anyone give him a hard time. Behind him stood his little brother, a toddler who copied his sibling’s shouts like an echo.

Bahou was struck to the core. Her sense of foreboding was confirmed. She knew danger was imminent.

She hesitated, trying futilely to measure the gravity of the situation. The upheaval of the last few days had made it impossible for her to get her bearings, leaving her in a state of confusion.

A few pushes and shoves were probably all that her grandsons were in danger of receiving this morning. But tomorrow? Or even later today?

She knew that she didn’t need to go to her daughter-in-law’s rescue; Fatima was quite capable of taking care of things herself. Though she looked soft and frail and unassuming, anyone who dared to criticize her husband or touch her children soon discovered another side of her character. Shamil had chosen his spouse judiciously. Bahou would have preferred a girl from Ashilta, but he had chosen the eldest daughter of the surgeon in the neighboring village of Untsukul. He had not been mistaken. Fatima gave him sons and worshipped him, supporting all his actions. She was such a good wife that he wanted no other. Though he always made a point of coming to see his mother before returning to his wife, Bahou knew how deeply he loved Fatima. Bringing him joy and peace, she was the incarnation of happiness in his life. Bahou understood the significance of the insults directed at her and at Jamal Eddin.

In the two years since the mothers and grandmothers of Ghimri had returned to the village, jealousy had sprung up among the women in the seraglios. Why were their sons, daughters, and husbands dead? Why was the imam Khazi Mullah dead? Why had they all been murdered during the attack? All except Shamil?

He should have perished with them. His family too.

Of course, no one dared deny that he was courageous. The strength and bravery of Bahou-Messadou’s son was legendary. He had resisted until the very end, killing more infidels than even the bravest of Ghimri’s defenders. Pierced by a hundred blows, he had fought to the end. And so? What difference did that make? He had not died a martyr, like their own loved ones, so he had contravened the precepts of Allah that promised paradise to those who truly served Him. The dead were the brave ones, not Shamil. His partisans could sing of his prowess and tell of his last-minute escape—a spectacular leap over the heads of the Russian soldiers. What his followers persisted in calling his “Death Leap” did not constitute divine intervention. On the contrary, the villagers interpreted his survival, when his 399 warriors had been slaughtered, as a pact with Satan. The faithful elsewhere in Dagestan considered the miraculous preservation of his home, when all the other homes of Ghimri had been burned to the ground, to be further proof of Allah’s protection. The inhabitants of Ghimri knew otherwise.