Zia Rahman - In the Light of What We Know

Hassan, the ISI official, smiled at me.

But what about their Great Unwashed? It is by their license that their armies are waging war. They know nothing. What does “tribal area” mean to them? What does Swat mean to them, other than gunslingers in an American TV drama?

The masses defer to the educated classes, as they do everywhere.

Have some more whisky, said the general.

I’m fine, said Hassan.

Have some more whisky.

Okay.

Let’s talk about these educated classes. Zafar, said the colonel, you will have some insight here. When you are in the West and you are discussing Bangladesh with one of your educated friends — or let’s say you are discussing some aspect of your family life — tell me, do you feel the conversation has a different quality if you are speaking to a Bangladeshi, or a subcontinental, for that matter, from what it feels like if you are speaking to a Westerner? Don’t you feel you have to explain less?

Feel, feel, feel. How did bloody feelings come into the picture? What are you talking about now? asked the general.

Even when your Western friend is a child of Enlightenment liberalism? asked Reza.

Yes, even when your Western friend is a child of Enlightenment liberalism, added the colonel.

Tell us about your feelings, said the general.

Let the boy answer, said the colonel.

There is indeed a difference, I said. Talking to diasporic South Asians—

Diasporic? Must you? said Hassan.

Let him finish, insisted the colonel.

Talking to expatriate South Asians about South Asian things is usually a lot easier than talking to others. Not always, though. I’ve met South Asians, men usually, who shrink from conversation that has a South Asian turn.

Ah, yes, the babu, said the general.

I’m sorry?

A coconut. The South Asian who has become white in all but skin color, replied the general.

But I wonder if the events of September 11 have changed that, I said.

Certainly we hear of young British Muslims becoming radicalized in the face of the West losing its collective wits, said Reza.

But short of that radicalization, I continued, I think expatriate Pakistanis and Bangladeshis — the babus, as you call them — they can no longer keep their distance. And there’s a deep pleasure in talking to someone who knows where you’re coming from right away, who knows what you’re talking about and can even finish your sentences. Nothing really beats that familiarity, that feeling of being swept into a vortex of mutual understanding. You all must know this. But equally I find it troubling. Is everybody so pleased to find a shared experience that their emotions rule the content? Not always but sometimes, sometimes as I walk away from the conversation, I wonder if it was a conversation framed by common defensiveness, a sense of unity by exclusion, which makes me uneasy because those kinds of conversations also exclude things that could challenge or test whatever’s being said. It’s true of everyday life, people not just talking but seeking common ground on the most mundane things — it’s the problem of clubs — except that the impulse gets magnified, I think, when there’s a defensiveness framing the conversation.

Silence.

You’re one of us, dear boy. You’re one of us. Welcome home.

Because I’m not one of them?

You’re not in favor of the American war?

I knew two people who worked in the World Trade Center.

Surely one’s position should be independent of whether one knew a victim of the nefarious miscreants. Otherwise one falls into the danger you mentioned — of letting emotions rule one’s judgment.

You’re one of us because you are a Muslim. Do you know the Shahadah? asked Reza.

You just called him a Muslim and yet you ask him if he knows the Shahadah, said the colonel.

Do you know it in English?

I’m no authority, but I don’t think the English translation qualifies as a declaration of faith, I said.

Humor me.

There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger, I said.

Exactly.

He qualifies, does he? asked the colonel.

Exactly wrong, said Reza. This is what we teach our children. Why? I’ll tell you why. It’s because we use their translation, their bloody translation, which is just plain wrong.

Reza-bhai, why the blazes would we teach them the English translation? asked the general.

Your boys went to Aitchison! he snapped back. Now there’s another thing. Our best schools are English medium. Do you know what Arab Christians call God? he asked, turning back to me. All those Palestinian Christians and Coptic Christians, those fellows like Edward Said and Boutros-Ghali. Arab Christians speak Arabic, and what do they call God?

If I didn’t know, I could now guess, but it would have been impolite to steal his thunder. Tell me, I said.

Actually, for that matter, do you know what virtually every Maltese calls God?

Maltese? asked the colonel.

People from Malta. I believe they’re called Maltese.

They don’t speak Arabic, surely? asked the colonel.

They speak a Semitic language, Ricky. And they’re Roman Catholics and they also call God Allah, because that’s what Allah means.

Aren’t you making too much of a translation?

Aren’t you making too little? Why do we keep seeing this over and over, this bogus translation of the Shahadah? It loses the meaning entirely and instead leaves the impression we worship some foreign god called Allah, when in fact the Shahadah is a beautiful creed of monotheism. It has nothing to do with the name of God. If you want a name, Islam offers ninety-nine names for God, precisely because he has no name. So tell me now. What is the Shahadah in English?

There is no God but God and Muhammad is his messenger.

Exactly right. You’re one of us because you are a Muslim and you are from here, said Reza.

I’m Bangladeshi.

The great wound from which we will never recover is the betrayal of East Pakistan, said the general.

Whose betrayal?

The conversation came to a standing stop.

Not to change the subject but—

Indeed.

Speaking of which, surely the culprit here, the root of the matter, is Saudi Arabia. The hypocrites won’t do anything about the Saudis, said the general.

Has anyone been following the cricket?

The Saudis are overmaligned, protested Mehrani.

You have a conflict of interest, O God of small things.

The Christians have their bomb. And the Jews. Must the Muslims be denied? asked Mehrani.

Be that as it may, Saudi finance makes you biased. No, the Saudis are undermaligned. Did you know that the Saudis still don’t provide advance manifests for flights going to the U.S.? How is this possible when every one of our Pakistani boys is being pulled over to have some gora shove his hand up his backside? In fact, right up to September 11, Saudis who applied for U.S. entry visas were not required to attend an interview at the U.S. embassy. Visa Express they called it. Travel agents arranged it all, Saudi travel agents acting for the U.S. State Department! What madness!

Not every country, he continued, has the utter lack of accountability the Saudi rulers enjoy. The Saudis spend preposterous sums on arms even though they have not fought a war in over sixty years and despite the fact that their external defense needs are totally met by the U.S., by U.S. carrier groups and F-15s permanently patrolling the Persian Gulf. So you have to ask, why do they spend this money? Much of it makes its way into the pockets of Saudi princes, but an equally large amount funds a military dedicated to protecting the Saudi royal family. Those royals are so hated by their own people that they live in fortresses defended by the National Guard, the best trained, best equipped, best paid, and most expensive bodyguard organization in the world, in human history, in fact. With this, they can oppress their people at will. You know what the locals call the venue for public executions in Riyadh? They call it Chop-Chop Square.