Khaled Khalifa - In Praise of Hatred

Later that day Safaa and Abdullah came and drank tea in my room, happy and lively; they were travelling abroad that same evening. Safaa wept as she said goodbye to us. I went out of the door with her and craned my head to see her leaning on Abdullah’s arm as they disappeared around a bend, fearing I would never see them again. I was afraid of losing the people I loved, and I clung to whatever they left behind them.

I slackened in my hatred, and openly expressed my sympathy for the murdered pilot. Alya scolded me for this; the other girls in our group mocked me and reminded me of how our sect had been persecuted, and of the corruption of the officers who had turned the country into a private money-making farm for themselves and their own sect. I suddenly felt a secret pride that it was my brother Hossam who they now described as a mujahid, declaring that God loved him. I scolded myself for my weakness; I saw the girls, even as they mocked me, as illuminated icons, and I envied Alya for the powerful hatred that lived in her heart. I almost kissed her hand so she would forgive me and return that essence to me which had given my life meaning in the midst of turmoil. I felt that the tranquillity I had known in our group was rotting away, like my hair which Ghada had stroked with her affectionate hands.

I scolded Marwa vehemently for her sympathy for the murdered Abbas’s family; I was astonished when she retorted that I wanted to destroy the country. I didn’t answer her or explain my feelings, but I reread entire sections of the pamphlets, which dwelled on descriptions of the unbelievers, in a low voice in front of Hana and my companions. I became much closer to Ghada and, obviously, I learned more about her assignations with her lover and their secret meeting-place. I went with her to cake shops; we laughed on the streets and we whispered girls’ secrets to each other. We mocked Nada’s idiotic voice and her cadaver-like smell. I dreamed of recovering Ghada’s soul and saving her from that executioner. I imagined him murdered; the families of his victims would thank Hossam and Bakr for avenging the people he had hung by their feet and forced to swallow their own faeces while he stood and watched, smoking greedily. Ghada would cry on my chest, and I would pass my fingers through her soft hair and I would make her relax in the arms of her only saviour.

* * *

Maryam and Marwa were surprised at my joy when I read Safaa’s letter from Saudi Arabia out loud to them in which she informed us, sarcastically using the Bedouin dialect, that she spent her time sleeping and playing checkers with Zeina, Abdullah’s other wife. In the picture she drew for us they seemed to be becoming close friends, conspiring together against the man they both loved. The few letters that followed were filled with tears and irritation at the enclosed houses, the Filipina maids, and Abdullah’s long absences; he was accompanying Sheikh Nadim Al Salaty to gather donations in support of the men fighting the Soviet Communists in Afghanistan.

At the end of one letter, Safaa told us she was beginning to suspect she might be pregnant. Maryam wept like a happy child and Marwa let out a trill. Radwan led them to the shrines of the saints, where they read mawalid and wrote spells to ward off Zeina’s evil eye, unconvinced of what Safaa had written about her generosity and their odd relationship. When I saw Marwa trilling with such power I tried to match her, but my voice rushed out like a sheep bleating as it tried to catch up with the herd. I remembered that such trilling hadn’t been raised in our house for a long time.

I was annoyed at Ghada’s reticence, and that she didn’t take me to her secret house so I could see it for myself and submit my final report to my group, just as I was irritated by a young man who followed us surreptitiously. His shirt was unbuttoned and a silver chain decorated his wrist — he looked like a playboy searching for prey. I was reassured one day when I saw him get into a taxi driven by Hossam, who ignored me completely; I realized then that Hossam hadn’t gone to Jordan with Bakr.

That night, I was haunted by anxiety and I trembled in terror. A journey abroad would keep Hossam and Bakr out of harm’s way, but it also marked the beginning of a new series of assassinations. The victims, although they numbered no more than ten, were only the beginning of the organization’s dream, which Hossam had explained by drawing a diagram of four circles and three triangles in the borders of an algebra textbook. I understood the few words, written in ruq’a script and decorated with green flags: these words informed the Prophet that the martyrs were coming, and they were followed by ‘Our souls will be sacrificed for Islam,’ written in perfect English.

I asked Zahra if I could see Bakr. She shook her head and finished sprinkling the freekeh with spices, advised me to use bilun to soften my hair which had begun to resemble thistle heads. That night, I stood in front of the mirror to look at my hair. My looks used to resemble a Pharaonic painting: sharp eyes, long brown face, drooping eyelids. I cut off my hair, wanting to remove any symbol of my femininity. I concealed my nipples in the depths of my breasts. I kept my long braids in my sketchpad. Laughing, Omar compared me to Mireille Matthieu; ignoring my questions about Hossam and Bakr, he enthusiastically described the horse he had just bought from an Arab trader, its svelte muscles and the magnificence of its form, and then he suddenly left us, as he usually did. Maryam confirmed that he had won the horse in a bet. As usual, she started recounting what was said in respectable houses about his latest scandals, and added that he would kill his horse soon. I tried to convince Marwa that we should go and see him, and she replied sarcastically that my uncles had all vanished.

She was alluding to Selim and his Sufism. He had begun to carry tambourines in Sheikh Daghstani’s group, neglecting his family and my grandfather’s shops, content to ensure that the veil between himself and the face of God had been drawn aside, and that columns of light had opened up before him. He no longer heard us; he would shake his head pityingly, and hope that the Merciful would live in our hearts. He emptied his wardrobe of all his English suits whose pinstripes he used to be very fond of. He now made do with coarse brown cloth, a woollen turban and rubbery shoes, like the ones worn in the villages. His careful money-management left him and he became bored. He didn’t want to regulate the account books that formed the family’s inheritance, in the midst of the storm which would leave nothing behind. Omar intervened quickly and skilfully, and managed the shops and work without wounding Selim’s feelings. He told us that he couldn’t trust a man who took three days to return from Bianun, which was only 20 km away. He sought out a craftsman and paid him double wages, asking Khalil to leave the arcade and supervise him. Everything seemed to be going well, but Khalil didn’t like his task. He only sat in a cane chair, longing for Wasal; his new Aleppan wife couldn’t make him forget the charm of the many dissipated nights he had spent in Wasal’s arms.

* * *

That autumn, all of us in the house were like strangers exchanging courtesies. We hid our anxiety and didn’t want to admit that we were afraid of revealing the truth we sensed; that Bakr, after his fight with the organization leadership, had made his choice. With three of his associates, he had become the most relentless of those responsible for the murders of sons from other sects. His allies in neighbouring countries rose up from their councils and welcomed him into their palaces, understanding his desire to return Syria to its natural course, and to threaten the other sect and ‘the party that threw us into the arms of infidel Soviets’, as he said after receiving a coded invitation to Beirut one Sunday afternoon in early October; it was to a private meeting Abdullah had arranged during his recent visit to Washington.