Khaled Khalifa - In Praise of Hatred

Radwan returned home along the road which swung around the Citadel, the same route he had taken with my grandfather on their last walk together. He went into his room, carried his boxes out into the courtyard, and began to take out and smash the perfume bottles. Their scent was released throughout the courtyard and mingled with Maryam’s wails; she grabbed hold of him and thought that it was the first time she had held a man with such strength. She realized that her desires really had died. Her determination did not have to last long. Radwan left the remaining vials alone. He returned to his room and would not come out even to bid Wasal goodbye. She kept one of the bottles from which emanated a strange smell, similar to that of rare wild roses. Khalil had covered her neck with garlands of them when Mosul first appeared to them on that day now so long ago. Neither of them had been able to forget the aroma of that dawn, of damask roses whose scent remained long after they had withered.

Maryam suddenly displayed a generosity Wasal greatly appreciated; she had been trying to find a small carpet to take back as a souvenir to London, and Maryam gave her Bakr’s carpet. Contentment radiated from Zahra’s face as, on that last day, she reached an agreement with her mother on many things they hadn’t discussed outright. ‘Those two have secrets now,’ I told Maryam. She would wake up alone, drink her coffee, pray and cook food for men who never came; Radwan would carry it away silently the following day to distribute among poor families. He knew the road to their houses very well and didn’t linger to hear their profuse thanks; he would just throw a piece of cooked meat at the door, knock on it, and continue indifferently on his way. He grumbled at this task, but only under his breath.

Maryam missed quarrelling with him. His silence filled her with a premonition of evil. She saw a fear of death in his shaking hands as they sought out his cup of tea when, at her order, he sat beside the pool. It was part of her attempts to reclaim the traditions and rituals she had boasted of in front of Wasal, when she saw her teaching her grandsons some English phrases. Maryam realized that the children had a cold haughtiness that would cling to them throughout their lives. They belonged more to Wasal than to her, but Maryam was no longer concerned by loss. She sought news of Hossam, which we all needed. Women were now meeting more often in the old city so they could exchange the latest on the arrests spreading among their sons and husbands. The men were sure that they would end their lives within their prison walls. They got used to the smells of the prison and became almost addicted to the bouts of sadistic torture to which they went without protest or discussion, as if they were going to play football.

My dreams were absent once again, so I lured them to me like a flock of doves. I tried to get to sleep early. I sat on my bed like a Buddhist, meditating on the carpet hanging on the wall. I slept like a corpse — as if my body were trying to expel its worries, but on waking I couldn’t move. I felt paralysed. Emptiness couldn’t save me from my hatred which only grew. My cries held no meaning any more. I watched Marwa — she had received another letter and hidden it from everyone, even Zahra.

Zahra had begun to go out every day to care for her father; a stroke had left Khalil bedridden. He asked for my grandfather whenever he was awake, and in moments of delirium he cursed God and dwelled on descriptions of Wasal, comparing her vulva to a coconut. When he was lucid, he would weep and spit in his Aleppan wife’s face, who had left him without food as a punishment for remembering Wasal. She quarrelled increasingly with Zahra, who sought Maryam’s permission to move him to our house to die there. She suggested installing him in Radwan’s room, who was solicitous of his friend. He liked listening to Khalil’s life story, especially the part when Wasal stole him away from my grandfather. The memory of Wasal remained like a lump in his throat. He couldn’t forget her, or talk about her. Radwan rekindled joy in Khalil, so he related his story more than ten times, every time using the same vocabulary and exactly the same sentences. Maryam didn’t care and was silent. She remembered that Khalil was not that old that he might be expecting to die.

Marwa’s determination and Zahra’s support ensured Maryam’s willingness to attempt a reconciliation with Marwa. She began to emerge from her silence, while still in chains, in accordance with Bakr’s instructions and our respect for his authority — as we rotted away. We didn’t know the secret of the almost daily visits of the death squad soldiers who would cast a cursory glance over our things, stay in Marwa’s room for a few moments, and then leave. After their visits she seemed glad, as if she had just said goodbye to some dear friends. She began to drink coffee with Maryam, and was happy to peel an onion or chop garlic when helping her make stuffed aubergines in honour of Khalil’s presence (he loved them so much that he once prepared sixteen different types for his wife, who didn’t share this love, especially when he didn’t apologize for the rancid smells filling the house).

Radwan cried when Khalil was carried in on a stretcher. He perfumed his friend’s body with a strong-smelling scent and shared his room gladly, eager to break his loneliness. Zahra’s solicitude reminded him of Safaa who, in her letters, still seemed to be fond of him to the point of infatuation. His replies were more detached and contained numerous complaints that we were neglecting him. He promised to compose a book for her whose lines of verse would be arranged as if they were pearls, and praised her husband, Abdullah, who was travelling increasingly often to Afghanistan and America on missions described by Safaa as top secret . She was proud of him, his appearances with Prince Shehab El Din at his councils, their confidential conversations, the approving glances — they described him as a mujahid who upheld Islam by expelling the unbelieving Soviets and smashing their tyranny of iron and fire over Muslims. Safaa wrote that the homes of other princes were thrown open to Abdullah and his presence became a cause of much boasting; he would drop hints about the generous contributions bestowed by their peers exploiting their feverish rivalry to buy Paradise; he was an exceptional ambassador who decided all kinds of matters.

Abdullah did not neglect his friendship with Bakr, who had come limping to him in London. Abdullah spent three nights with him during which they never left the hotel room, quietly reviewing everything that had happened. Abdullah tried to convince Bakr to come to Afghanistan with him, but Bakr was still incapable of forgetting the image of his brothers blown to pieces. They had vanished into the air as their blood rained down like coal dust over his beloved city. Bakr couldn’t look into Abdullah’s calm eyes as his friend tried to suck out Bakr’s rancour at his fellow leaders for deferring the announcement of the civil militia, which Bakr believed would have been sufficient to destroy the death squad’s authority and control, and thereby decide the conflict.

On the second night, Abdullah let Bakr rave about his belief that they could no longer organize the thousands of young male volunteers who believed with absolute certainty in the Islamic state, adding sorrowfully that they were now mere playthings in the hands of neighbouring heads of state, to be haggled over, bought and sold. Abdullah said nothing and Bakr was surprised at his politician’s cheerfulness. On the third day, Bakr came down with a fever and a doctor was hastily summoned; he ordered complete rest.

Abdullah was reassured as he sat in an aeroplane heading to Washington. He looked out of the window over the ocean and saw shadows descending; he leaned back and thought about the old dream that had seduced him when he and Bakr used to wander through countries looking for the carpet of the prince’s dreams. He had to convince the Americans of the necessity of establishing a unified Islamic army in order to liberate all the Arabic states currently under Communist rule, and expel the Soviets from Afghanistan.