Khaled Khalifa - In Praise of Hatred

From the first statements distributed by our group declaring the beginning of jihad, Sheikh Jamil realized that the situation had become complicated. This crisis might ruin everything he had built up; there was no opportunity for silence or retreat. He publicly attacked our group’s operations, and surrounded himself with bodyguards for fear of being killed. He became a familiar face on state television as he enumerated the President’s qualities; he praised the President’s faith and made an effort to maintain respect for him among the populace. When the President chose him to negotiate with the group to end the dispute, Sheikh Jamil tried to ingratiate himself with the opposition early on in the session by speaking elaborately about the Treaty of Hudaybiyya. He hadn’t expected the file that was placed in front of him: all his words and speeches were recorded there, together with the fatwas he had made which were incompatible with Islam, and a comment describing him as a traitor to the religion.

Not one of those gathered in that house where Sheikh Jamil had been led, blindfolded and unprotesting, ever forgot that candid conversation which had a whiff of conspiracy and politics rather more than a respect for dogma. Sheikh Jamil placed the authorities’ demands on the table in front of Bakr’s comrades who read them carefully. It didn’t take them long to list their reasons for the need for negotiation, hinting at a lack of trust in the authorities. Sheikh Jamil tried to prolong the discussion, which was like any other between rival gangs, and got lost in interpretations of Quranic verses and hadith and esoteric explanations of historical events, quoting extensively from the days of the Rashidun Caliphs to Mu’awiya. Sheikh Jamil spent three days among papers and discussions. He tried to be silent as far as possible, in order not to make a mistake in an atmosphere made heady from the smell of blood on both sides’ hands. He demonstrated considerable resilience in withstanding insults from both parties.

On the fourth day, the communications officer informed him that the negotiations had come to an end. After darkness fell that night, during a curfew which would continue for months, military vehicles and personnel carriers left the barracks in unusually heavy numbers in order to besiege every single quarter of the city. They raided seventy-six houses, six of which were meeting places for our group’s leadership or weapons caches. Battles continued for more than twelve hours, the details remaining uncertain while rumours were spread throughout the morning, and statements were issued in which each side claimed victory in the previous day’s battle. The painful losses incurred necessitated an emergency meeting among our group’s leadership after three days, and it was focused primarily on revenge.

A few days later, four young men with covered faces went into Sheikh Jamil’s house while he was performing his ritual ablutions. One of them took hold of his neck and another sliced it open; they left his body beside the alcove where he would drink his evening coffee before going out to hold council. His children came across it, drenched in its own blood. They were upset by the manner of his death, and remained unsatisfied by the huge funeral held under military protection; they used the funeral’s extravagance to demonstrate their strength of influence. They displayed the telegram from the President which promised revenge on the sheikh’s killers. At the same time, the leaders of our organization hurled accusations at each other for this murder. They all swore on the Quran that the group had not killed him, and the sheikh’s children and followers received a letter from the organization denying responsibility for his murder, although the wording was dry and harsh and contained no decorous formulas of respect.

Sheikh Jamil’s oldest son concealed the letter and began to prepare for his inheritance after a long night spent alone in his grandfather’s shrine. In the morning, he placed his father’s turban beside his bed and recalled the knowledge he had inherited about the new professors in the Sharia College, the sons of the market traders, and his father’s partners and friends. He was well aware that asceticism created prominent men, and power created statesmen. He fine-tuned his preparations for extracting the price of his father’s blood without delay.

* * *

All night, I tried to expel from my mind Sheikh Jamil’s image and story. He had transformed himself — from his origins as the son of an ascetic sheikh — into the turbaned man of power who justified the supremacy of the other sect and the injustices heaped on ours. Desolation settled over the courtyard. I sat on the step, watching the plants and the branches of the giant cypress which leaned over the corner of the courtyard next to Radwan’s room. I decided to take a cold shower and made myself imagine it was still May. I stood under the shower and closed my eyes, trying to resist the cold which penetrated my pores. I crossed the courtyard wrapped in an old bathrobe I had found lying on a sofa in Maryam’s room; I liked its colour, red with bright blue stripes, so I kept it. Like any shameless girl who didn’t hide herself from prying eyes, I left the bathroom wearing only that; I slowed for a few moments, a dove with cloth wings, tickled by the breeze and the cold sting of morning.

I lay on my bed and felt my body, starting with my breasts. I let out a soft gasp of surprise at the lightness of my fingers as they moved over my stomach and returned to my nipples, fearing to complete my rebellion. My body relaxed as I felt myself with a soft touch; I closed my eyes and let my fingers wander somewhere which moistened as soon as I reached it. I felt a surge of defiance which I tried to suppress for a short time, but I returned, blissful and squirming, on to the soft cushions. I wasn’t aware of the open window, nor of my voice, afraid and faltering at first, then rich and harmonious while images of the dead men whom I had dreamed of passed over me to the sound of limpid, girlish laughter.

I don’t know how much time passed until I weakened and wanted to sleep. Nothing else could save me from the reproaches of my conscience which continued to haunt me; even so, I kept touching my body and summoned up lust, a tremor which came gushing, warm and delicious, as if I had discovered some sort of magic which relieved me of my tension, but left me burdened with coldness afterwards. I woke up to the sound of Radwan’s footsteps and the afternoon call to prayer. I rushed to make the prayer, with weakness in my knees and pain in my joints. I was exhausted, and guessed that that strange night had enfeebled my body. I hadn’t been in the courtyard of the mosque for long before an old woman approached me and asked me to help her get back home. She calmly gave me a code word, then reached out a hand as if she wanted to lean on me. We got into a taxi silently, and arrived on a quiet street in a new quarter of Aleppo where we went into a ground-floor apartment in a building still being decorated. Hajja Souad was sitting, visibly worried, in the middle of the spacious living room. I was the last to arrive. She kissed me quickly and asked me not to remove my hijab. After a few moments, the door opened and Prince Shukry came in. I almost gasped in surprise at finding myself face to face with such an eminent member of our organization, a man known for his tenacity and self-confidence; amongst ourselves, we called him ‘the prince of believers’. His sad smile radiated and he watched us quietly, his eyes on me for a long time. He enquired hastily about Marwa and her marriage, and about my uncle Bakr’s situation. I murmured something incomprehensible and confused, and then I gathered my strength to speak my opinion: that I considered Marwa to be an apostate, that she was acting against Bakr’s interests, and that she was damaging the whole family. He nodded, understanding of my zeal.