Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

‘I hear and obey.’ It was the right thing to say, the only choice.

Nicholas’s curled moustache twitched. ‘You will rule Dagestan and Chechnya on my behalf. No one will be able to win the tribes’ loyalty and trust more than Shamil’s son.’

At the mention of his father, Jamaleldin felt as if he was forced to put on his best woollen coat in the height of summer. Shamil was not for him now; he was a legendary name, a lost love, as close and as far as an organ inside Jamaleldin’s own body, deadly to reach. He believed in Shamil’s eventual downfall; this belief came from the palace walls around him, from the roads he walked on, the artillery he handled, the teachers who taught him, the existence of cities such as Petersburg and Moscow, of the opera and the skating ring, the horse races and a pair of binoculars, a dance at the ball, the railway lines. Shamil’s defeat was in the trajectory of Jamaleldin’s life. Yet he flinched whenever Shamil was portrayed as an ogre. And he felt proud when he heard tales of his heroic resistance. Jamaleldin’s heart would contract and all the Arabic words, all the Avar phrases, would frolic above a whisper and it would require extra effort to control himself, to maintain his usual non-committal expression. He was too intelligent to indulge in undue insistence or exaggerated displays of his loyalty; these would only attract more attention. Instead, he trod softly, careful to hit the right notes. Unlike the Central Asian princes who wore their native dress when they came to court, Jamaleldin did not even wear a cherkesska. Every conscious thing he did reflected his conversion to the Empire.

But it was not enough. Nicholas sat back in his chair and lowered his voice, kind and firm. ‘As for the other personal matter you petitioned me on, there can be no union between you and the Princess Daria Semyonovich. You are incompatible in status and background.’

Jamaleldin flushed. It was as if Daria herself had scrunched his love like a handkerchief and thrown it in his face. He now wanted this audience to be over. He wanted to grab his dashed hopes and run away.

Nicholas chuckled. ‘So Russian women are to your taste … eh? Well, go ahead, have as many as you like, why not? But marriage, no. You must marry from your own kind. A tribal chief’s daughter, perhaps. Or an emir’s. This would further increase your acceptance among the highlanders. Think of the future,’ he concluded with a flourish. ‘You will be my mouthpiece in the Caucasus. You will bring enlightenment to your own people. For this I have fashioned you.’

In his teacher’s home, Shamil could put the war behind him, give up the burden of command and learn again. He reached out and took over the cleaning of Sheikh Jamal el-Din’s shoes. The elderly man’s long white beard rested on his chest, his bright penetrating eyes were sources of light. Outside in the night air an owl hooted.

‘The great Shamil is cleaning my shoes!’ There was a warm jocular tone to his voice, one that listeners never forgot.

The two of them sat cross-legged on square cushions, a rug spread out in front of them on the earthen floor. The door of the house was open to let in the summer breeze and every once in a while it creaked on its hinges nudging shadows across the room. Shamil’s rifle and sword were hanging on a nail dug into the plastered wall. In any other house, they would have been next to the master of the house’s weapons but here there was only the washbasin and pitcher used for wudu.

‘In your presence, I am not great. I am the young boy who came to you in Yaraghl with neither knowledge in my head nor much strength in my body.’ These were sharp memories as all memories of awakenings are, that time when the swirl of unnamed desires settles into the focus of purpose. Shamil had been a moody child with a sense of loneliness so acute that it resembled arrogance. The cheerful pastimes of others his age left him baffled and disdainful. When one day the neighbourhood boys ambushed him and left him bleeding from a dagger wound, he had been too proud to seek help. Instead he had staggered to a cave in the mountainside and fastened his torn skin with the mandibles of ants, applied crushed herbs and rested until his wound healed. But instead of returning home once he recovered, he set out to seek physical and spiritual strength. He found it in the mystic teachings of the Sufi sheikhs of the Naqshbandi Tariqa.

‘I recall,’ Jamal el-Din said, ‘that you had fight in your soul. You were disciplined, too. When it was time for books, you were studious and patient. When it was time for athletics, you were energetic and sturdy.’

Shamil smiled. ‘I used to repeat the prayer you taught me. ‘Lord, make me grateful and make me patient. Make me small in my own eyes and great in the eyes of the people.’

‘And today the Ottoman sultan has nominated you as the Viceroy of Georgia.’

Shamil laughed, ‘You have heard already. No news escapes you! Advise me. Shall I accept?’

‘It is only a fine title. The sultan is offering you what he doesn’t possess.’

‘He is anticipating victory.’ Shamil’s voice quickened. ‘If the Ottomans and their allies, Britain and France, launch an attack on Tiflis, I can attack from the east and cut off the Crimean peninsula from the rest of Russia.’

‘If they attack Tiflis …’ His teacher’s voice trailed off and then he started again. ‘Has Queen Victoria replied to your letter?’ Jamal el-Din had written the letter himself for his calligraphy was outstanding, and despite his age, his eyesight was strong. The letter would reach her through the British general-consul in Baghdad, who advocated supplying the mountain tribes with ammunition against the Russians, and was fluent in Arabic. Our resistance is stubborn, Shamil had dictated, but we are obliged, in winter, to send our wives and children far away, to seek safety in the forests where they have nothing, no food, no refuge against the severe cold. Yet we are resigned. It is Allah’s will. He ordained that we should suffer to defend our land. But England must know of this … We beseech you, we urge you, O Queen to bring us aid.

‘No, I have not received a reply.’ Shamil sounded more subdued.

‘Lord Palmerston was working on our side. His opposition to Russia is deep but he is no longer foreign secretary. As home secretary, his influence is reduced.’

‘I fear that the right time has passed,’ said Shamil. ‘That all of Britain’s efforts have sunk into the Crimea.’

Sheikh Jamal el-Din was quiet. He patted his hand on his knees and his head sank deeper into his chest. At first the prayers he was saying were inaudible, but Shamil caught the recitation of the beautiful names of Allah.

When Jamal el-Din finally spoke, he said, ‘I am filled with foreboding about this war in the Crimea. There will be much bloodshed and misery.’

This was a point of disagreement between them; Jamal el-Din the more peaceful of the two, the more eager to reconcile, negotiate and forgive.

Shamil repeated what he always said in these situations. ‘Wars are never won with kindness. If men respected compassion I would have been the first to grant it. But even our own warriors are only in awe of power.’ Nothing was more damaging than the weak Muslims who defected to Russia, who gladly or by force marched with the tsar’s troops. Or they became spies, hypocritically claiming they were on Shamil’s side and then reporting his secrets to the enemy. Or else they deliberately misled him so that he would walk into an ambush or launch an attack based on misinformation. He must always be on his guard, he must take nothing at face value. He must distrust.