Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

‘The world is a carcass and the one who goes after it is a dog,’ Jamal el-Din murmured as if to himself.

‘Men of bad character punish their own souls.’ The leather shoe in Shamil’s hands was becoming darker in colour because of the varnish. Sometimes he was not sure who was the scourge of his life, the Russians or those who betrayed him?

As if reading his mind, Jamal el-Din said, ‘To get what you love, you must first be patient with what you hate.’

Shamil shifted his position so that his back was closer to the wall. ‘You speak the truth.’

‘Was it gunshots that I heard earlier in the afternoon?’ Jamal el-Din turned to look at him.

‘Five prisoners of war attempted to escape by smuggling a letter in a loaf of bread. They gave the loaf to a Jewish peddler and he was carrying it as part of his provisions for the journey. I will not tolerate treachery.’

‘A loaf of bread,’ Jamal el-Din repeated.

His tone made Shamil uneasy. When a prisoner faced his death sentence without flinching, Shamil spared him and gave him his due praise. But those who wept and fought were deprived of his mercy. Was he truly just? There was a hole in the heel where the leather was eroded. He searched the room for the necessary needle and began to mend it.

‘Come with me to Mecca,’ said Jamal el-Din. ‘Let us visit the house of Allah together.’

The words, the prospect had an instant effect on Shamil. He felt light and carefree. ‘Oh what a pleasure that would be, to put down my sword and take off my turban. To become a simple pilgrim dressed in rags chanting, “To you my Lord I come”.’

‘To you my Lord I come,’ Jamal el-Din repeated. ‘So what is holding you back?’

‘My son Jamaleldin …’ The words were heavy on his tongue, his fingers slackened. He felt it on his skin, that tingle of humiliation always associated with this particular defeat, this constant, eroding loss. ‘I wonder sometimes how I am able to sleep at night, to eat, to make my wives smile while my son is worse than dead.’

Jamal el-Din stiffened as he always did when he heard what he disliked.

Shamil continued, ‘I fear that not only is he a hostage but that the infidels have corrupted his soul and taken away his religion.’

‘Malicious gossip.’

‘It has been fifteen years. Fifteen years without my care or guidance. A strong adult might withstand such a trial but he was just a child.’ The sense of injustice was always fresh, never faded or stale. ‘Now on a night like this, I think what is he doing? How can the son of Imam Shamil be unclean and not pray five times a day? Even our language, he must have forgotten it by now.’

Jamal el-Din closed his eyes. ‘There is no strength or might except with Allah.’

Instead of repeating after him, Shamil said, ‘I will get him back. I will return him to Islam.’ For how long has he been saying this and every plan was thwarted, every hope turned to nothing? He had promised Fatima that he would bring her eldest child back to her but he had failed. Nine years ago, as she lay dying, she wept and called for her son and though she did not name him, everyone knew it was not Ghazi or little Muhammad-Sheffi that she wanted.

Shamil was on the battlefield. He had lured the Russians across the mountains, up to ten miles from his stronghold in Dargo. He had been patient, tiring them out as they made their way down the steep descent with their heavy baggage trains and lengthy lines. He had cut off segments of them by blocking the mountain paths with tree trunks and while they figured a way to overcome these barriers or broke into confusion, he sent his horsemen in a full attack or fired at them with hidden sharp-shooters. Disorder broke out as one Russian column after another fell back, low morale set in as the dead piled up and the chants of the Orthodox funeral services merged into one another. Shamil and his men were attacking them from every side and they could now barely resist or fight back. With ammunition and food supplies running low, they remained under siege for several days.

It was then that the news reached him of Fatima’s death. At first Shamil continued as he was, sending one of his men to see to the funeral. He was needed here where his own troops too were worn out and so hungry that they had taken to grilling the corpses of Russian horses. But his naibs urged him to return home and promised that they would, on their own, be able to defeat the besieged enemy. However, no sooner had news of his departure reached the Russian camp than the celebrations started. They banged drums and played their pipes. The following morning they had even more to celebrate. The relief force they had given up hope on finally arrived from the town of Gurzal. But it ended up being a costly, indecisive battle that left both sides entrenched in bitterness. And Shamil was left without Fatima, his link to Jamaleldin, she who kept alive the hope that he would return. Now Shamil was solitary in his memories, for very few liked to speak of his missing son.

He finished cleaning the shoes and broached the subject he had especially come to talk about, ‘Sheikh Jamal el-Din, I seek your permission to appoint my son, Ghazi, as my successor.’

His teacher turned to look at him with questioning eyes as if waiting to hear more.

‘It is unseemly to praise one’s own offspring but the lad has demonstrated courage, horsemanship and skill.’

‘I know,’ Jamal el-Din nodded. ‘Ghazi does not act arrogantly and he has insight and compassion. But you must gather the scholars and the naibs. Let them consider the matter and deliberate among themselves. Do not impose your choice upon them.’ He raised his palms up in prayer. ‘Lord, give Ghazi the strength to promote Your religion, to guard his community and to act with caution and justice.’

The joy and pride Shamil should have felt was weighed down by the implications of this step. He was admitting his loss in public. Not specifically that Jamaleldin would never come back, but that even if he were to return, he would not be fit to take his father’s place.

As if sensing that it was Jamaleldin and not Ghazi who was in Shamil’s thoughts, the elderly man asked, ‘What came of that hostage that you were going to exchange him with?’

‘He was not valuable enough. I ended up exchanging him for some of our men. But I will not give up.’ He needed someone more valuable. This was the plan he had been working on. And today he had sent out scouts.

I told Malak that I had seen, from the upstairs window, little islands of snow floating on the river. They must have fallen from the Grampians. We were sitting in the kitchen without the lights on, just the pale dawn from the window. Melting snow meant clearer roads. I could leave today and get to work. There was no excuse to stay here longer.

‘Would Oz like a lift to the university? I can wait for him to wake up.’ She agreed that it would be helpful, especially with the semester exams starting next week, and wrapped her shawl closer around her, held her mug with both hands. I was stalling for time, unloading the dishwasher, cleaning the coffee maker. Outside one side of the sky was completely dark, like it was still in night. But it would not be left in peace for much longer; daylight was ready to enter. If I looked closely I could see new vulnerable depressions in the snow, areas of relative warmth. The edges, too, were melting away, the solid mass shrinking. Yesterday evening I had offered to pay for my board and lodging but Malak refused. ‘We are happy to have you as a guest. We are enjoying your company.’ This was generous of her because I hadn’t really contributed anything; I should have, but I hadn’t, even offered to cook dinner. All I gave them was my interest in their past.