Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Wheels were set in motion for the needed repairs to my flat and for the insurance payment to kick in. The workmen would only come after the New Year and I had to face the task of finding a temporary place to stay. Luckily, Fiona knew an elderly couple willing to take in a lodger. I drove out to visit them. The room was small but sunny and I would not have to share a bathroom. I agreed to take it straight away and was disappointed when they said I could only move in after the holidays as they had family members spending Christmas with them. They were happy, though, for me to move some of my things in and this eased my situation a little.

In the hotel, I stayed up marking exam papers and putting off writing the report about Oz. I brooded over where I would spend Christmas. Put up with Kornelia in Fraserburgh or try, at this late stage, to find an alternative? All my friends had other arrangements and to impose on them would entail a fee of confiding my latest troubles. Now that I had my mum’s laptop, I surfed for last-minute Christmas travel deals and considered what I could afford of sunshine and seafood. There was still also my urge to visit the Caucasus. In the museum in Makhachkala I would be able to see Shamil’s saddle covered in crimson velvet and the medals sent to him by the Ottomans. He never wore any but he gave them to his naibs to signify their rank. For a long time I gazed at pictures of the mountains and the Caspian Sea but I was unable to commit to anything.

On Wednesday I found myself invigilating a class in which Gaynor sat next to Oz’s friend, the girl in hijab, whose name I never learnt because I had never taught her. Gaynor was diligently writing away, her greasy hair falling over the paper, blocking the light necessary for her to write in. She was her own worst enemy. She looked up suddenly and caught my gaze; it made me nervous. I turned away and walked to the back of the room.

We were only halfway through the allotted time and Oz’s friend had her head on the table. She had pushed her paper to the side and laid her cheek on the desk. Her eyes were closed. I went up to her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I have a bad headache,’ she said, looking up. ‘I can’t focus.’

‘Do you want to go out for a short break?’

There were dark shadows under her eyes. ‘I’d rather stay here and rest a bit more. Maybe I will be okay in a few minutes.’

I could hear Gaynor behind me starting to mutter. We were disturbing her. She might complain about me afterwards. It would be like her to do so.

‘Let me know if you need to leave the room,’ I said to the girl. ‘Raise your hand.’ I would then have to call the Registry to send in an escort to supervise her until she returned.

Thursday was only a week since Oz’s arrest, though it felt like a month. I started to feel uneasy that I had not yet written the report. I met the girl as I came in through the car park. ‘Feeling better?’

She smiled. ‘Yes, fine. Exam tension, I suppose.’

I started to walk away when she said, ‘Do you have any news about Oz?’

I repeated what Malak had told me but it did not seem new to her.

‘He missed the exams.’ This was said in such a poignant tone as if it alone underlined the seriousness of his predicament.

‘He can resit them,’ I reassured her.

‘The police questioned me,’ she said. ‘They questioned all of his friends.’ She told me the details, speaking in a matter-of-fact way as if she was neither intimidated nor surprised. But her voice hardened when she said, ‘My parents told me to unfriend him on Facebook and not even to try to get in touch.’

‘They’re concerned about you.’

She rolled her eyes.

It was gratifying that she was open with me. ‘Was Oz very active in the Muslim Students’ Society?’

‘Not really. He’s different from everyone else.’

‘In what way?’

‘The way he was brought up. His mother’s an actor and for a lot in the MSS that’s not how a good Muslim woman should be. I remember, once, an invited speaker came to give a talk and afterwards Oz was one of those who took him back to the station. Apparently he spent the whole ride telling Oz that it was his duty as a son to convince his mother to quit her job! He got to him so much that he was almost crying.’

I could imagine the scene, the packed car, shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee. The colour rising to Oz’s face, the clenched fists. ‘But Oz and his mother are descended from Imam Shamil. Surely that counts.’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Not to that lot. They hate the Sufis.’

She was putting it bluntly. Theologically, Sufism’s veneration of its saints and the belief in their mystical powers was problematic. In modern times as Political Islam embraced transnationalism and activism, the Sufis were perceived to be not only passive and traditional, but often, also, reactionary and neo-cons.

‘That speaker shouldn’t have been invited in the first place,’ she was saying. ‘He’s on some list or other.’

‘What was his talk about?’

She made a face. ‘I don’t know. I arrived late, slipped into the first free seat on the front row and he suddenly stops talking and says to me, ‘Move to the back with the other sisters.’ It was so embarrassing. Everyone turned to look at me. I hadn’t even noticed that the seating was segregated! I felt like an idiot so I just got up and left. But he’s not going to say anything controversial in a lecture hall, is he? They save that kind of thing for private meetings in peoples’ homes.’

‘Could Oz have gone to such a meeting?’

‘Maybe. Do you think that’s why he’s in trouble? But why him? There are others.’

Perhaps he did something rash as a way of showing off, just because he was keen to fit in, to prove himself. He had struck me as being proud of Shamil, deeply loyal to Malak. Still, I knew that ache to belong. When you’re young, it could drag you against your better judgement.

I wrote the report that night. I could not put it off any further. On Friday morning I dithered before emailing it to Iain. Three hours later I clicked the send button. Then I waited for something to happen. I wanted something to happen. A penalty. Not this silence. Sometimes we do get what we want. My mobile phone rang. It was Grusha from Sudan. I had previously texted her so that we would stay in touch. Although she said the same thing she had said before — ‘Your father is getting worse. Can you come and see him?’ — this time I answered differently. I said yes, I would be there as soon as I could.

My request for compassionate leave was granted. Now that Iain had his report he inclined towards generosity. There was one more week to go before the holidays. Fiona would take over my hours of invigilation. As always, because her output was poor, he threw every extra administrative and teaching task onto her.

I was just heading out for lunch when I found a voicemail message. ‘Natasha, it’s Malak. I’m back home, not in Glasgow. Oz was released yesterday. We’re home now. He’s not talking to me. He’s not leaving his room. He won’t eat … I don’t know what to do. Can you come over? Maybe he’ll talk to you.’

I drove to Brechin straight away. I still had time before I needed to catch the overnight train to London. I was lucky with the traffic. Oz was innocent and that made me smile to myself. I had sensed the relief in Malak’s voice despite the concern. The countryside was still covered in snow. It ceased to amaze and was now part of the landscape as if it had always been there. I counted the days Oz had been held — eleven. They must have felt longer to him.

Malak opened the door. She was pleased to see me and her warm welcome lifted my spirit. ‘It took you no time to get here,’ she said. ‘Easy and smooth.’ This house had cause for celebration but she spoke in hushed tones, as if there was someone ill inside.