Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

Jamaleldin understood why David clenched his fist even as he gave a stiff bow. The vein on his forehead was more pronounced than ever. He was furious; the expression in his eyes was straightforward hatred and the desire for revenge. Jamaleldin turned to join Ghazi but the little brother, now turned commander, gestured for him to remain. Not yet.

The wagon with the princess and Madame Drancy rolled closer and the two women took off their veils. He recognised Anna straight away. She held herself rigid, the veil still clutched between her fingers. Their eyes locked. It was as if she knew that his reluctance was due to regret; a part of him had always yearned to return. Her eyes turned towards David and softened, her chin trembled as if she were years older, scoured and undone. It was now possible for Jamaleldin and his party to proceed forward. The three carts with the money, the Chechen prisoners who were part of the exchange, Ghazi and his men, Jamaleldin still flanked by two Russian officers and another aide-de-camp, all crossed the Michik river. Above them were the bulk of his father’s troops but no sign of his father.

Ghazi touched his arm. ‘He will not see you in these clothes. You must change.’

Jamaleldin was not sure if he understood. Ghazi tugged at his jacket. Another highlander held out a bundle of native clothes.

‘Shamil Imam’s orders,’ Ghazi grinned. ‘Time to strip.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t.’

Ghazi burst out laughing. ‘We’ll cover you.’

They formed a circle around him, giving him their backs. He tugged off his boots, he unbuttoned, he pulled down. The cold air on his skin, the snow-capped mountains above and a Russian military uniform fell into a heap on the grass. Here he was between one dress and the other, neither Russian nor Chechen, just naked and human. It was a restful place to be with sun on his back and grass between his toes. He shivered and pulled on the familiar-unfamiliar clothes. Someone had gone through considerable effort to guess his size, to provide the best cloth, the most elegant cut. The long dark cherkesska made him feel regal and feminine, humble and yet daring, supported but unrestricted; the white lambskin papakh reminded him of the one he wore long ago when he left Akhulgo. His feet without the heaviness of boots felt vulnerable, the leather insoles put him in touch again with grass and rocks.

‘Are you going to keep us till sunset?’ joked Ghazi.

‘Don’t look.’

‘Bashful as a maiden, are you?’

When the circle opened and he emerged, a large number of highlanders broke from their ranks and surged towards him. They shoved and pushed to kiss his hand, the hem of his cherkesska, to get a better look at him. Because I am his son they think I am special, they think I am more than what I am. The mob pressed more closely; there was confusion and aggressive jostling. He worried about the Russians around him — they were completely outnumbered, face to face with men who would be happy, at any other time, to slit their throats. The highlanders gazed at the Russians with curiosity; one of them touched the eye-glass of the oldest officer, one of them examined his pistols. With gestures and the little bit of Avar that he could remember Jamaleldin ordered them to step back. It surprised him that they obeyed almost instantly.

Ghazi barged through what had become a mob, swiping away at the men as if he was pushing aside the low branches of trees blocking his path. Another highlander followed with a whip. Some of the men were haggard and painfully thin, their faces scarred with old and new wounds. Some were little more than youths who should be at their lessons instead of in campaigns. But here they were, full of trust. His father’s flock. His people, for what else was this soreness and shame building inside him other than the recognition that they looked like him and that he was of them. They were lashing him with the weight of their expectations. He trembled because any minute now he would have to bear his father’s eyes on him.

Shamil had retreated under a tree further up from the river. After making sure that the wagon with the princess had crossed safely, he wanted to be alone. He sat and faced the direction of Makkah. He bent and pressed his forehead to the ground. This was a time to feel small and weak in front of the magnanimity of the Almighty. His son was coming home. All the years of waiting and hoping, of feeling helpless and betrayed. All the frustrations of failed attempts and prisoners not valuable enough for an exchange. Soon he would hold him in his arms, soon he would look and look at him again, marvel at the child-to-manhood changes. This was a day to give thanks and because he could not give enough thanks, because no words would be eloquent enough, no amount of praise would be adequate, he wept. Subhan Allah wa bi hamdu. Subhan Allah wa bi hamdu. Years ago in Akhulgo when he gave Jamaleldin up to the Russians he had lifted up his palms and called out for all to witness, ‘Lord, You raised up Your prophet Moses, upon him be peace, when he was in the hands of Pharaoh. Here is my son. If I formally hand him over to the infidels, then he is under Your trust and charge. You are the best of guardians.’

The boy was coming back from the hands of the enemy. Jamaleldin had been watched over all along, he had been protected all along. Shamil begged forgiveness for every flicker of doubt, for every moment of impatience, for every flirtation with despair. He cried until his beard became wet.

When he heard the men’s cheers, he rose and joined the naibs who had gathered in a wide circle. Shamil sat and waited for his son. At last, there he was, haloed, vulnerable, one of the most beautiful sights Shamil had ever seen. He must not rise and rush towards him. The son should come to the father. Jamaleldin drew near. Shamil saw his mother Fatima in him, saw his resemblance to his brothers. Jamaleldin’s face had matured but not changed. He stepped onto the carpet. He knelt and kissed his father’s hand. Jamaleldin must greet the others first, all the naibs and elders, Sheikh Jamal el-Din too, he must show his appreciation for the honour they were bestowing upon him by leaving their homes and coming here to welcome him.

At last Shamil took his son in his arms. To have his fill of holding him, to have his fill of looking at him. This was more than an earthly delight, this was a whiff of Paradise. Alhamdulilah, alhamdulilah. I thank Allah Almighty for protecting my son.

Grusha and Yasha were waiting for me at the airport. I saw them as soon as I rolled my suitcase outside the arrivals hall. Among the crowd they were the only white middle-aged woman and light-skinned son. Besides, they were watching me, searching my face, waiting for the click of recognition, ready to smile. Earlier, when the plane had started its descent, I had been able to make out in the fading light the Nile looping through the desert. By the time we got off the plane, though, it was pitch-dark and I was struck by the inadequacy of the lighting. Even inside the terminal, I was reminded of the flattering candlelight found in romantic restaurants. The exterior of the airport was also dimly lit. Grusha and Yasha did not look at all like I remembered them, so much so that I hesitated in greeting them. The Aunty Grusha in my head dressed like Thatcher. The one in front of me now looked like Hilary Clinton. I thought trousers were outlawed in Sudan? And Yasha, if this was Yasha and he must be, was trapped within layers and mounds of fat. They covered him like a suit of armour. My first boyfriend, nimble and lanky, had become obese.

He took my suitcase and Grusha took my arm. We made our way to their car, a four-wheel-drive that was surprisingly parked only a few steps away, right outside the arrivals gate. I watched Yasha squeeze into the front seat. Beads of sweat on his forehead, his belly pushed against the steering wheel. I looked away. Grusha had aged of course, a slackness in her chin and the way she heaved herself into the car next to Yasha. From the back seat I asked, ‘How is Papa?’