Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

He began to unfurl. Slowly. It was peculiar after all these years of hovering in the background to be thrust forward like this, to matter. To be the top man’s son, the celebrated warrior’s brother, to be gazed at and listened to. He began to speak and move. He began to talk about what he knew and what they didn’t.

Railway Trains.

Telegraphic Communications.

Paved Roads.

Sanitation.

Ships as Big as Villages.

Telescopes.

‘And how,’ they asked, ‘can this help us defeat them? Speak to us about what is useful. Teach us what would benefit us.’

This stalled him. Their logic was not his logic. He was saying peace and they were saying the resistance will win. He was saying Russia and they were saying jihad. When Jamaleldin spoke of the modern wonders within reach, Ghazi was in thrall, but their father did not approve. ‘We don’t need any of these things here. Come, I want to refresh your mind with our ways.’

Shamil took him to the mosque. It was as if time had not moved. To pray again with his father, the Arabic recitations, the movements. But he had become stiff and his heart had crusted. In all his years in Russia, no pressure was put on him to convert to Christianity. He had kept his faith but not practised it. Kept his faith in the sense that Orthodox Russian Christianity neither tempted nor threatened him. Islam in his mind stood the bolder of the two, more refined and complex, encompassing and vital. Its dynamism was rooted in him, his soul’s connection to Shamil. Sins were like dirt; they could be washed off. More serious was the core submission, the foundations of belief. But spiritually, he had atrophied. There was no doubt about it. Without the nourishment of practice, Jamaleldin’s faith had become insubstantial. After the prayers, his father turned and looked searchingly into his face for the first time. Shamil saw the weaknesses his son was inflicted with. He did not say a single word but the disappointment in his eyes struck Jamaleldin. He walked out of the mosque reeling.

Then the ikon. Jamaleldin walked into the room he was sharing with Ghazi to find Zeidat rummaging through his belongings. The intrusion made him halt at the door, unsure of how to react. Zeidat had been the family member least pleased to see him back; he had yet to figure out a way of dealing with her. Pretending to be shocked but unable to hide her glee, she picked up, from among his belongings, an ikon. What is this doing in your possession? He replied that it was a gift from a friend. An ikon, a gift from the enemy, a Christian friend. She sniffed and stomped out of the room, evidence in hand. An hour later, all his belongings were confiscated. His books, his atlas, his globe — all that he had carefully packed, knowing he would not find it in Dargo, was lost to him. He seethed but it was prudent not to make a fuss. Now that his loyalty was in doubt, he must dodge further suspicion and fit in. Keep the company of wolves and you must learn how to howl. This was what the Russian proverb said.

The food in Dargo was ghastly, as was the ventilation and the sanitation. Riding out with Ghazi, who was indefatigable. Dragging himself out of bed for the dawn prayers. Five times a day accompanying his father to the mosque. Jamaleldin fell ill within a few weeks. Then summer rolled in, bringing with it Ramadan. Long days of thirst and hunger, short nights with even longer prayers. In all his years in Russia he had never fasted, never known which Islamic month was which. He was out of practice; fainting from dehydration, vomiting in the evenings immediately after breaking his fast. Zeidat remarked, tartly, that he was just like Princess Anna, completely unsuited to their way of life. The others had noticed the resemblance too and did not contradict her.

Shamil, recognising the challenge at hand, prescribed a rigorous regime of integration. Lessons to relearn the Avar language. Lessons in the Qur’an and Islamic practice. A tour of all of Shamil’s territories, accompanied by Ghazi. Jamaleldin fumbled his way through all this with neither enthusiasm nor aptitude. He preferred to spend time with Chuanat, the most fluent Russian speaker in the household. She would tell him about Anna, who was often in her thoughts. And he would speak to her freely of Russia without her interrupting him or judging. He also found comfort in his grandmother’s room, lying down with his head on her lap as she sang to him childhood songs, patches of which he remembered. But Bahou could neither speak a word of Russian nor understand his tentative Avar. Their communication was limited and, in time, frustrating.

It was his father whom he yearned to talk to. For this purpose, Jamaleldin was learning his lost language. Learning it enough to be able to urge him towards one thing — peace. But it was not easy to find Shamil on his own. He was constantly flanked by his naibs, his secretary, his translators. They all watched Jamaleldin and shamelessly eavesdropped on every word he said.

‘Father, the Russians want peace. They are willing to talk. They are willing to come to an agreement.’

‘My men are a suspicious lot.’ Shamil’s voice was gruff. ‘They will think the Russians released you especially for this.’

‘But they didn’t. You know they didn’t.’

‘I do not have a favourable opinion of their integrity.’

Jamaleldin pushed on, ‘They wish to establish regular commercial relations between our domain and Khasavyurt.’ He was proud of himself for remembering to say ‘our’ rather than ‘your’ domain.

‘This should not fool you. It is pacification by peaceful means.’

‘But Father, a new tsar rules now. Change is bound to happen.’

‘The sultan is my caliph. I have every hope that he and his allies will triumph over our enemy. This is not the time to negotiate. I would rather mount a large-scale attack but the backing I need from the Ottomans and the British has yet to come.’

Jamaleldin’s voice rose. ‘What if there is no triumph over Russia? What if there is defeat?’ No one could get away with such questions except the imam’s son.

Shamil closed his eyes as if the questions bored him. ‘Then it is Allah’s will and I would submit to it.’

Shamil appointed Jamaleldin as superintendent of administration and judicial proceeding. This freed him from any military duties. However the daily exposure to criminals and the harsh punishments meted out to them dismayed Jamaleldin. Shamil also suggested marriage as a cure for restlessness. Jamaleldin asked for more time in order to settle and build a house. He was eager to move away from Dargo. As much as he enjoyed the company of his sisters and his grandmother, as much as his conversations with Chuanat were fulfilling, it was a relief to escape the scrutiny of Zeidat. She was forever finding fault with him, broadcasting his blunders and, in general, eroding his confidence in himself. More seriously, she threatened to bring an end to his correspondence with any of his old friends and acquaintances. It became customary for his letters to be scrutinised before they were sent; he was advised to keep them short.

He set out designing a new house for himself. This gave him fresh impetus. He enjoyed drawing up the plans, a skill he had acquired in the army. But as soon as the first walls were built, an angry crowd gathered. The structure looked alien, the design, they complained, was in the shape of a cross. It was not in the shape of a cross, Jamaleldin insisted. But it proved impossible to reason with an increasingly hostile crowd. Once the accusation of the cross was spoken, it immediately took root. To appease the mob, Shamil immediately ordered the structure to be dismantled. Jamaleldin watched them tear the whole thing down in a frenzy of self-righteousness and superstition. Public humiliation trampled his spirit.