Leila Aboulela - The Kindness of Enemies

‘You never told me,’ I said. ‘How did your family get back the sword after Shamil handed it over to Field-Marshal Bariatinsky?’

‘In 1918 a soldier was captured by the Red Army and it was in his possession. Instead of being placed in a museum it was sold as a trophy and my great-grandfather bought it. But you must tell me about your time in Sudan. It was important, I can tell.’

Yes, it changed me. I might still not have reached home or settled where I belonged, but I was confident that there was a home, there, ahead of me. My homesickness wasn’t cured but it was, I was sure, propelling me in the right direction.

When I finished speaking, Malak said, ‘You must come with me.’ She sounded vague, as if she had not thought it through.

‘Where?’

‘To Orkney. We could have zikr on the beach; I could read another part of the Qur’an.’

Zikr on the beach. I remembered the zikr gathering she took me to in London. It was powerful, heady. It haunted me, afterwards, for days and nights. I hesitated a little before committing myself.

‘It would be good for you,’ she nodded, as if the prospect was becoming more real to her.

Sufism delves into the hidden truth behind the disguise. Malak, the teacher disguised as an actor. Natasha the student, acting the part of a teacher. I had come to her today needing to connect, wanting to spend time in her company. Perhaps it was time to acknowledge that what I was after was spiritual. She was ready to be a guide and I would fight my weaknesses in order to follow.

After ten years of exile, my father was finally permitted to go on Haj. He was accompanied by Sheikh Jamal el-Din and other members of the family. I, on the other hand, was detained by the Russian authorities. My father spent six months in Istanbul before performing his Haj in Noble Makkah. He then settled in Radiant Medina. There, he sent letter after letter to the viceroy of the Caucasus as well as the tsar explaining that he had been taken ill, that he believed he did not have long to live and that his last request was for his son to join him. It was as if my father’s fate was to long for absent sons. First Jamaleldin, then me. He wrote to me too, words that would break the most hardened of hearts. I used to reply with messages of hope, saying that I was leaving in a few days’ time, that I would be joining him soon. Eventually after patience wore thin, I lost my temper with the Russian authorities and threatened to escape. It had an effect. They had plans that, in the future, I would become their representative in the Caucasus and so, grudgingly, they agreed to let me go.

From Constantinople I could not travel directly to Radiant Medina. The route was blocked by bandits. So I changed my plans and headed to Noble Makkah, with the intention of proceeding to Medina as soon as I completed my Umra. I was circling the sacred Ka’aba when I noticed from the corner of my eye a dervish, dressed in a green turban and rags, looping in a disjointed way, and as was typical of men like him, preoccupied with the prayers he was muttering, intoxicated by where we were, oblivious to all else. He jerked to a standstill in front of the Black Stone and gave out a cry of pain. ‘O Believers, ’ he shouted. ‘Pray for the soul of Imam Shamil .’

I pushed my way through the throng and reached his side. He was rocking backwards and forwards. I grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look at me. ‘When did this happen?’

He swayed his head from side to side, ‘Now … this dawn … last night.’

‘My father is in Medina, twelve days’ march from here — how can you know?’

Instead of answering, the dervish started to cry. He shuffled away from me, back into his inner world. And all I could think of through the din of grief was that I was too late, too late to see him and he wanted to see me, he was ill and he made them twist his bed so that it was facing the door, so that he would see me as soon as I came in. Now I was too late and it was the Russians’ fault, as it had always been their fault for every misfortune that beset us. ‘Forgive them,’ he told me before he left Russia. ‘I order you to forgive them.’ And I argued with him, saying, ‘I cannot control my heart.’ He said ‘I know more than you. Forgiveness is for your own benefit, not theirs.’

I set out for Medina on that very same day. I walked barefoot on sand as hot as coals but not as hot as what I carried in my breast. We belong to Allah and to Him we return. I could not believe that I would not rush into my father’s arms, that I would not tell him my news, that I would not wait for the approval to shine in his eyes.

When my father left Russia and arrived in Istanbul, it gratified him to turn down the hospitality of the Russian ambassador and say, ‘I am a guest of the Ottoman sultan. ’ Sultan Abdelaziz received him ceremonially and offered him a choice of palaces, all too ostentatious for my father’s taste. Crowds lined the streets to cheer him and men kissed the ground that he walked on. On finding out that the sultan was preparing an army against Ismail Pasha of Egypt who had just opened the Suez Canal and was showing signs of rebellion, my father offered himself as a mediator. He travelled to Egypt where Ismail Pasha honoured him by coming off his throne and seating Imam Shamil on it. My father reasoned with him saying, ‘If war breaks out between you and the Ottoman sultan, it would delight the infidels.’ Ismail Pasha took heed of his counsel and, on his suggestion, sent his son to wed the sultan’s daughter. A war between Egypt and Turkey was avoided and everyone rejoiced.

On the steamer back to Istanbul, a storm broke out and the waves raged up high and fearful. My father wrote a prayer on a piece of paper and asked that it be thrown overboard into the water, without touching the ship. It was and the sea calmed down.

When my father first arrived in Noble Makkah, the crowds that gathered were such that the police had to intervene and protect him so that he could perform his prayers. An elderly ailing scholar who was a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, insisted that his children carry him to meet my father. He said that the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, had told him in a dream to expect a distinguished guest.

I missed his funeral prayer. Vast numbers walked in the procession. Those who couldn’t touch him, lay down on the ground in the hope that his body would be carried above them. It was said of him that he passed through life like gold through fire until Allah Almighty elected his soul.

When I was able to, I arranged, in his memory, a charity meal for all Chechen pilgrims. I said to them, ‘My father once governed you. When you return to your homeland ask its people to say a funeral prayer for him and request that they forgive him and pardon his severity.’

Later I heard that on the night of his death, the sky above the Caucasus turned a bright red.

My father did not die a martyr but his life ended with the greatest of honours. He was buried in the Garden of Baqi near the grave of Al-Abbas, the uncle of the Prophet, peace be upon him. Shamil Imam, who followed the path of truth, the fighter in the way of Allah, the learned, the leader. May Allah Almighty purify his soul and multiply his good deeds. Al-Fatiha.

I am very grateful to the following for their feedback, advice and, at times, inspiration:

Arzu Tahsin, Elisabeth Schmitz, Katie Raissian