Hwang Sok-yong - Princess Bari

With so much time for just the two of us, Grandfather Abdul and I talked much more often than we used to. He told me all about his family and his ancestors, about the One and Only God, Allah, and stories of the Prophet Muhammad. I couldn’t read the Qur’an, but I ended up memorizing the first verse of the Islamic creed: “La ilaha illallah, Muhammad rasulullah” (“There is no god but God, Muhammad is the Messenger of God”). But this wasn’t surprising to me: ever since I was little, Grandmother used to say there was a Lord in Heaven who presided over all of Creation. Whenever my father caught her talking that way, he would browbeat her and say it was just superstition. To me there wasn’t much difference between the being my grandmother had talked about and the being Grandfather Abdul described. I guess you could say it was like the difference between them eating naan and chapatti , and us eating rice.

Sometimes I talked about my grandmother. Grandfather Abdul said that because she was a good person, she would now be an angel in a Paradise filled with flowing rivers and flowers in full bloom. I pictured her mingling with the other good people somewhere in a field of flowers beyond the rainbow bridge that I saw in my visions.

I also told him about the other people in my life: Uncle Tan was a Buddhist, and Uncle Lou used his breaks from filling orders in the kitchen to recite endless prayers that sounded like magic spells. Many of the people who lived in Chinatown went to a Taoist temple to burn incense and pray. Luna was Bangladeshi and Auntie Sarah Sri Lankan, but as they were both born in Britain, they went to church and believed in Jesus. Nevertheless, they each skilfully balanced the etiquette and rules of their religion with their own cultural heritage. Grandfather Abdul smiled with satisfaction at my descriptions of everyone.

“Child, just as our clothes and food are a little different from each other’s, our lifestyles are also different. But that’s all. Providence converges into one.”

Though I knew nearly nothing about Islam, Ali’s family’s customs were not all that difficult for me. Later, Ramadan was a little tough to get through, but once the period of fasting was over, I realized anew the preciousness of family and daily meals. When I told Grandfather Abdul the story of Princess Bari and how I got my name, he smiled brightly and nodded.

“If your destiny is the same as the Bari of legend, then I guess it’s time for you to start looking for the life-giving water.”

“I don’t know, Grandfather. All my grandmother told me was that the water would find me .”

The days passed, tranquil and untroubled. Ali worked hard at his taxi job, and I continued giving foot massages at the salon. Five times a day, Grandfather Abdul spread out his prayer rug and bowed in the direction of Mecca, and on Fridays Ali joined him at the mosque. In the privacy of our flat, I learned how to pray by copying Ali.

One day, I was working at Tongking when my afternoon client arrived.

“America is at war!” she exclaimed the moment she came in. “I just saw it on TV. The whole world is going mad!”

There were shocked whispers all over the salon. Uncle Tan brought the television out of the break room and plugged it in. Sure enough, every single channel was broadcasting the news about what had happened in New York. They kept showing the same footage over and over, of a passenger plane flying into a building and exploding, and then another plane following suit. We held our breaths at first, as if we were watching an action movie. But when the building collapsed all at once, we screamed. People running down streets covered in broken glass and dust and smoke; the horrified faces and torn clothes of the wounded, who had barely made it out alive; paper and debris blowing around in the wind.

By the time I got home that night, it seemed the whole world had lost its mind over the events in New York. I went upstairs to find Grandfather Abdul kneeling on his rug, about to pray. I waited just outside the door for him to finish. He stood, bowed once more and turned around.

“You saw the news?” he asked. My face fell. I nodded.

“I called Ali,” he said. “I told him to come home early tonight.”

I understood what he was implying. Grandfather Abdul kept peering out the window until Ali was back. He did return much earlier than usual, but Grandfather Abdul still looked angry when he came in.

“What took you so long? I told you to come home early.”

“Someone called asking me to take them to the airport. I was on my way back.”

“Stay home in the evening from now on. If you have to work late, only do it on the weekend.”

Ali glanced at me and then spread his arms wide and asked: “What are you so worried about?”

“The world is different now! Even before this happened, Muslims were not looked at kindly.”

“Grandfather, that’s America. We’re British.”

“Legally, yes. But now they’ll be more open about criticizing our religion, and our way of life.”

Ali looked frustrated. “The terrorists are extremists!” he shouted. “They have nothing to do with Muslims like us!”

Grandfather Abdul sighed. “But they’re still Muslim. Terrible things are going to happen. This has given them an excuse.”

I prepared dinner quietly and didn’t interrupt them. We ate in silence.

Grandfather Abdul’s predictions weren’t far off: a rock was thrown through the window of the mosque; women wearing hijabs were cursed at; and graffiti was spray-painted on the homes of Muslims.

More than two months later, it was Ramadan. Ali would awaken at dawn to eat a little soup or rice porridge, then touch nothing else until nightfall except the occasional sip of water. I didn’t feel right enjoying my lunch with the other studio employees, so I just had juice or something else to drink. As my shift didn’t end until after dark, I could go ahead and eat as soon as I got home; but I ate more lightly than usual, and avoided anything too fatty. Mostly it was porridge, vegetables or fruit. By that point, I was halfway to living a Muslim lifestyle and observing the customs.

One night, Ali received a phone call. From his voice, I figured it was his father. When he hung up, he looked grim.

“What’s wrong?”

“Usman has disappeared.”

“Doesn’t he work at a factory?”

“He does. But he said he was taking time off to travel with friends.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Ali shook his head.

“They found the receipt for the plane ticket in his room. That idiot has gone to Pakistan.”

There was a knock at the door. Grandfather Abdul stepped inside.

“Your father just called. I take it you spoke to him, too, about Usman going to Pakistan?”

They both fell silent. Grandfather Abdul looked deep in thought.

“You better go to Leeds yourself to try to find out what happened,” he said to Ali. “Young people mistake friendship for not telling their elders what their friends are doing. Your brother’s friends aren’t going to tell your parents the truth.”

Ali nodded and said: “I know Usman’s friends. They’ll know what’s going on.”

I interrupted them: “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. So your brother went back home? I’m sure he’ll be back in a few days, smiling about the nice vacation he had.”

Grandfather Abdul shook his head slowly from side to side.

“It’s not like that. The United States and Britain have declared war on Afghanistan, which means that calls for support and solidarity have been going out to young Muslim men in other countries.”

Ali left for Leeds the next day. Grandfather Abdul and I waited and didn’t eat until he returned, late that night. His long arms looked like they were sagging all the way to his knees, no doubt from worry and fatigue. As soon as Ali collapsed onto Grandfather Abdul’s soft couch, Grandfather Abdul started pressing him for information.