‘Yes, of course, with your chants and spiritual retreats,’ he continued. ‘Plus you’re interrupting. I was saying that you Sufis play down your historical role in jihad. Most fighters against European Imperialism were Sufis. And Imam Shamil is a prime example. He was the head of a Sufi order.’
This was not new to me. But this stress on Sufism was not an angle I had previously considered to be important. I needed to reconsider. Shamil’s Sufism might well be what I needed to refine my research direction.
Malak replied, ‘Every fight Shamil fought was on the defence. He was protecting his villages against Russian attack. And surrender to the Russians would have meant the end of their traditional
way of life, the end of Islam in Dagestan. The Russians were so brutal they often didn’t take prisoners of war. By comparison Shamil’s generals were scholarly and disciplined. This type of jihad is different from the horrible crimes of al-Qaeda.’
‘I agree, but still it was guerrilla warfare …’ reiterated her son.
‘No it wasn’t.’
He grinned. ‘Malak, you think guerrilla warfare is what you see in the movies! Shamil understood that he couldn’t pitch a direct battle against the tsar’s large and well-equipped army so he lured sections of them up the mountains. He tricked them into dividing and then launched attacks at them.’
‘Well, that is a clever thing to do.’
‘That cleverness
is
guerrilla tactics.’
But Malak wasn’t going to be shaken. ‘Listen Oz, the door of jihad is closed. Jihad needs an imam and there is no imam now. Jihad is for upholding the values of Allah; it’s not for scoring political points, it’s not for land, it’s not for rights, it’s not for autonomy.’
‘It’s for getting us power over our enemies. Jihad is not something we should be ashamed of.’
‘What we are ashamed of is what is done in its name. Not every Muslim war is a jihad. Not suicide bombers or attacking civilians.’
I said, ‘The mufti of Bosnia said that Muslims shouldn’t use the word “jihad” and Christians shouldn’t use the word “crusade”.’
‘See,’ said Malak with a sharp look at her son.
‘Well, I shall use it,’ Oz glared back at her. He sounded bitter. ‘If Shamil were here today he wouldn’t have sat back and let Muslim countries be invaded. He wouldn’t have given up on Palestine and he wouldn’t have accepted the two-faced wimps we have as leaders.’
His voice was unnecessarily loud. The slight tension that followed made me conscious of the time. ‘I really should be going. If the snow is going to get worse, then I might make it if I leave now.’ I stood up, but not without reluctance.
And it was perhaps because of this desire to stay that I succumbed to the following sequence of events. Their drive was thick
with snow and I was unable to get my car to the main road. Phone calls to local cab companies elicited the same response – they were unwilling to venture that far out into the countryside on a night like this. Around nine in the evening, I accepted Malak’s repeated invitation to stay the night. It seemed the sensible thing to do.
I ended up staying with them not one but two nights. Two days of the brightest sunshine and a record-breaking amount of snow. The university was closed and lectures cancelled; the schools and airports were also closed. It was unprecedented and for me, welcome. Briefly my normal life was suspended and I inhabited days that were elongated and crystallised; an unplanned break, a suspension of all that was routine and orderly. It would not be accurate to say that I fell in love. But I was captivated by the combination of Oz, Malak and their isolated sandstone house. I did not feel that I could outgrow them, that our conversations would go stale or that I would tire of their company. Perhaps it was because I started to search for traces of Shamil in them. Or it could have been the awareness that we were under siege, randomly brought together, an unexpected gift of freshness, more hospitality than I had bargained for when I drove out here, certainly more hours in the proximity of Shamil’s sword and Arabic calligraphy.
But to go back to the first morning and my breakfast with Oz. Malak was busy with an exercise routine that turned out to be long and elaborate – an hour on the treadmill, forty minutes weight-training and a further hour split between Pilates and yoga. She also, Oz told me, had protein shakes for breakfast. He said this with a mix of wonder and disapproval. It struck me that this was what I would miss out on if I never had children – not only the baby stage, the pushchair, the school runs – but a young adult assessing me, poking me with their own personal rubric. We sat in the kitchen with stacks of toast and tea. There was honey to put on the toast; it came in a fancy jar with a London label. I had to search the cupboards high and low for a teabag that was not spiced, not decaffeinated and not organic. Oz spread peanut butter on his
toast. Last night he had lent me some clothes because Malak was petite and nothing she wore could have fitted me. So now we were wearing the same GAP sweatshirts, mine grey and his green; and almost identical chequered pyjama trousers. It still felt odd to walk around in socks but it was a rule of the house. They did not want shoes indoors.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I was going to drop out of uni.’
I was taken aback. ‘But your grades are good.’
‘It’s nothing to do with grades. Besides, I only bother to show up for your classes.’
‘Well I’m flattered, but what’s the problem? Aren’t you happy with your choice of subjects? There’s more flexibility nowadays in the kind of degree you can take. Have a chat with your tutor.’ I should have known better than to start doling out suggestions. He seemed slightly more withdrawn, as if his gush of confidence was stilted by my presumptions.
‘I’m reading all the time but the thing is I’m not reading the books I’m supposed to read.’
Inwardly I groaned. Another ‘independent studies’ candidate ahead of his time. ‘Well, if you get through your first degree, and it shouldn’t be a problem if you set your mind to it, then you can register for a PhD and read and research the topic of your choice.’
‘I’m already doing that.’
‘What are you working on?’ I gulped my tea. It was already cooling down.
‘I’m researching the types of weapons used in jihad. My thesis is that they reflect the technology of their time and are often the same as those used by the enemy.’
I chewed on my toast. ‘Well, that makes sense.’
‘But it violates some of the Sharia’s rules, rules which have been conveniently forgotten. Such as not using fire because it is only Allah’s prerogative to burn sinners in Hell. No human being should use fire on another human being.’
I saw charging horsemen wielding swords. They galloped towards enemy lines of cannons. One by one they were shot and they slid off their horses.
‘Would you look at what I’ve already written and give me feedback?’ he was saying.
‘Sure. Email it to me.’ I started telling Oz of a Russian film I had seen. It depicted Shamil’s battles and the camera was angled behind the cannons facing the charging highlanders.
‘Like cowboys and Indians,’ said Oz and made me laugh.
But he was not so off point. The comparison had been made before by sympathetic historians. The Caucasus represented as Russia’s wild west, Shamil the noble savage, as magnificent and inscrutable as a Native American chief.
Not shy of sounding abrupt Oz asked, ‘Why are you so interested in Shamil?’
‘From a purely secular perspective, he was one of the most successful rebels of the colonial age.’
‘Why do you have to say “from a purely secular perspective”?’
I paused, momentarily caught out. I put down my piece of toast.
‘Do you assume that I am religious and so you want to distance yourself from me?’
I did not want to distance myself from him. I shook my head.
‘You’re different from the other lecturers,’ he went on. ‘A Muslim talks to them and they put on that wide-eyed tolerant look, quick little nods and inside they’re congratulating themselves thinking, “Look at me, I’m truly broad-minded, listening to all this shit and not batting an eyelid.” Whereas you’re the opposite. You pretend that you’re sarcastic but deep down you have respect. Am I right?’
He was like his mother, wanting me to talk about myself, but I was not ready to answer his question. I concentrated on chewing toast and finishing my tea. Then to break the silence I said, ‘Here is something about me that is odd. I dream of historical figures. I’ve dreamt of Stalin and Rasputin.’
He smiled. ‘It’s because you were reading about them.’
‘But I’ve never ever dreamt of Shamil.’
‘Not everyone can dream of Imam Shamil,’ he said a little coolly.
‘Why not? Is he a prophet?’
‘No, but people like him don’t just pop up in anyone’s dreams. Only in those who’ve achieved a certain spiritual level.’
He made it sound like a video game. I decided to humour him. ‘Has Shamil ever visited you in a dream?’
He looked at me as if to test whether I was teasing him or not. I kept a straight face.
‘No,’ Oz said. ‘I have often, though, wished that I lived in his time.’
‘To fight with him?’ This was one of the leading questions. Without meaning to, I found myself asking him one of the questions the trainers suggested we put to our students. I hadn’t intended to test if Oz was ‘vulnerable to radicalisation’, but the question presented itself now, appropriate and easy.
He said, ‘What I like best about his days is the certainty. Everything was clear cut. Shamil and his people were the goodies; the Russians were the baddies. The Caucasus belonged to the Muslims, the tsar’s army were the invaders.’
So, according to the guidelines, how should his response be classified? Did he tick this particular box or not? According to the guidelines, a student who was ‘vulnerable to radicalisation’ would have symptoms of regression, a hankering for an idealised past, a misguided belief in authenticity.
In the afternoon, Malak and I went for a walk leaving Oz shovelling snow in front of the house. The shining sun was no threat to the packed snow. We sank into it with our boots and messed up its neatness, beating down a path all the way to the main road. Paths, grass and asphalt were all one and the same. I breathed in
the freshest air and put my gloved hands in my pockets. My mobile phone rang and it was my stepfather again. I ignored him. Nothing must break what felt like a spell. I vowed that tomorrow morning I would wake up at dawn to milk every minute of it. Here in this setting, with these two people, sleep was a waste of time.
‘Do you ever go back to Chechnya?’ I asked Malak.
She shook her head. ‘But I have cousins there and we keep in touch. During the war I was always worrying and calling them. I tried to help them as much as I could; I still send them money.’
The name of Shamil hovered over the recent Chechen rebel wars. The militant leader Shamil Basayev was responsible for the terrorist attacks on the North Ossetia school and the Moscow theatre hostages.
As if to dispel the negative images from her mind Malak said, ‘One of the most popular films in Chechnya in the 1990s was
Braveheart.
Hundreds of pirated videos were sold.’
Probably young Chechen men saw themselves as the William Wallaces of the Caucasus. I smiled and we spoke a little bit about the film. It was interesting to hear her opinions, an insider’s view of the film industry that I was not familiar with.
We came across another farmhouse; a neighbour shovelling snow. Malak stopped to chat. She sounded comfortable as she swapped updates about the weather and introduced me as a house guest. I gathered that she had only met this particular neighbour once before. She was still relatively new in the area. It made me wonder at her motives for leaving London. It was a brave step to take, to live in such isolation, to start anew. Though I appreciated the peace and fresh air, this lifestyle was not for me. I needed the anonymity of the city. Here I was conscious of being African in the Scottish countryside, of the need to justify my presence.
To avoid small talk with the neighbour I stepped back and took out my mobile to answer Tony’s calls. He probably needed reassurance that I would drive up with him to Fraserburgh for Christmas with Naomi. She was his daughter from his first marriage. It was an
annual tradition to fill the car with presents and spend Christmas with her and her husband. They were a generous and good-natured couple, but this year for the first time, we would be visiting without my mum. The telephone rang in the house but it was the Polish cleaner, Kornelia, who picked up. I asked her to pass on a message explaining my predicament. That was how I made it sound, an inconvenience; a tiresome pause in my usual, busy life. Sometimes a lie makes more sense than the truth. Often the truth is irrelevant.
The sun started to set, still bright through the trees. We walked back to the house and stopped when we saw what Oz was doing. He had built five snowmen so crudely that they were almost columns. None of them were taller than him. He was holding the sword in his hand, the same one I had held yesterday and imagined to be Shamil’s. His coat was open, his scarf covered his mouth and his woollen cap was low over his eyebrows. His feet were deep in the snow and with the sword he was swinging away at the snowmen. One after the other – hacking, thrusting, lopping off their unformed heads. There was no passion in his expression, only concentration, as if he was practising, as if he was trying out new tricks.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Malak walked towards him. ‘It’s hundreds of years old, you’ll ruin it.’
I had not seen her angry before. She moved to snatch it away from him so abruptly that for a minute I was afraid she was going to get hurt. He turned to her and because only his eyes were visible, the smile in them had a mesmerising, distant quality. He hid the sword behind his back and with the other hand pulled down the scarf so as to say, ‘Malak, don’t fuss. A little bit of snow won’t hurt it.’
It disappointed me that he would lack such appreciation. I thought he would value Shamil’s sword, cherish and respect it.
‘What would the neighbours think seeing you so violent?’ Malak sounded exasperated now. If he were still a child, she would have snatched the forbidden game from him, hauled him yelling and kicking back into the house.