by H M Sealey
When I was little, I was terrified of the world over the border; it haunted my nightmares. Even this, apparently, is a subtle form of racism so I’ve never told anyone. Not even Dai.
“Noor is Adelaide Blackwood’s daughter. She knows nothing about life in the BSI. She doesn’t even speak the language. The colour of her skin shouldn’t matter.”
Dai actually sounds quite angry. He’s usually one of the most easy-going teachers I know.
“Of course her skin colour doesn’t matter.” I retort crossly. “It’s not about that. It’s about her culture. Her roots.”
“She’s as much her mother’s daughter as her father’s.”
Noor’s scream cuts through my head and I wince again. For an intelligent man Dai can be really ignorant sometimes. British culture doesn’t really exist, it’s not a proper culture.
“That’s not what the BSI says.”
Dai shakes his head. He’s a little older than me with a thatch of thick, poker-straight black hair and golden skin inherited from his father. His eyes are almost golden too, like his mother’s. Deep, dark eyes that see more than her ever lets on.
I barely knew Dai’s parents before they died, I’m sure he still misses them. I never really knew my parents either, so I don’t miss them very much at all. I can’t even remember their faces. But I have Gran and Missy and they’re enough for me.
“We shouldn’t have to do what the BSI says just to appease them.”
“It’s not appeasement.” I say. “It’s a peaceful agreement.”
Dai raises a dark eyebrow. “Seems to me that they get half the country, a hell of a lot of money and a steady flow of children – most of whom really don’t want to go. What do we get out of this agreement?”
I finish my coffee as Noor is dragged away to the Police car, kicking and screaming and trying to reach her mother. I don’t want this conversation. Our government is justifiably proud of our treaty with the BSI. It took them ten years to hammer out the details. I know. I’m a history teacher.
“We get a secure country.” I say. Dai snorts and watches with disgust as the car drives away, sending a cloud of grey dust into the air. It hasn’t rained here for a very long time.
Adelaide Blackwood is sprawled on her face, sobbing.
“Do we?” He asks. “I’m not sure what we pay is worth it.”
The rest of the staff and children turn away from Adelaide. Nobody tries to comfort her, but it’s not because they don’t care. I just don’t think there are any comforting words that would help right now. Besides, we’ve all seen it before.
“Mrs. Blackwood?”
Dai kneels beside her in the dirt and places a strong, dark hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Blackwood. You ought to go home.”
“Not without Noor!” Adelaide keeps her face against the cracked concrete. Her fists are bruised where she’s been pounding on the ground. “Not without my little girl! They can’t just take her away like this!”
To everyone’s surprise, Adelaide scrambles to her feet and begins to chase the car down the road, even though it’s long gone. She races forwards, hair tangled, eyes red and puffy.
Nobody can stop her, but Dai gives chase anyway on long legs and I follow him on instinct. Dai is one of the best friends I’ve ever had and he seems to be taking this so personally. It’s very peculiar.
“Stop it!” Adelaide collapses, gasping, into the dirt. “Bring her back!”
“Mrs. Blackwood.” I struggle to catch up. “Noor will be so happy with her own people.” I repeat the words they taught me at university. “And you can write and phone. You can get a visa and visit too. It’s not the end of the world.”
To my surprise Adelaide raises her broken, exhausted face to mine and gives me a look of sheer contempt.
“Are you utterly stupid?” She hisses. “Do you think Noor will be happy over there with those...those savages? Do you know how they treat women?”
“Islam has a rich, illustrious culture.” I begin, trying to remember everything they taught us about the Islam at school. “We owe them so much. Medicine, maths, architecture. The BSI is one of the wealthiest countries in the world.”
Adelaide laughs at me. “They’re rich because we subsidise them! Billions we send over there every year because we’re so damn scared they’ll stop being content with half our country and start invading again!”
I’m shocked anyone could distort facts so horribly. “Mrs. Blackwood, it was the people’s decision to create the British State of Islam so those who wanted to live under Shariah could do so. There was a referendum.” I was only five, but I remember the overwhelming #yestoshariah campaign. I remember the posters and the speeches.
Adelaide Blackwood glares at me. “People were too scared to vote no, you stupid little girl! And by then we had millions of migrants flouting our law anyway. I’m older than you, I remember things the way they were! Back before they started forcibly clearing the settled Muslim population of this country over the border. My husband was sent away. Do you know that? He didn’t run out on us, but he opposed the creation of the BSI. Mahfuz just wanted peace, but the barbarians running the damn BSI didn’t want good men like him! Good Muslims like him! Peace isn’t their goal!”
She gives a funny gasp. “My little girl will be auctioned off by this time next week, married to some filthy old man. She’ll probably die in childbirth if she’s lucky and her husband will buy another girl to sate his lust.”
I’m shocked to hear anyone level such accusations about the BSI. People go to prison for telling lies like that.
“Mrs. Blackwood.” I look to both sides, hoping nobody heard her. I think only Dai is close enough to hear. “You know that’s rubbish. The Christians made all that up.” I have Christian ancestry, but I try to rise above it.
“It’s not rubbish!” She screams. “These creatures are wolves. Monsters. If it hadn’t been for the Christians daring to pick up their swords centuries ago their poison would be everywhere now!”
Now I’m really shocked. Everyone knows the Christians are mentally ill. Their warped ideology is against everything Britain stands for. I’ve never heard anyone openly defend them before.
Adelaide starts to sob and hides her face in her hands, lamenting her lost daughter.
I feel sick. I have only one option now, I have to inform Social Services about Adelaide Blackwood’s beliefs.
“Elsie.” Dai’s hand on my shoulder is warm and comforting. I gaze into my friend’s eyes quietly. “Don’t inform on her.” He says in a soft voice. Inform on her. He makes it sound wrong.
I swallow. “She…..she needs help. She’s got her facts all mixed up.”
“She’s upset. People say the wrong things when they’re upset.”
I nod and remember Dai as my best friend’s big brother, my first crush, the boy I admired so fiercely I used to follow him around and hope he would notice me. I’ve never stopped loving him.
“Okay.” I agree. “I won’t say anything.” I promise. I feel a tremor of discomfort pass through me. I’ve never broken the law before. I understand Adelaide’s misery, but it feels wrong not to help her readjust her thinking. Especially as there’s lots of expert help available for disordered thinking these days.
Noor is definitely better off away from her mother.
~
Asim
Asim watched the soldiers crash through the house in their dirt-encrusted boots without stopping to remove them by the door as any other guest would. This was nothing new, the Mutaween were regular visitors in most households, Asim had never known a time before these armed men in their dark fatigues, their faces partially hidden, policed every conceivable facet of life.
But Asim did not understand why they kept their boots on. Boots were for outdoors, it was a disrespectful thing to wear them on the carpets where people prayed, especially as he watched his mother sob over the filth they left behind and scrub for hours to remove the stains. This bothered Asim far more than any damage the sol
diers did, that dismissal of the common courtesy he had been taught to extend to everyone. The unspoken message that the Mutaween were above treating the people they visited as worthy of respect.
“They’re here to help us.” His big sister Alaia always reassured him with an attempt at a smile, as she prepared haleem over the stove, tutting to herself only when she thought he wasn’t listening. “They’re good men, their only purpose is to help us lead lives that are pleasing to Allah. Isn’t that a kind thing?” But Asim knew his sister well enough to know when she was lying, and besides, it wasn’t kind to tramp the filth of the street into homes like the homes didn’t matter.
He eyed those Kalashnikovs slung over shoulders with suspicion, Asim wasn’t convinced that people could become truly pleasing to any god through threats anyway. Shouldn’t people want to live good lives? What was the point in pretending to be good at the point of a gun?
“Keep back Asim, let the Mutaween do their jobs.” Asim’s mother drew him back into the living room. He wasn’t stupid, even at thirteen. Asim knew fear when he saw it because he saw it so very much.
He listened to the thuds in the upstairs rooms as cupboards were thrown open and possessions were shifted with no care not to damage them. His father’s dark eyes narrowed in something close to disgust beneath bushy, black eyebrows.
“They’re getting above themselves.” He murmured. “In my day the Mutaween arrested the prostitutes and reprimanded western dress. They didn’t have the power to rampage through our houses and they certainly didn’t carry guns!”
Asim’s mother gave him a stern look of sheer terror. “Min fadika!” She hissed, “Keep silent Eshan. Let them look. Let them do anything they want, just as long as they go away again.”
Asim felt her wince as something smashed upstairs and she buried her face in his hair and didn’t let him go for a long time.
“Have you seen any strangers recently?” One of the Mutaween demanded. He was a big man with the sort of bushy beard that, to Asim’s eyes, made him look a bit like the pirate captain in the book Alaia used to read to him. The book Alaia kept hidden in her room. Books belonging to the western world before the British State of Islam – may Allah keep it safe – was founded were not considered good for children. Especially if such books were written in English.
Eshan shook his head. “We see very few strangers around here Sayyid.” In Asim’s opinion, anyone who showed so little respect he wore his boots in another man’s house, did not merit the title sayyid.
“There was a jailbreak two nights ago.” The pirate told them. “Three apostates got out.”
“Then I’m sure you will find them.”
“They had help. Outside help.”
“May Allah – may He be exalted – help you to find them.”
The pirate’s eyes narrowed below heavy eyebrows. Asim noted the sword at his belt. Only the Mutaween were permitted to carry swords in a public place. This man was fat beneath his thawb, his belly made both his sword and his robe hang at a slightly drunken angle. He might have looked comical had he not been so heavily armed.
“Helping apostates is reviling Allah – may he be exalted. Only the Kafir revile Allah. Do you understand that?”
Eshan nodded. “Of course I do.”
“Does your brother understand that?”
Eshan’s pause was so slight only Asim recognised it as such. Eshan swallowed and kept his voice relaxed.
“My brother has returned to the true religion thanks to the mercies of Allah. He understands the great mercy he was shown by the Shariah Council and by his Lord. Praise be to Allah.”
Asim listened to his father’s careful words with an expressionless face. Eshan did not sound so respectful when nobody was listening. He knew the right words to say though. The words that would keep him safe.
“Where is your brother?”
“Out.”
“Where?”
“He helps our elderly Aunt and Uncle.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes sayyid. He’s not a fool. He was nearly hanged for his crimes. No man appreciates the mercy he was shown more than Baraq. I can promise you he would do nothing to earn the anger of his brothers and elders again.”
The man gave a brusque nod, unsatisfied but without evidence to take matters further. The other Mutaween found nothing untoward in the small, tidy house and so offered Eshan a rather curt ma'a as-salāmah before they walked away, slamming the door behind them.
The Mutaween always went away again, and things returned to normal. Fadia and Alaia would work hard to remove any sign of the raid – because it was a raid – and Eshan would mend anything that needed mending.
Eshan jogged up the stairs and hammered on the hatch that led to the attic. A moment later there was a scuffle and the hatch swung open, allowing a tall, thin man with sallow skin and long limbs fall out of the attic onto the landing.
“You’re a fool.” Eshan didn’t offer his brother a hand. Not, until he saw the blood seeping through the thin cotton thawb. “Allah have mercy, what have you done this time?”
Fadia was halfway up the stairs when she saw the blood on her brother-in-law’s clothing. Forgetting that her husband’s brother was not her own brother, she gasped and ran to him.
“Oh!” She cried. “You’re hurt. Come quickly, let me see. Alaia, bring me the first aid kit from the bathroom, quickly now.”
Together they helped the man into Asim’s bedroom and lowered him onto the bed. Carefully she peeled away his clothing until his wound was exposed.
Eshan shook his head. “What happened?”
Alaia brought water and the first-aid kit and helped her mother bathe the injured leg. This was her uncle, one of the two men she loved more than anyone in the world, the amount of blood on his ruined clothing concerned her.
“This is bad Baraq.” There was great gentleness in Fadia’s voice, but also a note of disapproval. Baraq smiled despite the pain.
“Scold me Fadia.” He laughed. “You always scold me.”
“I scold you because you do dangerous things.” Baraq was as dear to her as any brother could be. “This is a bullet wound.”
Baraq winced. “It’s all right, the bullet only grazed me.”
“This is not all right Baraq! Suppose the Mutaween had found you lurking in the attic?”
“I was hiding in the crawl space behind the boiler.”
“For how long?”
“Three hours?.”
“Three hours? And were you bleeding all the time? Oh, you’re a fool.”
Baraq held himself steady as she applied disinfectant to the wound.
“I got all three of them away. They’re safe.”
There was a long pause in the room. Finally, Eshan laughed, tears in his eyes.
“You are a fool brother, but a good fool.”
“They would have been hanged in the morning. I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“The Mutaween suspect you.”
“No, the Mutaween are too stupid to even suspect a chicken of eating corn. They don’t like me, but they have no proof that I’m anything other than a penitent sinner.”
“You bring us all into danger.”
“I do, and I’m sorry. But what can I do? Who else would have helped those families?”
“You got them to the coast?”
“To Dover. The boat will take them to the Faroe Islands. From there they can get to Greenland and across to Canada.”
Fadia, finally happy the wound was clean, dressed it with a gauze pad and secured it with surgical tape.
“Canada has a treaty with the BSI.”
“But also with the USA. And the USA are taking refugees from everywhere, may Allah bless them for their mercy.”
“There now. Try not to walk on it too much. It needs stitches really but I don’t think we dare take you to a hospital.”
Baraq smiled at his sister-in-law. She was one of the kindest women he had ever met. She deserved more than a brothe
r-in-law who would be pronounced kafir and executed if his activities were ever discovered.
Afterwards, Asim brought his uncle a meal and sat with him while he ate. He didn’t say a great deal, just watched. He loved his uncle dearly and he was quite old enough to understand that his Uncle helped people when they needed helping.
And yet the people he helped were often criminals. Deserving of their just punishment. That was what his teachers told him. Reviling Allah was the worst crime of all.
“Why do you help evil people?” He asked, tucking his feet beneath him on the bed. Baraq paused, the spoon half out of his mouth.
“Because all people are evil to some extent.” Baraq answered. “And I wish to give evil people another chance to stop being evil.”
“Oh.” Asim supposed that made sense, although he had never heard it spoken of at the Madrasa.
“So are you evil?”
“Yes. Though I pray to our Lord that He would make me a better man.”
“Can Allah – praise be to Him – really do that?”
“I don’t know.” Baraq took another mouthful and chewed thoughtfully. “But I have to believe that evil people can stop being evil and that there is a better remedy than the sword. Otherwise,” He added with a long, sad sigh. “There is no hope for those on the other side of the border at all.”
~
~ Two ~
Elsie
I take the long way home from school, past the dried up riverbed and along the narrow path at the edge of the fields. When I was little, Missy and I used to play in amongst the tall maize, making dens and hiding places, sometimes stripping and collecting the husks to weave into little baskets.
Children don’t play in the fields like that, not any more. We’re all aware how difficult the farmers find growing any sort of crops. Spoiling food – the sort with nutrients in, not the cheap stuff we buy from the USA – isn’t fun, it’s serious.
I glance up at the hazy sky and wonder if we’ll ever see rain again. Lovely, soaking, cold, ground-drenching rain. The sort that made the fruit swell and the worms come up to play. The clouds were thick and black back then, they hung over the world like a heavy blanket ready to burst.
