Carney's War

by James T. Emry

  Joe tended to agree, despite his own reservations about the war.

  Later on in the afternoon he got the train to Marple where Gabby and Greg, two of his friends from college days were living. Their views were the opposite of the men in Edale.

  “More people need to demonstrate on a large scale!” said Gabby.

  “But there is going to be a war anyway; and large numbers of people will die. Demonstrations won’t stop that,” replied Joe.

  “Yes they will; there are marches all over the world. It means something.” Gabby sounded unshakeable.

  “Sure it does. But it won’t change the end result Gabby,” joined in Greg. “I just feel that we’re completely powerless.”

  Joe remembered some of the winter exercises he had been on with his reservist unit and what he had felt after days and nights out in the Brecon Beacons. He recalled that in the driving rain and freezing cold the training was dirty, sapping and grinding. He wanted to say that to his friends but he decided that trying to explain what it was like to people who had no idea was impossible.

  ***

  Az had met the speaker, an Imam, once before in north London at a mosque he had attended a few years before. He had seemed quite a jumpy man at the time. Now he knew why; he had been fighting the Serbians up until 1999 and one kilogram too many of high explosive had detonated near him. The Imam had been based in Sarajevo for a while, but he had been asked to leave by local Muslims who feared that US agents would have their community under surveillance due to the presence of such religious figures. The post 9/11 world was very unforgiving for those who had risked their lives against the Serbian paramilitaries.

  Az felt strongly that his own community owed something to people like this man who had helped innocent Bosnian Muslims and Kosovans and received little in return. “Most people in the UK will never understand such sentiments,” he concluded. “The West will always label them terrorists.”

  And now listening to the smart, diminutive and humble man talk Az wondered if it was his own turn to take up the mantle, if it was his destiny to take on a wider role in the community. Once the Imam had finished speaking Az went straight up to talk to him. They greeted each other and the man spoke directly.

  “You know Az nothing was ever achieved by negotiation with the Serbians, Israelis, Americans, Russians or even other Muslims. Only actions count and recent events have proved that the world has been too impotent to do anything to help innocent Muslims.

  England is home to a population divided not just along ethnic lines but according to the ability to reason. And very few people seem to ever reach the right conclusions, if they can be bothered to even think about the real issues in the first place.” Az nodded approvingly.

  “There is something so shallow about this place; the way they close ranks even when they know they are in the wrong. For most British people life is just a matter of convenience; if it suited them they would listen. Az; they are not interested in anyone else’s arguments. They can’t even agree amongst themselves: Scots don’t care what the English think and northerners couldn’t give a damn about the south and vice versa. What chance do Muslims have in getting themselves heard - especially Scottish Muslims!” Az laughed loudly.

  “All those TV and radio shows just reinforce this nonsense,” the man exhorted. “At the end of the day it’s the establishment that has won the arguments. Not because they’re right, but because they have control over the media. Even when ninety per cent of people are ready to stage a coup because of some latest failed government initiative, nothing will ever get done. There’s just a smoke screen of democracy, politics by TV spin and the media. That’s why for many Muslims, Az, taking action is the only way to bring results. No one will take any notice otherwise.”

  Az nodded respectfully and replied: “You know, the politicians seem to pride themselves on ex-communicating anyone they don’t like. They even seem to be doing it to their own people who have marched against the invasion.” As far as Az was concerned, he had met too many people of all persuasions who had blanked him in life, probably due to his unkempt appearance, he reasoned, rather than anything rational or logical.

  “Humans are, after all, illogical creatures,” the man replied. “That is why we have the words of the Prophet, Peace be upon Him; to keep us in line.” Az became suddenly aware that he had grown to accept his own feelings of remoteness and that he didn’t even bother communicating with people if he could help it. He knew that his friends and family thought he was a little odd at times, but he didn’t care. It was his choice and not one that had been imposed on him. At times he felt that the remoteness had conferred some kind of advantage over others who were not spiritual, but he couldn’t quite figure it.

  “Islamic cultures are better at defining how you should behave,” the man continued. “For example, in Islam women are not expected to communicate with strangers so certain issues never arise. You know Az in the Balkans there is a different cultural dynamic to the rest of Europe and one that you may like to experience for yourself. The situation in Britain is so confusing – maybe a break will do you some good? I can help organize it for you if you want.”

  Az wanted to ask the man a more searching question: what was actually possible when it came to resisting the ignorance of other non-Muslim communities? But he lacked the confidence to ask. Instead he replied, “Yes – I would be very grateful.” And he gave him his email address.

  They shook hands and the man’s parting words were clearly stated. “Remember Az - only the pursuit of perfection should be tolerated.”

  They parted company and Az walked on up the road. He thought about his brother Shakil. Az still revered him as he was one of the few people he knew who had travelled and who seemed to know anything about the world. Even though their school had tried to force them to accept Christian values and standards, Shakil hadn’t altered his fundamental Muslim values and outlook on life. He got back to the house.

  “Hi bruv, how’s it hanging man?” Az embraced his brother, who was a little surprised by the force of the greeting.

  “Yeah, not bad. Why are you so happy then?”

  “Oh: this and that.”

  After a small meal the two relaxed. “Have you thought any more about going back to college full-time?” Shakil asked.

  “Not really, bruv. The way I see it they have us hooked; we pay all these fees and subsidize the State while they get us educated for free even though we pay our taxes. And at the same time they’re using our money to bomb innocent Muslims. So I am not going to mortgage myself for their wars.”

  “That’s all very eloquent, Az, but you can’t stay on benefits. You have to contribute more.”

  “I will get a job in the retail park again, Shaks. Don’t worry.”

  Az reflected on the monotonous tide of human trash he’d had to put up with whenever he’d taken such positions: the self-seeking blue collar workers and quietly racist managers he’d had to work under; and then there was the world of bureaucrats above them.

  “But it’s not long term, Az,” said Shakil. “You have to get an education. Life doesn’t wait for you, you know!”

  “Yeah, I am listening, bruv. I promise I will look into it.”

  “Today?”

  “Why not; I’ll look up some courses on the net.”

  “Make sure you do that, man. I’ll get the coffee.”

  ***

  Joe had met up with Baz and Dex in a pub in the old village area of Walthamstow. Baz groped his drink and blurted, “I’m sick of all these gym fascists I keep bumping into with their fucking protein shakes and all the rest.”

  “What’s eating you, mate?” said Dex. “Has Isabel said something?”

  “Yeah; she says I look out of shape. She suggested I join the local gym. She’s a member.”

  “So what’s the problem, Baz? Join the gym,” said Joe.

  “I just don’t want to; I get enough exercise and I can’t be bothered posing around with all those machines and
monitors. It’s a load of crap. Why do we all have to do that?”

  “I don’t know, mate; I keep fit on my weekends; walking or whatever,” Joe replied with a smirk.

  “Yeah, you need a hobby, Baz,” said Dex. “Take up a sport; that’ll show her.”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference – she would still be gawping at all the ripped guys in the gym.”

  “That’s why she wants you to go with her,” Joe replied. “And she wants to keep fit as well.”

  “Yeah, think about it,” said Dex. “It may not be that bad; see if you can get cheaper membership.”

  “Anyway, how is everything with you guys?” asked Baz.

  “Not so bad,” said Joe. “I’m no longer a reservist.”

  “Yeah well; I’m glad you’re not in Iraq mate,” replied Baz. “I mean it’s not fucking 1914; there aren’t millions marching in favour of invading the Middle East – they’re marching against it!”

  Dex added, “I think nothing is going to stop the US. You did the right thing by jacking it in mate.”

  “Yeah, after all, one man’s life isn’t worth a million others,” Joe replied quietly.

  “The most ridiculous thing I heard was that it has to be done for humanitarian reasons,” said Baz. “So all the people who are being incinerated and smashed by High Explosive are being killed humanely then? I think the Yanks must be emotionally retarded to believe all that shit.”

  “And you aren’t emotionally retarded? Only joking, mate,” said Joe.

  Baz paused before speaking again. “If my schoolboy history serves me correctly didn’t Bismarck fabricate a telegram in order to go to war with France? Here they’re using false documents in order to start a war and topple a regime. Well maybe they will, who knows? It would be brilliant if only the rest of us didn’t actually know what’s been happening.”

  “You’re such a philosopher mate,” Joe replied. “Except the war will probably not lead to a united Iraq, but will lead to a lot more dead civilians and instant DIY jihadists all over the world. We’ll be fighting on all fronts not just one.”

  “Some people I work with don’t even have an opinion,” Dex stated lifting his pint glass. “They hide their heads when someone mentions the situation. How can anyone sit on the fence over this one?”

  “There’s a lot of that going around, mate,” replied Baz. “People conveniently ignore things when they feel like it. It’s what the politicians want. A divided population is always better for the establishment.”

  “No one’s done enough to stop this war,” Dex added. “Reverand Jackson, the liberals, socialists - they all made big claims in those rallies, but they delivered nothing. They should all hang their heads in shame. They’re all crap.” He sank his pint.

  “Well it’s not a perfect world,” Joe replied. “What bothers me is that people are divided by attitudes. This could lead to a long-term problem here. Isn’t that what the terrorists wanted all along: dividing everyone up? These people are crazy, but we’re giving the psychos more ammunition to attack us.”

  “Je suis une singe, avec la fromage,” said Dex.

  “What’s that then, Dex?” said Baz.

  “That’s French for ‘I’m a monkey with the cheese’; as in ‘cheese-eating surrender monkeys’ – it’s such a shame us English never learn foreign languages. That’s why no terrorists are English; most terrorists speak at least three languages. We’re incapable of learning any.”

  “I don’t think it’s the French that coined that phrase, mate,” said Joe. “It was said about them, by the Yanks. And anyway I speak a bit of Arabic, and a smattering of French. Does that make me a terrorist?”

  “Maybe it does mate,” replied Dex smiling over his pint glass.

  ***

  “You know, Az, some of these Imams are not all that. You shouldn’t believe everything they say. They’re a bit like these dickhead American Christians,” Khalil stuttered as he ate a sandwich.

  “No, they’re not. Don’t compare them to the Khuffurs, Khalil.” Az, while offended at Khalil’s outburst, was guarded in his response.

  “You’re not exactly an authority,” Khalil replied assertively.

  Az flashed Khalil a wild-eyed look and Wazir and Khalil pulled back slightly.

  After a while Khalil broke the silence. “Have it your own way, but it won’t profit you any of this. You’ll get nothing but problems. And please don’t include Wazir or me in any more emails forwarded from your religious friends. We don’t want to be traced.”

  Wazir said nothing, but looked at Az who had no real expression on his face; he just stared into the distance as if the others weren’t there. Khalil and Wazir got up and left Shakil’s house.

  “What now then?” said Wazir. “Ex-communicate him completely?”

  “Don’t be stupid Waz, you know that’s not what I meant. I just think he needs to grow up a little.”

  “What you mean into a person you would like him to be?”

  “Look, I respect our culture, Wazir; our real culture. Where the elders give guidance based on real understanding not the kind of crap being peddled here in these emails. I also believe in kinship and looking after one another. Anyway you shoot on ahead, I’m going round to see Saira, OK? I’ll catch up with you later, Wazir.”

  Khalil headed off to the mainline train station. “Idiots,” he said loudly as he walked. “They just don’t get it; all they do is give the shitheads yet more ammunition with which to knock us. As if anyone is giving us a helping hand anyway. I wish they’d all just fucking grow up.” He kicked a can.

  Later that evening Khalil and Wazir were talking to their Aunt Yasmina about a half-cousin, Hadji. Wazir had known him some years before as a teenager. He was a mixed Turkish-Pakistani boy with fair skin and light brown hair. He had been a quiet sort and then grew into a tall, good-looking and skinny teenager of nineteen who had started at an art college in north London, enjoying life to the full.

  She related the story of how a year before, in September 2002, she had been out one day with her daughter, Nita, and two grandchildren walking along the Regents Canal in Camden near her home. Walking along the towpath they had come across Hadji and his girlfriend, Savannah, an attractive, bubbly, mixed race girl in her early twenties. Hadji was dressed snappily in a dark suit and they looked happy together.

  “Can I feel your bump?” Savannah asked of Yasmina’s daughter.

  “Of course,” the young woman replied.

  After she had laid her hands on her chest there was a kick and Savannah squealed.

  “Oh God, there he is,” Savannah had shouted. “Have a feel, Hadji.”

  “Is it OK, Nita?” Hadji had said to the expectant mum.

  “Yes of course, go for it,” she had replied.

  He somewhat awkwardly placed his hands on Nita’s chest; and jumped back. They all squealed, as did Nita’s young kids. It was a beautiful moment.

  “So why are you telling us this now?” asked Wazir.

  “I just found out that Hadji has been killed in a road accident; hit and run.” She slumped into an armchair.

  ***

  Late on a Saturday night Joe, Baz and Dex were sitting in Joe’s lounge after a night out. Baz produced a small bottle of malt whisky from his jacket, which he held up to the light. “You know mate; you may talk a lot of crap but you’re bloody good at DIY: I’ll give you that.”

  “Maybe – but my hair will fall out after drinking that stuff,” Joe replied. He took a swig from Baz’s bottle and Dex followed suit.

  “Here’s to Joe, and …anyone who knows him.” Baz’s speech was slurred as he lay back on the sofa.

  Later that night Joe woke up with a start. A recurring nightmare came back to him. He was in a room reminiscent of one he had once visited in an African hospital; it looked like a large underground X-Ray area. He could hear someone crying round the corner and got up to have a look; but the hospital was quite empty. He had thought it was a child’s cry but could have been that o
f a young adult; he never found out who it was as he always woke up at the same point and in a cold sweat. The cry was piercing.

  A few days later Joe’s discharge from the military reserve came through. While he was out the following day with Dex and some friends a thought had come to him, a sense of unease that none of the events of the recent months had been right.

  Dex asked him how he felt about it. “To be honest I feel like I shouldn’t have left; not in these circumstances.”

  “Well you haven’t done anything wrong. What was on the notice; anything other than normal - medical?” Dex had an interest in the military as his brother had served in the Sherwood Foresters for eight years.

  “No, actually, come to think of it. It was all in order,” replied Joe.

  “Then you may be able to re-join at some point. Have a break for a while and think about it. I know what you mean - I don’t like making rash decisions, but I think you are right to leave. There’s a lot of bullshit out there.”

  “You’re right; I’ve had enough of all the spin. Somehow it’s just left me feeling sickened by the way things have worked out, like certain people have the right to screw us over when they feel like it.”

  “We had that in massive doses in the 1980s when we were still living up north; my dad’s two brothers were both miners and we had to help them out. You just have to muddle through no matter what.”

  “Yeah - but right now there’s people who have to do this job in Iraq; with little or no support from the public.”

  Joe recalled an incident whilst driving a military Land Rover through London a few months before the start of the Iraq War; although none of his unit were aware of it at the time. At an intersection in Hackney a large bearded man had come up to the window and sworn through the glass, having seen that Joe and the officer next to him were in uniform. Joe stared back at the man who had hate in his eyes. The officer had pretended he was asleep. After a few awkward moments Joe had driven off. But that look of utter hatred had stayed with him.

  He realised that if you were in any part of the armed forces with the invasion of a country like Iraq in full swing it wasn’t just radical Muslims that would be on your case. There were too many negatives surrounding the campaign to make it clear whether it was right. At the same time, while he had major problems with the whole “War on Terror” thing, he was damned if he would carry on pretending he was some kind of pacifist.