I woke up before dawn and started preparing. I had dug out my old school uniform, which was correct Islamic dress. I put on my old thobe, which my uncle had bought for me when I turned fifteen. The thobe was short on me now but that was just what was needed. It was seen as proper by the mutawwa’in to wear a thobe high above the ankle; it showed that its wearer was following in the footsteps of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.
I heard the azan for the first prayer of the day. I kissed my mother’s picture and shook my head, remembering how I had sworn never to set a foot in the blind imam’s mosque, and here I was, about to break my oath. I smiled at the power of love. And with that I left for the mosque.
The street was filled with men on their way to prayers. As I joined the sea of white thobes, I instinctively began looking over my shoulders fearing that I would be spotted by one of my friends. They would never accept me having become a mutauwa-. But I calmed my anxieties. We were only at the beginning of the month, and they were not due to return from their holidays for a couple of weeks yet. “I will deal with them when they come back,” I told myself, continuing on my way to the mosque.
The mosque had recently been repainted in glistening white. I removed my shoes and stepped into the main hall which could accommodate hundreds of worshippers. The carpet was rich green with the black image of the holy Kabba woven into it. The walls were also white and there was no sign nor any writing on them. I walked closer to the mihrab, which pointed towards Mecca, and the place from which the imam led the daily prayers. There were people praying all over the hall, and all were at different stages: some were bowing, others kneeling and some had their foreheads bowed to the floor.
The blind imam was guided to the front of the congregation. He put his stick next to the wooden stairs of the minbar.
I closed my eyes and assured myself, “Everything will be fine.”
After the prayer had finished and when most men had already gone home, a small group formed around the blind imam. His guide was sitting to his right.
“What is the name of the imam’s guide?” I asked the worshipper sitting next to me, even though I already knew the answer.
“Basil,” he said. “What a pious man.”
I remembered what Al-Yamani had told me and Yahya about him that night at the Pleasure Palace: “He always looks for bad boys to recruit to gain as many rewards in heaven as possible.” But I also remembered that his past hadn’t been so clean, and that he had a soft spot for fresh and pretty boys. We will see if his time with the imam has put an end to that, I thought as I watched him.
That morning it was difficult to get his attention because he was involved in a long conversation with the imam, so I stood up and went home.
It was when I arrived for early prayers the next day that I had more luck.
As soon as the imam finished and moved to the side of the mosque where the group gathered, I got up and prepared to say a special prayer. I tried to think of Allah as the Punisher, just like the imam does, and when I pronounced, ‘Allah wa Akbar’, I started crying. After I finished my prayer I turned to look at the circle around the blind imam and I saw that Basil had noticed me. He smiled.
When I joined the circle, some boys congratulated me for breaking down before Allah saying, “What a faith, masha Allah.”
I saw Basil leaning towards the imam and whispering in his ear. “Allah wa Akbar, Allah wa Akbar” the blind imam exclaimed seconds later. “Make this boy who was crying in front of Allah sit next to me.” I was led to him.
Even without a microphone, his voice was just as powerful. He had broad shoulders and his beard was long and interwoven with white hair. He draped one end of his headdress across his shoulder. As I sat down, he put his hand on my head and felt his way to my face. He collected some of my tears with his left hand and said, “Those tears, my sons, are not tears, they are musk. He who breaks before Allah must be His most obedient slave. I heard the weeping of this child and I could feel his submissiveness to Allah, what an honour.”
He asked Basil to give him his bag. I was later told by one of the boys in the mosque that the imam’s bag was full of booklets. He couldn’t read them; but he just liked to carry them around to be able to point to them in sermons. He had lost his sight through a serious illness more than twenty-five years ago, when he was just twenty years old. By then he was already a learned man.
I looked closely at the bag as Basil passed it to the blind imam. It was old and made out of black leather. The imam took out two small books and gave them to me. One was about rewards in heaven and the other one was about punishment in hell.
Later, when the imam was talking to other students, I approached Basil and told him, “I have just converted to the right path after being a bad Muslim for many years. I need all the help I can get from you, brother, to make up for years wasted in sinning.”
I held his hand, as if to shake it, but left it there. His fingers trembled slightly. Smiling softly, he said, “I will help you, insha Allah. May Allah bless us all.”
But, as I discovered when I started going to the mosque, Basil already had a protege. His name was Abdu. I found out that there were others vying for Basil’s attention too, because he was the bridge to the blind imam, the source to more rewards. Basil obviously enjoyed this role.
To have the honour of guiding the imam just once, Basil told us, was the equivalent to rewards gathered during months of walking to and from the mosque.
It seemed like an impossible task. But I vowed: “I will do anything and everything to achieve the plan, Fiore.”
20
AS IT TURNED out I didn’t have to work hard on Basil. He made a mistake and I took full advantage.
It was Friday, 25th August. It had been ten days since I first started visiting the mosque—my sole aim to recruit the blind imam as a love-letter courier. My daily routine was simple. I woke up before dawn, re-read Fiore’s notes, changed into my Islamic dress, and went to the mosque. I secluded myself in the mosque, reading and praying for hours at a time. With every prayer that passed, Basil took more and more interest in me. “Brother Naser,” he said one afternoon, “you are on the right track with us. I am growing to like you.”
Friday meant another Friday sermon. I dreaded the sight of the blind imam being led by Basil to the minbar. But then I saw the imam’s black leather bag dangling from Basil’s hand and Fiore came into my mind. I closed my eyes and smiled. When I opened them, the imam was standing on top of the minbar. He was wearing a gold-edged cloak over his thobe and red gutra. I bowed my head, closed my eyes again and tried to think about what I would say to Fiore in my first proper letter to her.
Later that afternoon, we were sitting in a circle in the heart of the grand mosque. There were about ten of us. I was sitting to the left of Basil.
Basil’s black beard almost touched the top of his belly. He smiled after each sentence and his white and perfectly lined teeth were, as one of the boys told me, ‘A showcase for the purity of his heart’.
In front of us were books and anecdotes compiled by Arab mujahideens in Afghanistan.
Because the imam wasn’t around now—he was resting at home before an Islamic lesson he was due to give later that day—Basil was addressing the group. The circle was getting bigger as more people joined us. At one point Abdu arrived breathless. I had never had a long conversation with him, as he preferred to focus all his attention on Basil.
Abdu managed to squeeze into the circle and sat to the right of Basil. He was sweating. Basil shook his head. As he sat, Abdu yelled, “Forgive me, ya sheikh, but our summer school’s exam started later than we thought. The examiner fell sick just before the exam and had to be replaced.”
“You are the future of Islam in this country and the whole Muslim world will one day look to you for guidance and yet you have no regard for this meeting,” Basil replied. “How, I ask, can you, His slaves, be ready to become carriers of the Islamic flag, if all you care about is this useless life? Didn’t
I tell you what the Prophet Muhammad…” when he mentioned the messenger’s name we all shouted in harmony, “May peace be upon him.” Nodding his head, he continued, “You are so weak, ya brothers, that sometimes at night I can’t sleep when I think about you, worrying about you. Brothers, always remember that Allah and His message come first before anything else in this life.”
“We will, insha Allah,” we all replied.
Sheikh Basil then turned to me and whispered, “These boys have a lot to learn. You see, brother, what I am trying to teach here in Al-Nuzla?”
“Yes, ya sheikh,” I whispered back, looking deep into his eyes, “Allah will, insha Allah, reward you for your patience, hard work and foresight. In the name of Allah in the little time I have been here I have learned so much from you. You order me and I will do whatever pleases you, ya blessed sheikh.”
As he smiled, I saw a twinkle in his eyes. Then: “You see,” he screamed his delight at the rest of the boys in the circle. “This boy brings with him natural wisdom, obedience and knowledge. He is in this mosque day and night. He doesn’t go to summer school, or go on holidays, or play football. He is dedicated to his cause. And he will be rewarded, insha Allah.”
Most in the group mumbled with delight, but others—especially Abdu—stared at me. I smiled when I caught his gaze, but he looked away almost immediately.
People started muttering. Basil clapped his hands and said, “Quiet. Quiet.”
“I have a big plan,” he announced, flashing his teeth before holding still for a dramatic pause. He panned around the circle taking us all in with his eyes. With his smile, it was as if he was trying to remind us that every word he uttered was a finished article ready for public show. “My plan,” Basil continued before pausing yet again, “is big but we have to start small. That is, we must recruit more boys at a great speed. Because without them, we will not be able to achieve the big plan. But we must not forget to start small. Because the big plan…”
“Sorry to interrupt you, ya sheikh,” said the boy known as the Afghan veteran even though he was just sixteen. I had learned that this boy had gone to Afghanistan with his father when he was fourteen, but when his father died a year and a half later, he missed his mother and was allowed to return home. The Afghan veteran continued, “I would prefer ya sheikh Basil that you let us know exactly what your plan is instead of going round in circles like the rotor of a helicopter.” He always talked like this; he claimed that when he was in Afghanistan he had shot down a Russian helicopter with a rocket-propelled grenade.
Usually, whenever he mentioned the helicopter, he would get congratulations and adulation from the group. But not that time. I could see that some were about to yell ‘Allah is great,’ but when they noticed Basil’s face turning red with rage, they decided otherwise. Basil stared at the Afghan veteran for a few seconds and said, “Patience, ya Afghan veteran. I will not reveal the entire plan now, only in due course, insha Allah.”
Late that evening, after the last prayer of the day, we were sitting in a circle as usual. Basil asked me to wait behind for him. He wanted to talk to me privately.
“Shall I wait too?” Abdu, who had overheard us, asked Basil.
“No, may Allah bless you,” replied Basil to Abdu. “You go home and remember Allah before you fall asleep.”
Abdu nodded his head and left without saying anything to me.
I felt sorry for Abdu, but I knew that I was getting closer to my goal.
I waited against the wall at the entrance. Some of the group were still sitting in the mosque, reading. There was a breeze outside and I imagined that I was leaving the mosque to go to Fiore’s house. We would go for a long walk and there would no longer be any need for a love-letter courier. I was deep in my daydreams when Basil suddenly said, “OK, let’s go, Naser.”
I didn’t know where we were off to but I hesitated to ask him since we had been taught not to question the sheikh’s judgment.
As soon as we walked past the Al-Qadisyah secondary school and the Saudi Telecommunication building, I worked out that we were heading to his neighbourhood.
As we walked under the flyover, he looked around and stopped.
He stretched out his hand and I gave him mine.
“There is a quiet park around here,” he said.
In the park, we sat on the bench next to the only light post that was working. The illumination was dim.
We sat with a space between us. We didn’t say anything to each other, and I didn’t ask him why he’d brought me to that place.
Then Basil moved a bit closer and rested his hand on my leg. “Oh, brother Naser,” he said, “from the first time I saw you, I felt you were a good listener.”
“May Allah bless you,” I said.
“I feel like I can tell you many things.”
“Thank you.”
“You know, brother Naser, it has been four years now since I became a mutawwa, Alhamdulillah.”
“Masha Allah,” I replied, “what four years they must have been, spending your days and nights earning rewards.”
“Yes, indeed.”
He fell quiet.
He moved closer to me. At that moment, we heard the soft cracking of glass. We both looked down. His right foot rested on top of some broken syringes.
He said nothing for a while, and his voice only returned when he heard the sounds of motorbikes screaming past the park. He got up as if he wanted to jump over the fence and join them. But instead he started mumbling, “Please, forgive me, ya Allah. Oh ya Allah, forgive me.”
Standing in front of me with his back towards me, he asked me, “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. That was one thing the boys in the mosque hadn’t been able to tell me because they didn’t know.
“I am twenty-four,” he replied.
“Masha Allah,” I said.
“Yes, I am twenty-four and not married yet.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept quiet and stayed seated on the bench.
He rebuffed me for my silence. “Brother, I said you were a good listener, but that doesn’t mean you have to be mute. Don’t you know how to keep a conversation going?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“You can start by asking me why I’m not married.”
“Why?” I asked him.
“Saudi women are expensive, brother Naser. You know, some greedy fathers ask for almost a hundred thousand riyals dowry. Even a good father asks for fifty thousand.”
“Yes, I heard that.”
He shook his head. “Where do these parents think we are going to get this amount of money? I will never be able to afford to marry.” He bowed his head slightly and spat.
“Why don’t you marry a Muslim woman from another country?”
“Anyway, let’s keep quiet now,” he said.
He was still standing in front of me, still looking at the gate of the park. He then knelt down and picked up a discarded empty can and started fiddling with it. He threw it away after a while and put his hands in his pocket. He stepped backwards and sat down again. Our thighs touched. He put his hand on my lap, but moved away, uttering, “Oh ya Allah forgive me. Please, ya Allah”.
I could see he was squeezing his hands, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He got up and paced up and down in front of me. He then walked further to the left where there were no lights and disappeared in the darkness.
There was silence for a while. Then I heard a soft moan.
“My Fiore,” I mumbled, “you will soon read my letters.”
Later that night, I received a phone call in the middle of the night. It was a woman speaking a foreign language. The only word I understood was Berlin, which she kept repeating. “Berlin…Berlin.” I told her that I couldn’t understand what she wanted and was about to slam down the phone when I heard laughter in the background. I had lived with that laughter for years. It was high-pitched and interrupted with short squeaks. “Jasim, is that you?” I shou
ted through the phone. “Jasim?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Are you jealous?” he asked. “That was Rebecca. I just met her this evening.” He laughed. He paused, and added, “I miss you, my dear. I wish I could come back now, but the kafeel is insisting that I stay here with him.”
There was a long silence. Then suddenly a loud scream in the background. “Naser, I have to go. The kafeel is drunk. Salam, my dear.”
21
THE NEXT DAY, Basil’s eyes were shining.
Later that evening, as usual, he led the circle. After hours of talking about religious matters, he rose to his feet, saying, “OK, Naser, come with me. We are going somewhere important. The rest of you, read the Qur’an before you go home.”
“Sheikh Basil, you promised to give me a lift home today,” Abdu said.
Basil sighed and said, “OK, let’s go, hurry up.”
We followed Basil to his Mazda. Abdu casually walked to the front passenger seat. “No, you are not sitting there,” Basil said to Abdu. “Naser is sitting in the front seat from now on.”
Abdu didn’t move. He was still standing by the front door when I approached, his hand holding to the car’s door handle. He stared at me for a while, before he let go. He shoved me with his shoulder as he moved to the back.
Before I got inside the car I looked up at the tall nine-storey building which towered over the other houses in Al-Nuzla Street. I thought about Fiore’s crumpled notes; how I missed picking them up and how my hands shook when I opened them, how I missed seeing her walk along the street in her Pink Shoes. I felt in my shirt’s pocket and touched the note I carried with me.
Habibi,
It is hard watching you in the street and not being able to act on the urge to come and touch you. I am no longer sure who is the lucky one: you—blind to my face—or I, who have seen you for so long now that my desire to be with you rips me apart.
2008 - The Consequences of Love. Page 11
