Shikasta

by Doris Lessing

  Over a thousand delegates from all over the world assembled in the Blessings of Allah Hall, which is modern, air-conditioned, large, surrounded by snack bars, cafés, eating nooks attractive to east and west, north and south, and everything of the best. From the first moment the goodies were being eagerly sampled by one and all, but particularly by those delegates from Western Europe, and most particularly from the British Isles, who seem pleased enough to get even half a square meal inside themselves whenever the opportunity offers.

  Opening speeches at nine a. m. George delivers one of them. All things to all men. Not to mention women. Half of the delegates are female and not a bad-looking bunch even to my connoisseur’s eye. There were nearly as many different uniforms as delegates, of every shade imaginable, and the place was like a sample room of a dye factory. Medals blazed. Ribbons glowed. Is it really possible that so much valour, intelligence, accomplishment, devotion to every conceivable variety of duty, were all together at the same place, and at the same time?

  Your poor friend was not among those in uniform. I wore my post-Mao tunic, and the badges of our college. George wore a cotton suit that could give offence to no one, and with it his three badges, the Jewish Guardians of the Poor, the Islamic Youth Federation for the Care of the Cities, and the United Christian Federation of Young Functionaries for Civil Care, thus outtrumping, and outmanoeuvring any number of local interests even trying. He was of course as handsome as the evening star (as I overheard some delicious morsel whisper) and there wasn’t a soul, male or female, left unmoved at that winsome modest manly form.

  The subject of the Conference being the general togetherness and cooperation and sharing of information and love and good will (etcetera and so on) among the Youth Organizations of the World, of course it was necessary first of all, before descending to these perilous shores of unanimity, to establish boundaries, banish misconceptions, and stake claims. The familiar verbal aggressions (yawn yawn) began at once.

  Battle was joined by the Communist Youth Federation (European Branch, Section 44) for Sport and Health, with a few routine references to running dogs of capitalism, fascist hyenas, and so-called democrats.

  A conventional, indeed modest, opening move.

  It was countered by the Scandinavian Youth Section of the League for the Care of the Coasts with references to tyrannical enslavers, jailors of free thought, and perverted diverters of the true currents of soaring human development into the muddied channels of repetitive rhetoric.

  In came the Soviet Youth in the Service of the World (Subsection 15) with opportunistic revisionists and scavengers of the riches of the marxist theoretical treasuries.

  Were the delegates from the Socialist Democratic Islamic Federation of North Africa content to remain silent? Deteriorated inheritors of the corrupted revolutionary ethics, and contaminators of the true ideals of the socialistic heritage by self-appointed custodians of dogma – was the least of it.

  And now, what said the Chinese Youth Representatives of Peace, Freedom and True Liberty? You ask, do you? With earnest dedication to exact definition, they offered: the use of superstitious and archaic religious dogmas to enslave the masses, and the empty rhodomontade of bankrupt pawns of the antediluvian economic system.

  Insulters of the absolute and eternal truths enshrined in the Koran!

  Unleashed oppressors! Rancid invective!

  Polluters of the true heritage of the ever-welling mental wealth of mankind’s toiling masses!

  This dazzling exchange was halted by the Norwegian Youth Against Air Pollution, her blond plaits swinging, and her breasts all agog, while she shouted that this was feeble hogwash masquerading under the guise of free and flexible thinking and was no more than she expected from so many male prisoners of their own decaying doctrines.

  But here in came the plenipotentiary from the British Young Women’s Armies for the Preservation of Children, disagreeing with Norway on the grounds that in her opinion, Delegates 1 and 5 had been correct, but Delegates 3 and 7 certainly not, and as for her, she could see only racism among the humanistic hogwash, and prejudice blatantly evident in the fat guzzlers in the styes of post-imperialistic self-indulgence.

  This took us to the first break, and we thronged out, brothers and sisters all, laughing and jesting and exchanging addresses and the names of hotels, and the numbers of hotel rooms, and those who had insulted each other five minutes before were observed to be already cemented in the closest friendship.

  Half an hour later we were at it again.

  I will not weary you with the names and styles of the purveyors of antique insult, but merely transcribe some of my observations, the first one which comes to mind being the absolute necessity of the animal kingdom (what our elders have left us of it) to occasions of higher mentation.

  Running dogs, and hyenas, we have had already, but soon entered fat cats, pigs – to the indignation of the Semites, Arabs and Jews – cooing pigeons of hypocrisy, snakes (slippery and otherwise), poisoned shellfish from the shores of mental pollution, crocodiles, and rhinoceroses charging blindly through the subtleties of the marxist relevation.

  And what of natural phenomena, could we do without them?

  After lunch, which was most ample and amicable, once again bringing much-needed sustenance to certain hungry ones, we returned to the hall, united in beaming fondness for each other, and I noted: dawn dews bringing the refreshing life of Islam to the empty sands of irreligious impiety. Flowers of Our Master’s Thought. (Whose Master? I forget.) Tsunamis of ignorant obscurantism. Sandbags of obstinate misinterpretation. Tainted winds from poisoned minds. Stagnant pools of dogma. (Again, I forget which pools. Marxist? Islamic? Christian? And who cares? They certainly did not!) Waterspouts of confusion. Depleted reservoirs of bankrupt theory. Badlands where nothing grows but the parched thistles of dying creeds. Deserts of internecine strife. Clouds of superficial brotherhood. King Canutes trying to hold back the ever-springing seaswells of Marxist inspiration. Clay feet. Dusty but unbowed heads. Eroded brain cells. Quicksands of … overflowing rivers of … mildewed boughs of …

  And thus we arrived at our evening meal, and it could be observed that some of us were putting back everything we could, our first square meal ever from the look of some of us. And then, the dance! There we all were, male and female, a perfect flowerbed of colourful uniforms, and some girls with a tentative blossom or two in their hair, and even one or two in proper dresses! These had suitors around them in what a disapproving maiden called ‘a sexual assault,’ but it was only one carping voice in a perfect feast of love and harmony. Making my usual enquiries, performing my usual one-man survey, I discovered that for many of these poor deprived souls, this was their first ‘real’ festival, meaning the first time they had encountered others than their own kind, having never met any but socialist revisers, Islamic New Thoughtists, or whatever. These were particularly having the time of their lives, absolutely stunned by the richness of thought possible in this teeming world, ‘oh brave new world that has such people in it!’ and had to be protected from their inexperience by certain watchful souls, myself among them (deputed to this end by George), for while there was nothing against people waking up in beds they had chosen, we were trying to prevent sad awakenings in the dawn in the arms of perfect strangers. And so to bed. (Alone.) But George was up talking away all night as usual.

  Next day a feeling of urgency was making itself felt, for the real meat of the agenda had still to be set before us, but no, the preliminaries were not yet over.

  A military mode prevailed. Target identification obscured by empty rhetoric … automated invective … calibrated marksmanship on the sociological front … keeping enemy positions in the sights of social revolutionary acumen … target identification obscured by faulty weapons of analysis … vigilance on the ever-shifting frontiers of social change … booby traps in the social sector … invincible battalions of dialectic … depth-bombing of our intellectual bastions … fatally low-altitude penetration
of theoretical bases … pointless camouflage of an already collapsed ideological position … demolition of … destruction of … spin-off from … checksights … height-finding … range-finding …

  You think that this must be the end? Well, nearly, we had reached the mid-morning break, with only the rest of the day left for our real purposes.

  But there were still a few mutterings from the dying storm … bourgeois communists … bourgeois socialists … bourgeois democrats … bourgeois technocrats … bourgeois pseudophilosophs … bourgeois pessimists … bourgeois optopolymaths … bourgeois bureaucrats … and bourgeois racists and bourgeois sexists.

  With an hour left to lunch and the hounds of time snapping at our ever-moving heels, we got down to it, and since by then we were all cemented into one soul, we passed without debate resolutions about unity, brotherhood, co-operation and so on. These being the principles which we all serve. And it was after lunch easily and quickly agreed that it was urgently necessary to establish subsidiary armies and camps and organizations for the innumerable young children without homes and parents everywhere. A subcommittee was elected to deal with this, on which I was abashed to find myself, since I had no such expectation. I know that George put Alt up to it, but I have no proof and I don’t mind, at least it is useful. In fact urgently necessary.

  A lot of subcommittees were set up in not very much more time than it is taking me to write this, on a large variety of on the whole useful tasks, such as crash courses into real national and regional differences (note that the tetchy obligations of the hostile rhetoricians were bypassed neatly in this one nonabrasive word— understood with small pleased smiles by everyone present) and on survival, and on the exchanging of sample groups from country to country. And so on.

  The conference ended in a rush with the bands playing very fast, because we had run overtime, a vast number of national anthems, organizational songs, and martial music of every kind, type and style, but thank heavens, the delegates were already streaming out to catch their coaches, many in floods of tears at interrupted friendships and loves, making improbable plans to meet again, kissing, hugging, waving. Never has there been such a scene of – surely? – treason, for these enemies were entwined together like barley-sugar sticks on a rainy day, and they could hardly be dragged apart.

  And so ended the Conference.

  George was pleased. He was in very good spirits on the drive back, singing and playing games. The life and soul of the party one could say, and I do. I suppose he is not so bad, my sainted brother. But what was he doing there at all?

  RACHEL SHERBAN’S JOURNAL

  It is a long time since I wrote down anything. Eighteen months to be exact. We are in Tunis now. A modern block. Unfortunately.I say unfortunately. I felt perfectly at home in that mud rabbit warren. I loved living there. Benjamin was relieved to get out of it. As soon as he walked into this boring flat he was at home. You can see him positively expanding in every breath. Smiling and relieved. I have not heard from Shireen and Naseem. Fatima married Yusuf just after I left. They are in a room next to Shireen’s and Naseem’s rooms. Soon I suppose Fatima will have five children. Who will help Shireen with her babies then? I would help if I were there. I felt they were my family just as much as this family is. I love them. Here today and gone tomorrow. In this block of flats no sleeping on the roof. That was the best thing I ever knew.

  Well, at least here we aren’t called eccentric.

  The reason I am making myself write this is that I don’t know what to think about anything. Particularly about George, I hate all this youth movement thing. I think it is childish. I simply can’t see how any of them takes it seriously. It is obvious to the meanest intelligence why the kids join it. It is because they wouldn’t have any privileges otherwise. I think that is despicable. And George is in it up to his ears. Of course a lot of them have to join something. It is the law.

  The last time I wrote things down I understood what was going on. So I am trying again.

  It was Hasan who said I should last time.

  Where is Hasan? He has completely vanished from our lives. And George left Morocco apparently without a pang. Apparently, but who knows what he feels? I don’t think he has seen Hasan though and he saw him every day in Marrakesh. I asked if he missed Hasan, and he looked bothered, and then he sighed. Because of me, of course, I asked him again and he said, Rachel, you are making things much harder than they need be.

  Since we have been here, George has made another visit to India. He has not talked about it. Olga and Simon haven’t asked. So I didn’t. Benjamin did. But in a sarcastic sort of way. When he is like that George doesn’t answer. Anyway he was invited to go and he wouldn’t. But George is spending time with Benjamin. Often in the evenings they go to cafés. I hardly ever go. I am working for my exams. I am taking geopolitics, geoeconomics, and geohistory.

  I have seen something. I work for exams. Benjamin works for exams. George doesn’t work for exams. What he does is this. Wherever we go he attends college or university or something. Or tutors come. Or he goes off on trips with Father and Mother to places, though hardly ever now, that was when he was younger. Now it is trips with someone like Hasan. But he doesn’t take exams. He knows as much as we do, though. More, by far. What happens is, he is with a class or a tutor for a month or something like that, and then he knows that subject. Mother and Father have never made him sit for exams. Yet we always have to. But they take a lot of trouble to make sure he learns all kinds of things. Mother is off in the South at the epidemic, so I shall ask Father.

  I did. Obviously he had been expecting this question. What he said was, It was felt that George would not need exams. It was felt. I did not notice at once that he had said that. Then I said, Felt by whom? I was being cross and a bit sarcastic. (The way Benjamin is.) Father was quite patient, affectionate but definitely on his guard. Not cagey, though.

  He said, You must have understood the situation, Rachel.

  That checked me. Because of course I believe I do.

  I said, Yes, I think I do. But what I want to know is, who said to you and Mother in the first place that George should be educated like this?

  He said, The first time it was suggested, was in New York.

  Miriam?

  He said, Yes, that’s it. And then there were the others.

  I suddenly knew exactly how it was. It had been exactly like those moments when Hasan talked and I suddenly understood something, though apparently nothing very much had been said. I saw that it had been the same with Father and Mother. Obviously Miriam and then afterwards one of the tutors or someone had said quite casual simple things that rang in their minds, and then slowly they understood.

  Writing that down has made me feel I have to know more about Simon and Olga. How is it they are like this? Why did they understand so easily? Or perhaps it wasn’t easily. But they did understand. I don’t know any other parents, of my friends, I mean, who would understand. Now I am looking back on our education, all of it, all the odd things, the tutors and the special courses and being with Olga and Simon in all kinds of peculiar and sometimes dangerous places, and how they have allowed George to be taught in that way, and I see how different they are. For one thing, and before anything else, they take so much trouble with us. Most parents aren’t bothered.

  I have just been to ask Father. He is working with his papers on the desk in the bedroom. I knocked and went in and he said, Wait a minute Rachel. He finished doing some calculations. Then he said, What is it?

  I sat on the bed where I could see his face with the light on it. I felt quite fierce, but I didn’t know what to ask.

  He pushed his chair right round and faced me. Father is getting old now. His hair is grey and he is always too thin. He is very tired at the moment. I could see that he wished I had not come in just then. The light from the window was on his glasses and I wanted to see his eyes. As I thought that, he took off his glasses. I thought that this was just like him. I suddenly felt very affe
ctionate and I blundered straight in. I said, I want to ask something difficult. Ask away, then. I want to know how it is that you and Mother are the sort of parents you are. Why?

  He did not seem surprised. He saw at once. But he was thinking about what to say. He sat with his legs stretched out, almost to the bed where I was sitting. He swung his glasses back and forth. This always drives Mother wild. It is hard to get glasses at all, let alone repaired.

  He said, Strange as it may seem – This is how he begins saying things he finds difficult. Humorous. Strange as it may seem, this thought is not a new one to either your mother or myself.

  Strange as it may seem, I am not surprised to hear it. I suppose as usual you have been waiting for this moment of truth and you have your words ready.

  Something like that, he said, swinging his glasses.

  Mother will kill you if you break those glasses.

  Sorry. And he put them down. Look, Rachel, I think you understand all this just as well as we do.

  Oh no, I said to him, really furious. I thought he was going to slide out of it. I mean, I said to him, It is impossible. Listen! There you are, you and Mother and three children, Mum and Dad and three dear little kiddies, in New York, and you of course all set to do the very best for them. And then along comes a perfectly ordinary woman called Miriam Rabkin and buys ice cream for all the kiddies and says, Oh no, don’t bother to send George to an ordinary school, just let him pick things up as he can, that is by far the best way, and meanwhile I’ll just trot him off to the Museum of Modern Man. And you, said, But of course Mrs Robkin, what a good idea, we’ll do just that.

  Silence. There we sat. He was smiling and friendly. I was smiling and desperate. I am feeling quite desperate these days. That is the truth.

  Something like that, he said.

  Very well then. In Marrakesh George spent exactly half a term in Mahmoud Banaki’s class. When he came out he was fully versed in the History of the Religions of the Middle East, back to Adam at least if not further. Right?