Another dusk. Munia and Rasheed disappear with empty bottles and one of the clay pots. There are some logs stacked behind one of the huts and Asrar builds a fire. She finds an abandoned aluminium pot in the kitchen hut, half fills it with water and adds the meat she’s carried in the wrapped leaves. Greg stands around awkwardly, then picks up the rifle, decides to see if he can’t shoot something else for the pot.
When he returns empty-handed three-quarters of an hour later, he’s met by a scene of relative domestic harmony. The children have returned with more firewood, the pot and bottles filled with water, new stores of roots and berries. Asrar is tending the pot and, to Greg’s surprise, he finds her deep in conversation with an elderly man dressed in white robes, a fez-type cap failing to conceal his smoky grey hair. When the man sees Greg, he stands up and shakes his hand solemnly, then gives enough of a smile to reveal the toothless gaps in his mouth.
Hello, says Greg. He points at himself. Greg.
Asrar says something to the old man, who nods.
Husham, he answers, tapping his own chest.
Greg’s feet ache and he tries to remove his shoes but one of the laces is so badly knotted he cannot undo it. He decides to cut it but remembers that Asrar has not returned his penknife since she borrowed it to gut the animals Rasheed had shot. He’s too exhausted to attempt to ask for it back, too tired even to try and pull off the shoe as it is. Rasheed is calling him over to the backpack and the need to relieve his sore feet passes.
Meanwhile, Husham has been explaining the situation to his niece. Earlier in the week, fearing an attack, Husham instructed two of his wives to pack up their belongings, the children, the goats, and set off on the three-day walk to the nearest displaced persons’ camp. The third wife, the eldest, had been visiting her sister, who had just had a baby in a village some sixty kilometres away. He has stayed behind, waiting for her return and had been out collecting some grain from a secret store they kept outside the village when Greg and the others had arrived. He’s caught up with Asrar’s tragic news, and now sits away from the fire contemplating the best course of action while Asrar busies herself preparing a rudimentary porridge from the grain. Munia stirs the pot of stew and Greg shows Rasheed his compass, explaining with much gesticulation how it works. After they have eaten, as the final minutes of the day fade into darkness, Husham sits down next to Asrar.
It’s not safe here now, he says
Yes, Uncle.
We need to follow the family to the camp.
You are right, Uncle
We will leave at sunrise. We’ll take the rest of the porridge. We can hunt on the way with the white man’s gun.
Yes, Uncle.
Later, when the fire has died down and he tires of his conversation with his niece, Husham gets up and gestures for Greg to follow him. He shows Greg into one of the huts. There’s a rush mat laid out on the floor. Greg lies down, wonders how he could possibly get to sleep on such stony ground, then promptly falls into a deep slumber.
***
In his dream, he’s under attack from Pol Pot and his bandits. They’re armed with machetes, coming at him in waves, and he’s trying to run away, only he can’t move at any speed, it’s like he’s wading through dough and before he knows it, they’re upon him, a vicious band of murdering butchers, and he’s flailing, calling for help, but his voice is drowned out by their piercing screams and...
...and he comes around and from nightmare to reality, he’s aware in an instant that they are being attacked, that the screaming is real, that it’s coming from Asrar, away in her own hut, that two or three men are inside his dwelling, holding him down while they truss him up in ropes, bundle him outside, throw him down by the fire.
Aman 2
Time here stretches like a languid cat, the facade of idleness concealing the icy menace beneath. Each day is a mirror-image of its predecessor, the same dull routine gradually chipping away at our hopes. A single event – a fight between detainees, an argument with a guard, a letter from a solicitor – can serve to differentiate between one day and the next. Your memory clouds, stupefied by the tedium, so that when a fellow inmate refers to a recent incident, you may recall the event but cannot remember whether it took place the previous day, or week or even month.
My darling, I miss you.
I watch the effects of time on those around me, observe each individual’s struggle to survive, the slow decline into lunacy for some, the ability of others to cling on to their sanity. I try and calculate the techniques employed by those who are able to endure, work out which tactics ensure success.
But my research is fruitless. I cannot see any consistency in distinguishing between he who sinks and he who swims in this swamp. Some drown in their own despondency, unable to accept the hopelessness of their situation, yet for others it is only through a deliberate rejection of expectation that they can tolerate their predicament. For them it is anticipation that is too painful to bear.
And there are other contradictions. For some, it is anger – a rage against what life has thrown at them – that fuels their survival and gives them the strength to keep going day after day. Life, for them, is a personal war of attrition, so to allow themselves to become ground down is to admit defeat. For others, this anger is a destructive acid that eats away at their inner strength and poisons their mind.
And our practical approach to filling our days is another source of interest to me. There are those who retain their sanity through organised programmes designed to keep the mind busy and stimulated. They come together with like-minded individuals, arrange courses of instruction. There is Anicet, the Congolese teacher, giving lessons on Political Science, Tendai from Zimbabwe running a creative writing course, Feilong offering T’ai Chi.
And then there are the others who hang on to their mental health by deliberately deadening the mind, who see survival through a stultified existence. They train themselves to sleep for most of the day, kill what time remains in front of the TV on a diet of soap operas and reality shows. A particular favourite is Big Brother, and I cannot help but enjoy the irony of inmate watching inmate and wonder what pleasure the compulsory detainees can obtain from observing the voluntarily confined.
And me?
My strategy is simple. The bigger picture – my future, your whereabouts – is a daunting, unwelcoming burden, something to brush over. To focus on this is to invite the pain of despair into my already miserable existence. So I employ a two-fold plan of action.
Firstly, like the Anicets and Tendais of this institution, I concentrate on distracting my mind and filling my hours with mental stimulation. My chosen subjects are English and Islam, my textbook the American donation Qur’an, and my fellow student and mental sparring partner is my cell mate, Kalil. I confess that I approach my religious studies with some ignorance – your conversion to Islam was done more to satisfy my family than meet my own religious demands. I have always accepted my religion as a way of life, a characteristic of the community I grew up in, but never paid much attention to the details. Having always adhered to my father’s gentle, liberal interpretation of Islam, I fancy myself as an open-minded, critical student. We shall see.
Secondly, I have decided to seek solace and distraction in the details of my existence here and of those of my fellow detainees. After my first interview with the legal aid solicitor, she asked me whether there was anything I needed, and I asked for a pen and some notebooks. She kindly brought them for me on her next visit and I am using them to record what you are now reading. Incarcerated in this prison, marginalised and forgotten by those whose lives are safe and secure, we have lost our status as human beings. We have become shadows and ghouls. In filling the notebooks with our details, I seek to return to us something of our lost stature.
Otherwise I am in good health. I continue to reduce my food intake – plain rice or bread, the occasional apple or banana, though fruit is only r
arely available here. I have reacted against the milk in my tea – it bloats my stomach – so now drink it black with three or four spoonfuls of sugar. I believe it is this strong brew above all which sustains me.
***
Mamadu comes to see me today. He is Liberian, fled to Ivory Coast to escape the slaughter in his own country. Paid a smuggler to organise a flight to Lebanon. From there moved to Syria, then a series of long lorry rides to the UK via, among other countries, Slovakia and Germany. He tells me that his friend Joachim, an Angolan from Cabinda, has been admitted to the medical unit of the detention centre, having been found with slashed wrists early this morning. Joachim travelled from Germany with Mamadu and has been told he will be deported back there as a safe third country. His mutilation is an attempt to prevent the deportation. Mamadu says his condition is stable. It is lucky he did not cut himself at the weekend as they close the centre’s clinic from Friday afternoon to Monday morning, so self-harm during those hours is frowned upon.
***
I wake before dawn, rouse my cellmate, Kalil. We carry out our ablutions in silence, then side by side in brotherly union we kneel together in prayer.
While we wait to be called for our morning meal, let me draw you a picture of my place of abode. The centre is divided into three sections, one for administration, one for the prison officers and one for the detainees. The inmates’ accommodation is itself divided into three blocks named blue, red and yellow, though underneath the garish primary colours, the buildings are all dour grey breezeblock.
The routine here is unchanging: breakfast from 7.30 to 9.30, lunch between 12.00 and 1.30, dinner between 5.00 and 6.30. Food is poor quality, poorly prepared. Like everything about this place, the menu is designed to make us feel ill at ease and to persuade us that a departure from this country would be desirable. To drive us away.
The facilities are limited: a poorly-stocked and badly-neglected library with two computers, neither of which is connected to the internet. There are four PC games featuring runaway rabbits, car chases and snooker tournaments. The library is open most of the day, as are the three TV rooms, though channels are censored and restricted to sports, music videos and reality TV. The sports hall features a ping pong table and a volleyball net as well as what is grandly called a mini gym – a running machine and set of weights. Outside there is a courtyard used for listless football kickabouts. Maintenance and upkeep are minimal. The few cleaning staff who are employed seem to be issued with nothing more than a mop and bucket. No bleach is employed in the mopping process, no disinfectant used for lavatories, sinks and showers. When toilets leak or block, weeks pass before repairs are carried out. Their stench is a permanent feature of our existence.
The medical facilities are negligible, a token practitioner offering only two items on his menu, paracetamol or antidepressants.
They craft our pain with one hand, relieve it with the other.
***
Yesterday a visit from a Red Cross representative. She is tasked with tracing missing relatives and goes around systematically checking whether any detainee would like her to instigate a search. I am in a quandary. I am desperate to use this service but am unsure what to reveal of my story. The name I am using here is the one indicated on the passport I bought in Libya. To admit to the falsity of my identity would, I feel, be to lose all credibility in the eyes of the authorities. Yet I cannot lose the opportunity to find you, my love, so I obtain an interview with the woman, give her your name, that of the children, tell her you are a cousin, last surviving member of my extended family. I weave a story, half true, to provide a context to our separation. She tells me she will contact me within a fortnight with any news. The feelings of anticipation as I return to my cell are at once exhilarating and terrifying. A sleepless night follows.
***
I continue with my Islamic schooling. I remember how studious you were, how seriously you took your responsibility to transform yourself from kafir to Muslim, poring over each Surah, stumbling over the Ayat, then, once you had memorised the Qur’an, attempting to master the Hadith. Today Kalil and I work our way through the second Surah, Al Baqarah. We read in 2:39:
...those who reject Faith And belie Our Signs They shall be Companions of the Fire; They shall abide therein.
And then, thinking of you, we reach 2:62 and the passage offering salvation for those unbelievers that convert to Islam.
As we talk I notice a streak of impatience in Kalil’s attitude.
For him the world is black and white and Islam offers a set of instructions which, if stuck to rigidly, will earn you the prize you seek. I argue that it is less the formalities of religion that count, and more one’s faith. He is fixed on the ordinances of Islam, while I focus on attitudes: compassion, charity, patience, integrity and tolerance.
We work our way through the rest of the Surah, read about the torments and humiliation awaiting those who reject Allah. Again, my thoughts turn to you, my flower. I ask myself whether there was any fundamental difference between you as Christian or you as Muslim. Did you change when you converted? Did you become a better person? If you ever rejected your new-found faith, how evil would you become?
We take a break from our studies. Kalil produces an orange, peels it and shares out the segments. As we chew on the sweet-tart fruit, wiping our sticky hands on our sleeves, Kalil tells me that his interest in Islam is also fairly recent, that it has grown while in detention through contact with so many believing detainees.
He tells me of a Somali he met in the medical ward at Dungavel Asylum Prison in Scotland, a young man in his twenties who had broken his spine trying to escape but whose spirit was sustained through his faith. While we talk we are joined by two more detainees, Howar and Zaki. We swap stories of those we have met in detention, some who have shown great resilience, others who have faltered. Zaki tells of a Kenyan he knew in HMP Rochester who endured fifteen months of misery before setting himself on fire. Howar describes the mental decline of an Egyptian he shared a cell with in Great Dunmow, a placid and sweet-natured man who was discovered hanged from the roof early one morning.
When our visitors leave, we return to our studies. The hints of Kalil’s inner anger have grown since our talk of our suffering colleagues, and, back in the second Surah, Kalil’s eyes fall straight on 2:190:
Fight in the cause of Allah
Those who fight you.
There you are, he says excitedly. They treat us like dogs and we sit around like sheep, not knowing what to do. The answer is here, plain to see.
I shake my head. I ask him whether he really believes that we are all here because our religion has been targeted. He shrugs, says nothing. We read on and when we have finished the next Ayah, I point out that the words do not advocate violence except in self-defence.
But fight them not
At the Sacred Mosque,
Unless they first
Fight you there;
And even when you are fighting in self-defence, your response should be in moderation, I continue. That Ayah you have just quoted. You only read the first half. Look at the last two lines.
But do not transgress limits; For Allah loveth not transgressors
Yes, he says. But read on. Look at 2:194:
If then anyone transgresses The prohibition against you, Transgress ye likewise Against him.
Kalil’s eyes are bright, his voice animated. Again, I shake my head.
Finish the Ayah, I say, pointing with my finger at the next three lines.
But fear Allah, and know That Allah is with those Who restrain themselves.
Yes, but... he starts to argue. I interrupt him. Read on. Look at 2:195:
And make not your own hands Contribute to your destruction; But do good, For Allah loveth those Who do good.
Sure, he says. But there is more. Keep going. I read the next Ayah.
Fighting i
s prescribed Upon you, and ye dislike it. But it is possible That ye dislike a thing Which is good for you And that ye love a thing Which is bad for you But Allah knoweth And ye know not.
OK, I say. So all that means is that there may be some situations where, out of self-defence, you may be forced to fight, whether you like it or not.
Maybe we should stop waiting to be attacked, he says.
Maybe it is time to go on the offensive. He quotes 2:244, the one about fighting in the cause of Allah.
You are crazy, I say, slapping him on the shoulder. Allah advocates tolerance between peoples, not war. 2:256, I quote back:
Let there be no compulsion In religion.
Kalil has grown silent. He stares hard at me, his eyes cold and penetrating. I make one last effort. Allah is no bloodthirsty tyrant, my friend, I say with an attempt at levity. Remember the earlier Ayah:
For Allah is to all people Most surely full of kindness, Most merciful.
He looks at me for a few moments longer, then nods and smiles. Sure, he says. Of course. And with that, our study period comes to an end.
***
I continue to carry out the Salah dutifully, but confess that sometimes when I pray I have a feeling that no one is listening to me. I must rid myself of these negative thoughts.
Every day I wake up in anticipation of a visit from the Red Cross worker. Three weeks have passed, maybe a month. No news. Hope trickles away like sand through my fingers. I grow weaker. My memory is becoming hazy. I sometimes wonder whether my past life was just a dream, a delusion.
***
Days turn to weeks. We live in limbo, our lives frozen in time and space. My studies provide the only distraction. Little by little I commit the Qur’an to memory.
***
Divinity Road Page 10
