Читать книгу Bled Dry - Abdelilah Hamdouchi - Страница 8

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The call to prayer rang out at daybreak in Kandahar, the name the residents of Casablanca’s Saada district gave their neighborhood. The muezzin, Driss, had a beautiful and gentle voice. The mosque didn’t have a speaker or a minaret, so designating it a mosque was something of an exaggeration. The “mosque” was really a garage on the ground floor of a building owned by a Moroccan émigré who lived abroad. He had Belgian citizenship and had joined an extremist group to fight the Russians in Afghanistan; then he fought the Americans with the Taliban. After Kabul fell, all the fighters received orders to return home and await instructions regarding future operations. Most Moroccans came back, but those holding European citizenship were told to gather donations and start funding mosques in impoverished and marginalized neighborhoods, like this one in Kandahar. As far as the extremists were concerned, state-registered mosques were off limits for prayer since they were not seen to be built on real piety—not to mention all the informants, lackeys, and spies that infiltrated them.

The owner of this building followed his orders. Each year, he would return from Europe more of a fanatic. He entrusted the mosque to a group of young men primed for radicalizing others and who had nothing more to pin their hopes on than waging jihad.

The Kandahar neighborhood was located in the heart of Casablanca, the nation’s economic capital and home to over four million residents. It was uniquely positioned, set between soaring high-rises on one side and massive elegant villas on the other. It was an ugly stain on the urban fabric, with its dirty walls, draped doorways, and unbearable stench. The haphazard construction, the tin-panel roofs everywhere, and trash strewn all over made it seem like a neighborhood that had been hit by a tornado. A home built to house a single family was partitioned into four, and more closely resembled a rabbit’s den: no windows, no kitchen, and no facilities whatsoever. Families piled together in the quarters at night to sleep, but during the day most activity took place by the entryways, where the clotheslines were strung. True suffering came to the neighborhood in the winter months, when rain turned the unpaved passageways into mud, and the winds carried plastic bags and other light rubbish their way. In the summer, residents had to battle insects, cockroaches, rats, stray dogs, and putrid smells.

The neighborhood was completely deserted and still pitch black at this early hour. Everyone was asleep except those at the mosque, which was located at one end of the neighborhood. It was lit with neon lights and plastic mats covered the floor. It didn’t have any openings except for its wide wooden door, which allowed for some air circulation. All of those praying were neighborhood youth—many wearing Afghani attire, consisting of a short tunic over trousers, and sneakers. Most of them had beards, but had refrained from growing moustaches. After the early-morning prayer everyone dispersed and headed home to go back to bed, except three young friends: Driss the muezzin; Sufyan, who was preparing to travel to Syria to become a martyr; and Ibrahim, Nezha’s brother. They had gotten used to hanging around after prayer under the streetlight at the edge of the neighborhood, where they discussed religion, politics, and jihad. They were all close in age. Sufyan was the eldest, at only twenty-four years old. He planned to travel to Syria via Turkey in a couple of days to carry out his mission.

Sufyan was considered the religious leader of the neighborhood. He was skinny and rigidly built, and sported a thick beard. He was anxious and fidgety. He had been expelled from school, and before turning to religion he had been addicted to all sorts of substances: hash, hallucinogens, and any cheap alcohol. When he got drunk or high he’d take off his shirt to show off his muscles, and parade through the neighborhood brandishing a sword, waving it in everyone’s face. It was impossible for anyone to stop him, and no one in the neighborhood dared call the police, fearing revenge.

Everything changed when Sufyan’s mother passed away. She died in his arms, after suffering from cancer for years without ever even knowing about it. She had never received proper health care, and couldn’t afford to go to the hospital. A nurse in the neighborhood clinic had diagnosed her condition from her symptoms. Sufyan would give her aspirin to ease her pain during the toughest times, when the pain was tearing up her insides. She underwent herbal treatments, and would visit revered herbalists and so-called miracle workers, who claimed to be capable of treating anything. Her health worsened day after day until she began falling in and out of consciousness. Sufyan was by her side until the moment she passed.

Sufyan was so deeply affected by his mother’s death that he left the neighborhood for an entire year. When he returned, he was a completely different young man. He wore Afghani attire, sported a thick, rough beard, and espoused extremist views. He declared that his new mission was the promotion of Islamic virtue and prevention of vice. He had a real impact on the youth of the neighborhood, who came to listen to him, and then began to admire and respect him. He showed how religion could transform the immorality and violence of your past into a life of piety and salvation. No one knew—not even his two best friends, Ibrahim and Driss—where he had spent that year away. When asked, he would look into the distance and offer a calm smile. His gaze would wander as if he were in another world, and he’d just say he was with “the group,” giving no further details.

On the opposite end of the spectrum from Sufyan’s desire for leadership and power was Ibrahim, Nezha’s brother. He wasn’t self-assured: even in the company of his friends he was introverted. He listened far more than he spoke, despite the fact that he had spent half a year at university. His mind wandered whenever Sufyan assailed them with some new religious treatise. He would pretend to be listening and feign interest, meanwhile absorbed in his own conflicted and depressive state. Deep down he was not religious, and didn’t even have much desire to pray, but he feared he would be cut off from the neighborhood gang if he deviated from their views. This close-knit group was hostile to anyone who left—considering him or her an apostate. Ibrahim needed to maintain their acceptance and friendship, so he wouldn’t be kicked out, but he also needed it to distance himself from his sister Nezha’s conduct. He was ready to respond forcefully to any insinuation that she wasn’t proper and chaste. He insisted that his sister—even if she wore makeup and wasn’t veiled—was just an employee at a clothing factory.

Driss, whom Sufyan had chosen to be the muezzin because of his melodious voice, was the youngest of the three, only twenty-one years old. He looked like a burly kid: he had exaggerated features and colorless, aggressive eyes. He claimed to know absolutely everything in spite of his obvious ignorance, and he never hesitated to argue passionately with anyone who disagreed with Sufyan. Driss was expelled from school by sixth grade after failing repeatedly. In his teenage years he followed the same path as Sufyan: he took any cheap drug he could get his hands on, he picked pockets in the market, and his family kicked him out so many times that he was basically homeless. Sufyan took him under his wing after returning from his year with “the group,” and since then, Driss and Sufyan were attached at the hip, like a student clinging to his sheikh.

The three stood there under the lamppost, which went out with the first crack of sunlight, discussing Sufyan’s preparations for his trip to Syria in a couple of days. This had to be kept a complete secret. Before Ibrahim was able to ask Sufyan about the latest arrangements, Sufyan dove into an explanation of Driss’s recent dream, in which he had seen a candle.

“A candle appearing in a dream is a good sign, especially if it is brightly lit,” Sufyan explained, enthusiastically assuming the role of a mufti, and gesticulating wildly. “For a bachelor it means a wife is on the horizon. For a married man, it means children. For someone lost, it means divine guidance. And for the poor, it means wealth. But if the flame is dim, that is evidence of weakness, but it will still lead you to the right path.”

“Sufyan, what book did you read this interpretation in?” Ibrahim asked in a sleepy voice, hoping to show interest even though he already knew the answer.

“The Interpretation of Dreams by Ibn Sirin.”

Sufyan’s reply to Ibrahim was authoritative and gruff, and he immediately turned his attention back to Driss, probing him as if pushing him to confess to something he wasn’t comfortable with. This was the third time in less than a week that Driss had asked for the explanation of the candle dream. Sufyan wondered if he was trying to tell him something. Was there some secret causing this repeated inquiry? Sufyan crossed his arms, a position he adopted only when he was about to give a prognostication.

“Be honest with me, Driss,” he said, tightening his lips and coughing. “You know there is no shame in faith. Are you playing with yourself?”

Ibrahim couldn’t hold back a smirk, but a stern look from Sufyan paralyzed him. Driss turned around, pretending to spit in the corner. He had to answer, but he was always pitiful when talking about anything personal.

“What do you mean, Sufyan?”

“I mean, are you masturbating?”

Driss was clearly frustrated, but he tried to seem calm. It was just as hard for him to tell a lie as it was to confess. Driss remained silent, and then Sufyan started in on his legal opinion, like he was reading straight from a book.

“Masturbation, brothers, is prohibited in the sharia for men and women, the married and unmarried, due to its unhealthy repercussions. If semen is produced, proper cleansing must follow. The best way to rid yourself of this habit is abstinence, and then by seeking marriage, through God’s guidance. We need to understand that it is prohibited and resist these urges, just as we need to constantly remember our own mortality.

“Resist the urge, and stop this altogether,” Sufyan said, laying a hand on Driss’s shoulder.

Ibrahim tried to hide his smirk again. He was concerned that Sufyan was going to begin questioning him, so he beat him to it, by speaking up quickly to change the subject. Ibrahim asked about the war in Iraq and Syria, a topic Sufyan never tired of, and asked how his travel preparations were coming along.

“I received orders to be extra cautious,” Sufyan said, answering him curtly. “There are spies all over the neighborhoods that send fighters to Syria and Iraq.”

Driss spat in the corner. “Death to traitors, spies, and state security!” he proclaimed heatedly.

“I will depart soon, inshallah, with the help of our brothers,” Sufyan said quietly. “When I arrive I’ll get my mission, along with the brothers arriving from all over the Islamic world.”

“I’d love to die as a martyr in Iraq or Syria,” Driss said, looking at Sufyan with admiration.

“Your turns will come soon, inshallah,” Sufyan said, patting Driss on the shoulder and gesturing toward Ibrahim.

“True Islam won’t be achieved,” Sufyan said passionately, “until the Islamic State, with its capital of Baghdad, is established. Islam is an all-encompassing system that governs every single aspect of life, and is intended for everyone. Islam guides the individual, the sword conquers and subjugates, and the tank and warplane kill those who renounce Islam while coercing others to embrace it. Islam is a faith that supersedes other faiths present in this world, and therefore there is no use in considering interfaith dialogue or peacefully coexisting. The mujahideen are striving to eliminate all political systems because each is an embodiment of the false idols the Quran commands us to destroy. Jihad is the only way we can establish God’s kingdom on earth, and martyring yourself by blowing yourself up allows you to reach the highest rungs of heaven. Because of that, I’m looking forward to death and meeting my divine maker. I’m going to cross the borders and join the mujahideen. I won’t be taken prisoner. I’ll enter Syria by God’s will and I’ll transform my body into a bomb that blasts the enemy into pieces! I’ll make their heretical brains—”

He suddenly stopped talking. They’d heard noises, which turned out to be a car parking not too far away. Was it the secret police? After the most recent terrorist attacks that had rocked Casablanca, this neighborhood had been under close observation by the authorities. The three friends froze. The hair on the backs of their necks stood on end as they watched a young woman get out of a Mercedes and slam the door. They made out a gray-haired older man shaking his fist and yelling unintelligibly before racing off.

Nezha raised her head, frozen in place. Her heart was pounding. Standing there with her breasts spilling out of her shirt, wearing a short skirt, and eyes swollen and red, she seemed out of place. She stared at what looked like ghosts under the lamppost. She had not anticipated seeing anyone. She had never returned at this time before, nor in such a scandalous way. Normally when she was out at night she wouldn’t return until the next afternoon, with groceries or other necessities in hand, getting dropped off by a cab right in front of their house—and then disappearing inside in an instant. But right now, she was completely exposed in the early-morning light, and there was no turning back. She had no idea what would come of this. She lowered her head, pulled her dress down—it barely covered half of her thighs anyway—and tried her best not to stagger. She had no choice but to pass within a few steps of them. She smiled in an attempt to drive back the fear that coursed through her, and walked past them. Had she been able to look up, she would have seen her brother Ibrahim. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets and burning with rage. His face was ashen and he was short of breath as sweat began to bead on his forehead. The feelings of shame were more than he could bear. His muscles tensed and all the emotion paralyzed him. Nezha continued walking in her high heels. Sufyan and Driss didn’t stop watching until she disappeared into the house.

Ibrahim remained as still as a statue.

Sufyan cleared his throat and tugged on his thick beard, as if he wanted to pull it out.

“Before we think about jihad in Iraq and Syria,” Sufyan said in a calm voice, “we need to wage jihad in our own neighborhood. This just confirms that we have been right all along. And now you’ve seen, Ibrahim, with your own eyes, the state of your sister. And the nerve of that driver! Dropping her off like that in our neighborhood.”

“If that was my sister, I’d kill her,” said Driss, shaking with rage as he looked at Ibrahim.

Ibrahim said nothing. Despair and depression were written all over his pale face. How he wished for a cigarette right now, despite having quit years ago. His friends’ words felt like nails being hammered into his head, and he couldn’t change the subject this time. He opened his mouth to say something but Sufyan cut him off sternly, as if he had no right to speak.

“How many times did I warn you, Ibrahim, to keep an eye on your sister, to tell her to stop wearing makeup and force her to wear the veil?”

Ibrahim looked up, still unable to believe what had happened.

“Kandahar is one of the most virtuous neighborhoods in the city, and one of its women returns drunk and half naked at daybreak? By God, the All-Powerful, who will rid this neighborhood of its filth?” Sufyan kept repeating himself and pacing, beating his chest feverishly. Then he glared disapprovingly at Ibrahim. “Do you know what a diyouth

is, Ibrahim?”

“A diyouth is someone who sees evil in his own family and doesn’t do anything about it,” Driss jumped in, directing his scorn at Ibrahim.

Ibrahim raged inside. He wanted to respond to Driss, but couldn’t find his voice—it betrayed him. He was overcome by such intense rage that he started imagining himself beating his sister, kicking her, even stabbing her. He couldn’t handle any more blame from his friends, and thought that if he stuck around he might get in a fight with them. He said his goodbyes, lowered his head, and headed home. He walked with determination, ready to do something serious.

Ibrahim opened the door and gave a quick look toward his sister’s room, which appeared to be quiet and pitch black. He felt that something had happened before he arrived. His mother was sleeping, or pretending to be asleep, in her usual corner of the basement-level apartment. The only real room in the house was Nezha’s room, since the rest of the place more closely resembled a cellar: a few square feet without any windows or openings whatsoever. His mother, Ruqiya, repositioned herself, groaning painfully, as she battled intense pain. She was a worn-out soul and was extremely skinny. She looked like someone who had borne the brunt of an incredibly difficult life. Her husband’s passing four years ago coincided with the onset of kidney problems that flared up with the slightest aggravation. Everyone walked on eggshells around her, and luckily she had Nezha and Ibrahim to take care of her. Ibrahim would kiss her forehead and hand after waking, and before sleeping. He would jump to get her what she needed, sometimes before she even asked.