Adama

1

Through the window of the train from Dammam the buildings of Riyadh began to appear, vague and indistinct like a dream on a summer afternoon. The heat haze of that August day mingled with sandstorms whipped up by the breath of genies from the al-Dahna desert, giving Riyadh the appearance of a talisman from Scheherazade’s tales, or a demon at the command of King Solomon or Sayf bin Dhi Yazn, the fabled ruler of ancient Yemen: a demon of the kind that suddenly appears, only to slip away again; an amulet that signifies much and yet nothing at all; an island from the tale of Sindbad and the pool of the enchanted king.

The noise grew louder and the hustle and bustle of the passengers more frantic as they gathered themselves and their belongings together in readiness to disembark. This frenzied race might have led an observer to think every minute mattered to these people, whereas to most of them their entire lives meant nothing at all. Seven tedious hours crossing the desert between Dammam and Riyadh in a hot tin can had worked them up, and they were now made more restless by the anticipation of imminent deliverance from the magic bottle.

A relentless commotion ensued, here and there people laughing and shouting. One man yelled at his wife while searching for their children for the first time since boarding the train; another arranged his possessions anxiously; women began straightening themselves out, making sure wraps and veils were in place; others went digging for their handbags. Everyone was engrossed in activity but for a young man who remained in his seat, staring out the window through the dust rising from the exhalations of the desert genies. His gaze panned blankly over the view, as though he had no concerns; but despite this calm outward appearance, his heart was churning.

He was a slim, clean-shaven eighteen-year-old boy of average height, with skin the colour of pale wheat. His mouth was small and thin, his nose straight and his forehead broad. He had long, straight, jet-black hair which his skullcap and headdress could not completely conceal. From behind a pair of glasses his large, long-lashed eyes observed everything, but took no interest in anything in particular. These were the outward characteristics of a certain individual who had one day emerged into the world and been given the name of Hisham Ibrahim al-Abir.

2

As the train approached Riyadh Station, passengers began to crowd the doors. Hisham remained seated, roaming free in his imagination. He had just finished secondary school and received his diploma, with results that were neither among the lowest nor particularly outstanding – though by all accounts he was highly intelligent, and well-read despite his youth. His only passion had ever been reading anything and everything he could get hold of. Hisham excelled throughout primary and middle school, and had been promoted from third to fourth form in recognition of his ability. This was a source of pride to his parents, especially his father, who could talk of nothing but his only son and how clever he was, a habit that would infuriate certain acquaintances whose sons were not on the same level. Yet everyone recognised Hisham’s ability and acknowledged the brilliant future that undoubtedly awaited him.

When he had just started secondary school, Hisham’s interest was drawn to politics and philosophy after a friend of his father gave him a copy of On the Nature of Tyranny, by the 19th-century Arab nationalist Abd al-Rahman al-Kawakibi. That led directly to late nights reading Marxist, nationalist and existentialist texts, as well as works from other schools of philosophical and political thought. Local libraries were his suppliers, but Hisham soon learned to acquire books by other means when official censorship kept them from the shelves.

His mother often opened his bedroom door late at night to see her son buried in books; she would break into a loving smile, believing him to be engaged in earnest revision from his textbooks. ‘That’s enough reading, son,’ she would tell him. ‘Get some rest.’ Hisham, too, would smile with undiluted affection and reply, ‘In a bit, Mother – just a few more pages.’ His mother would smile again and close the door behind her as she said a prayer for him. Before long, however, she would return with a glass of hot milk and place it on the little desk, insisting once more that he rest. ‘Drink this milk and you’ll begin to drop off in no time,’ she would say. He would smile as though giving in and answer, ‘How could I say no when you tell me to do something?’ Hisham’s mother would insist on staying until he drank the milk. He would submit, drinking it quickly, and she would leave convinced that he would soon be asleep. But Hisham inevitably continued reading, say, The Story of Philosophy, dazzled by the profusion of ideas and the men who dreamed them up. Only when the muezzin issued the call to the dawn prayer would he come round, roused from his thoughts.

3

The train drew into the station, spurring on the jostling and clamour of the passengers. The smell of human bodies packed together spread through the air and mixed with that fine dust found only in Riyadh; the children’s screaming rose and with it the shouting of the men and the indignant huffing of the women at all the pushing and shoving that respected neither veils nor the sanctity of people’s bodies. And still Hisham seemed far removed from his surroundings.

In secondary school he’d neglected his studies completely. Had it not been for the fear of wounding his father’s pride and his mother’s heart he would not have studied at all, but devoted himself exclusively to the ongoing study of forbidden texts. Instead, he would launch himself into revision a month or two before the end-of-year exams and memorise whole sections of textbooks, enabling him to scrape by. He did not, therefore, pass with distinction as he had used to do, but it was enough to protect the feelings of his parents and save face in front of them and others.

His parents were puzzled by the deterioration of their son’s academic achievement, despite his constant reading and what seemed to them diligent studying. Deep down, their surprise was tinged with a kind of pain, but at any rate things were better than outright failure and the despair and embarrassment that would have gone with it. On one occasion, Hisham’s father tried to discuss the reasons for the drop in performance, and Hisham responded with feeble excuses and justifications. His father was aware of the weakness of the arguments, and Hisham realised this; but his father reluctantly kept quiet, putting this state of affairs down to the changes that accompany the transition from childhood to adolescence. Seeing no alternative, he prayed to God to grant his only son success and guidance.

In secondary school Hisham especially loved history, and would hang on every word of the young history teacher newly returned from America, Rashid al-Khattar, with all the fervour and energy of a boy eager for action. Hisham remembered this teacher, who had reciprocated his affection, for years afterwards, although he had only remained at the school for one academic year before settling in one of the Gulf emirates. The greatest shock of Hisham’s life came when he learned that this teacher had committed suicide in the wake of the Israeli forces’ entry into Beirut in 1982. This event came fourteen years after they had last met, by which time Rashid had become an ambassador in Europe for his adopted country.

Hisham loved lessons about the Industrial Revolution, the French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars, the clash of ideas in Europe and their influence on the Arab world following the French campaign in Egypt and its effect on intellectual and political life. He loved political and ideological conflicts in general; the official textbook versions were not enough for him, and he took to searching everywhere for other books on these subjects to the point where he became a well-known figure in Dammam’s few libraries. Mr al-Khattar would also let him have some of his many books on political and intellectual movements. Soon the local libraries were unable to satisfy Hisham’s passion, and from every holiday with his parents to neighbouring Jordan, Syria or Lebanon he would bring back books that had been banned in his own country, and which subsequently became his principal source of knowledge. In those days no one had heard of London, Paris or New York; few people had even been to Cairo, which to them was more of a dream than a geographical location, a fantasy like the Baghdad of Haroun al-Rashid or the Damascus of the Umayyad caliph Abd al-Malik. Cairo was the capital of the Arabs then, and an object of longing for intellectuals, writers, politicians and society itself.

What upset Hisham, upon reflection, was the painful sense of having deceived his parents during those holidays. He would spend all his pocket money on books that were unavailable in his own country, especially the books of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara, Regis Debray and Frantz Fanon, as well as the works of Marx, Engels, Plekhanov, Lenin, Trotsky and Stalin, which formed his main intellectual references. What really shook him up were the works of Guevara; they stirred something inside him. These books, as well as literary works and classic world fiction, were sold cheaply in Amman, Damascus and Beirut, on the pavements and on wagons like vegetable carts. During his travels and thereafter, he would devour classic Russian novels. He read Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and Resurrection, Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and The Karamazov Brothers and Quiet Flows the Don by Mikhail Sholokhov. Maxim Gorky’s novel Mother aroused intense, mixed emotions in him from anger to ardour, sorrow to sympathy and callousness to tenderness, all of which led him to re-read it several times. Frequently, he wept with Uncle Tom in his cabin; lived with Wang Lang and his wife in The Good Earth and pitied Madame Bovary as deeply as he loathed Scarlett O’Hara. He would steal moments to read Alberto Moravia, Honoré Balzac and Emile Zola, not always out of love for the works in and of themselves, but to find a sex scene here or the description of a torrid affair there, picturing himself in his daydreams as the hero of these relationships. The fascinating depictions of social life in these books did not much interest him: he regarded Russian literature as unsurpassed in this area. He also read some of Dickens’s novels and particularly enjoyed A Tale of Two Cities which, alongside Mother, he considered to be the finest work of fiction ever written.

Hisham would spend generous amounts of money, given to him by his parents, on books like these. When the time came to return to Dammam he would gather them together, allowing his parents the impression that he needed them for his studies if he were to pass with distinction. With love and admiration they would help him to pack, unaware of the explosive ideas contained in the books. Hisham was glad, but felt just as strongly that his behaviour was despicable: by any standards he was a liar and a cheat. This painful sensation only grew more acute when he reflected that he was doing this to the people who were dearest to him. But sometimes he would attempt to convince himself that what he was doing was neither lying nor cheating; after all, these books were made up of ideas, culture and learning, even if the subjects were not covered in the school textbooks that were in any case incapable of satisfying his thirst for knowledge.

4

His reading pushed him out into a wide world of excitement and passion, great open spaces where the entire globe became an object of interest for him without limits or restrictions. He became filled with a new spirit, eager to transform this world into an earthly paradise where everyone would live free from tyranny and prejudice, in complete fairness, equality and justice. The whole planet had become his new homeland, while his city was now a mere speck in the sea and his country simply one part of the great mass of mankind to which every true human being had to belong.

Hisham, formerly known to all but a small group of friends as a quiet and solitary boy, turned into an ardent and impetuous young man. He became a regular participant in the heated political and ideological student debates at school, now on one side and then on another, without ever becoming a card-carrying member of any party. The school itself was a microcosm of the ideological currents then sweeping the Arab world: Marxists and Baathists, Arab Nationalists and Nasserites, all openly arguing and debating. A Baathist pupil would pass another known to be a Communist and shout Red! at him, and the other would shout back Aflaq! as though they were insulting each other.1

Looking back, Hisham recalled an argument with his Religious Studies teacher about Darwin’s theory of evolution. The teacher had cursed it as blasphemous and atheistic, calling Darwin a Jew and part of the Jewish conspiracy against all Muslims. Hisham told the teacher that Darwin’s theory was the product of science, and that science was master of the age whether one liked it or not; as far as the origins of man and other species were concerned, Darwin might or might not be right, but evolution was a self-evident reality. In any case, he’d continued, Darwin was not Jewish, either on his father’s or mother’s side. From that day on the Religious Studies teacher adopted a hostile attitude towards him, thereafter referring to him as ‘the sinner’. But it did not matter to Hisham at all, now that he had found a new world of energy and passion.

After the argument with his Religious Studies teacher Hisham became a school celebrity, and more so when the headmaster summoned him to his office one day and threatened to report him to the authorities for apostasy unless he immediately retracted what he had said. The other pupils began to take an interest in him, as well as some of the left-wing teachers; in a school where every pupil had to belong to one faction or another, every group wanted him to join their side in political and ideological disputes.

Hisham began writing feverishly for the bulletins displayed on the school walls: red-hot critiques calling for every radical solution imaginable. The headmaster summoned him again after two of Hisham’s articles appeared in both Communist- and Baathist-run bulletins. (Everyone knew which was which, though no one ever officially claimed affiliation.) The first article was about the Setback of June 1967,2 its causes and the role played in the war by the Western powers alongside Israel in destroying the progressive forces in the region; it argued that the aim of the war had been to put an end to any attempt by the Arab nation at revival. The second article condemned the English teachers at the school and their barbaric behaviour, despite the fact that they had come, so they said, to teach culture and civilisation. Back at the office, Hisham watched as the headmaster, without first asking anything, opened his desk drawer, took out a collection of papers and threw them on the desk in front of him.

These pamphlets were distributed around the school today, he said, attempting to make his tone both calm and stern at the same time. They call for opposition to the state, and they’re signed ‘The Democratic Front’. The headmaster remained silent for a moment as he watched Hisham to see the effect this news had on him. They’re written in a similar style to your articles in the wall bulletins. When he found that Hisham kept too quiet, apparently indifferent, the headmaster added, It looks as though you’ve had a hand in this.

A shiver of fear passed through Hisham and his stomach clenched painfully. He wanted to say something in self-defence, but the headmaster leaped in first.

Not one word, he said, raising his voice, I don’t want an answer. This is the second time I’ve summoned you here, and I swear by Almighty God that if you don’t stop this suspicious activity of yours I’ll report you, not just for apostasy, but for belonging to clandestine organisations as well.

Hisham tried to speak, but the headmaster brought the meeting to an end: Not one word, I said. Go on, get out of my sight.

Hisham stood up, feeling weak as though drained of blood, his face and hands in a cold sweat. He was hardly able to believe he had got off so lightly, even though he had no connection with the things the headmaster had accused him of. How many times had he heard that in cases like these a mere accusation was considered proof of guilt, so there was no need for evidence? Damn the lot of you, he heard the headmaster muttering as he was leaving the room. You want to get us into trouble ...

On his way out Hisham almost bumped into the school monitor, Rashid Abd al-Jabbar, who had been in the headmaster’s office all along without Hisham’s having been aware of him. Rashid used to mix with the pupils a lot and was closer to them in appearance than he was to the teachers and the other people who worked at the school. He was a young man, no more than twenty-two years old, short in stature and thin to the point of skinniness, with a dark brown complexion and small, piercing eyes. His mouth was very small, with thin, dark lips and little, regular teeth that were slightly stained from smoking. He had a thick, jet-black moustache and a small, snub nose; his features earned him the nickname ‘Goat-Face’ amongst the pupils.

The monitor left the office with Hisham, a hand on his shoulder, and gave him words of encouragement. Don’t worry about what the headmaster says ... He’s a good person, despite everything. If he really wanted to do you any harm he could, without summoning you to his office or threatening you. Anyway, don’t let his threats get to you. You’re a great guy and you’ve got a good future ahead of you. Just keep going. ‘Keep on going and you’ll get there in the end’, as the saying goes. With this Rashid gave him a long look, smiling enigmatically.

Hisham did not pay much attention to what the monitor said, preoccupied as he was with the image of his mother and father in his mind’s eye from the moment the headmaster had thrown the pamphlets in his face. He was filled with apprehension: if anything happened to him, how would his parents cope? He made up his mind to stop all his political activity and revert to his old solitary ways. These anxieties took hold of him on the way back to the classroom, and as he resumed his place he was completely unaware of a word uttered around him or the glances of the other pupils.

.

________________

1. The Baath Party was founded in Syria in 1947 by Michel Aflaq (1910–89), a Syrian writer and schoolteacher; it advocated a form of socialist, pan-Arab revolution, and eventually attained power in Syria and Iraq.

2. The Setback (al-Naksa) refers to Israel’s victory in the Six-Day War of June 1967; it is both related to and distinguished from the Catastrophe (al-Nakba), an Arab term for the creation of the state of Israel in 1948.

5

Hisham stopped writing for the wall bulletins, which became less active and less political after the episode of the pamphlets and the introduction of strict censorship by the headmaster’s office. Instead he decided it was enough to have debates with his classmates, especially those who took part in the history society set up and supervised by Rashid al-Khattar, the history teacher. The rest of his time he spent either reading or in the company of his childhood friends, Adnan al-Ali and Abd al-Karim al-Duhaimani. The three of them used to meet up every afternoon with several other friends at Abd al-Karim’s house, drink his mother’s mint tea and talk or play cards until just before sunset or later. Hisham’s whole world consisted of reading and friendships, especially with these two.

On Fridays, or whenever they felt the need to get away, they would make quick trips to the nearby beach or the desert by the Dhahran road, with its soft sands and gentle breeze in late autumn and early winter, which on long summer days changed into a searing blast of steam. Even in summer they would go, lighting a fire using the dry palm leaves they found lying about and sitting around it chatting until after sunset. They spoke about ideas, politics and art – Adnan had a remarkable gift for drawing. But what they liked best was to talk about sex and girls; occasionally they would get hold of some contraband pornographic stories and one of them would read aloud while the others listened attentively, ears pricked up, eyes gleaming, limbs tense and imagination in keen activity.

Sometimes the boys would bring a metal pot and a jug to make black tea; it was almost undrinkable, but they would knock it back all the same. They might also cook kabsa stew, each of them bringing whatever ingredients he could from home. The only thing it had in common with real kabsa was its name: it was always either too salty or not salty enough, the rice undercooked or overcooked and the meat never properly done, when indeed they had any at all. But none of that mattered: they would wolf it all down with relish, licking their fingers noisily once finished and laughing together as they cleaned their hands by rubbing them in the sand. Then they would collect their things and head home, usually walking or, if pressed for time, taking a taxi for a quarter of a riyal each. (This they would do reluctantly, as it meant spending money and having to deny themselves something else they could have bought. Later, the transport problem was solved when Abd al-Aziz and two other ‘gang’ regulars, Saud and Salim, were able to convince their parents to buy them bicycles.)

6

The day soon arrived that would prove to be a turning point in Hisham’s life. During the break, he was leaning against a wall on the second floor of the school overlooking the main courtyard, waiting for Adnan so they could eat together as usual. Mansur Abd al-Ghani, one of his classmates and also a member of the history society, approached him. Hisham had had no special affinity for this boy since meeting him for the first time at one of the society sessions and discussing Marxism. Later, Mansur would behave amicably towards him, trying to strike up some kind of relationship. Even then Hisham had felt an aversion to him. Mansur was generally mild-mannered, despite his stern features and somewhat lordly gait, which gave an impression of arrogance and superiority. He appeared over-confident, fixing anyone who looked at him with a piercing gaze. Mansur was undeniably good-looking, despite the hardness in his features, and was tall and athletic. He did not wear the skullcap and headdress; in fact, he did not even wear the traditional thob robes, preferring a shirt and trousers instead.

He approached Hisham, a broad smile playing on his lips and revealing large, white teeth. Mansur would not keep his smile up for long, however.

Morning, Hisham.

Morning, Hisham answered curtly, trying to convey that he had no desire for conversation.

I hope I’m not disturbing you?

Not remotely, but I’m waiting for a friend. Sorry.

Hisham moved away in