The Kindness of Enemies: A Novel by Leila Aboulela Page B

Russians, and was fluent in Arabic. Our resistance is stubborn, Shamil had dictated, but we are obliged, in winter, to send our wives and children far away, to seek safety in the forests where they have nothing, no food, no refuge against the severe cold. Yet we are resigned. It is Allah’s will. He ordained that we should suffer to defend our land. But England must know of this … We beseech you, we urge you, O Queen to bring us aid.
    ‘No, I have not received a reply.’ Shamil sounded more subdued.
    ‘Lord Palmerston was working on our side. His opposition to Russia is deep but he is no longer foreign secretary. As home secretary, his influence is reduced.’
    ‘I fear that the right time has passed,’ said Shamil. ‘That all of Britain’s efforts have sunk into the Crimea.’
    Sheikh Jamal el-Din was quiet. He patted his hand on his knees and his head sank deeper into his chest. At first the prayers he was saying were inaudible, but Shamil caught the recitation of the beautiful names of Allah.
    When Jamal el-Din finally spoke, he said, ‘I am filled with foreboding about this war in the Crimea. There will be much bloodshed and misery.’
    This was a point of disagreement between them; Jamal el-Din the more peaceful of the two, the more eager to reconcile, negotiate and forgive.
    Shamil repeated what he always said in these situations. ‘Wars are never won with kindness. If men respected compassion I would have been the first to grant it. But even our own warriors are only in awe of power.’ Nothing was more damaging than the weak Muslims who defected to Russia, who gladly or by force marched with the tsar’s troops. Or they became spies, hypocritically claiming they were on Shamil’s side and then reporting his secrets to the enemy. Or else they deliberately misled him so that he would walk into an ambush or launch an attack based on misinformation. He must always be on his guard, he must take nothing at face value. He must distrust.
    ‘The world is a carcass and the one who goes after it is a dog,’ Jamal el-Din murmured as if to himself.
    ‘Men of bad character punish their own souls.’ The leather shoe in Shamil’s hands was becoming darker in colour because of the varnish. Sometimes he was not sure who was the scourge of his life, the Russians or those who betrayed him?
    As if reading his mind, Jamal el-Din said, ‘To get what you love, you must first be patient with what you hate.’
    Shamil shifted his position so that his back was closer to the wall. ‘You speak the truth.’
    ‘Was it gunshots that I heard earlier in the afternoon?’ Jamal el-Din turned to look at him.
    ‘Five prisoners of war attempted to escape by smuggling a letter in a loaf of bread. They gave the loaf to a Jewish peddler and he was carrying it as part of his provisions for the journey. I will not tolerate treachery.’
    ‘A loaf of bread,’ Jamal el-Din repeated.
    His tone made Shamil uneasy. When a prisoner faced his death sentence without flinching, Shamil spared him and gave him his due praise. But those who wept and fought were deprived of his mercy. Was he truly just? There was a hole in the heel where the leather was eroded. He searched the room for the necessary needle and began to mend it.
    ‘Come with me to Mecca,’ said Jamal el-Din. ‘Let us visit the house of Allah together.’
    The words, the prospect had an instant effect on Shamil. He felt light and carefree. ‘Oh what a pleasure that would be, to put down my sword and take off my turban. To become a simple pilgrim dressed in rags chanting, “To you my Lord I come”.’
    ‘To you my Lord I come,’ Jamal el-Din repeated. ‘So what is holding you back?’
    ‘My son Jamaleldin …’ The words were heavy on his tongue, his fingers slackened. He felt it on his skin, that tingle of humiliation always associated with this particular defeat, this constant, eroding loss. ‘I wonder sometimes how I am able to sleep at night, to eat, to make my wives