Spiral Road (20 page)

‘That’s a shallow question. You disappoint me.’

‘Then that’s a mutual feeling.’

I regret the hostility that flares between us. I want to plead and reason with him. Unburden my thoughts, speak of darkness and humanity misplaced. But all I can do is chasten him to think of the impact on the family, the slur on our names, the devastating effect on his father.

‘Now that’s selfish,’ he says coldly. ‘This business of the family’s
izzat
has been the trademark of our hypocrisy. Through the years, the Alams have lived recklessly, hiding behind
zamindari
privileges, mouthing noble sentiments about honour and fair play. At the same time we’ve had no qualms about flogging and exploiting the peasants, to maintain the status quo. Have
any
of you
any
idea of what injustice is, or what it does to people?’

‘Have
you
, beyond how you think the family behaved?’

He laughs bitterly. ‘Let me tell you! Let’s say, there’s an innocent young man, who has a privileged background. Overseas education in a top-flight university. Terrific job. Then suddenly one morning, two planes fly into a couple of buildings. He’s just as horrified as everyone else. But there’s one big difference that doesn’t occur to him immediately. He was born into the same religion as the people who piloted those aircraft. It doesn’t seem to matter if he doesn’t believe in the extreme interpretation of its tenets. He has to be netted in the sweeping generalisations of revenge. He goes to work later that morning and is met with glares and silence. One or two people speak to him. The rest? They behave as if he’s a coconspirator in the attack. Afterwards, there are snide
remarks and threatening notes. He goes to his boss, who is sympathetic but unable to offer any protection against harassment. Then a few days later, the police turn up. No warrant, no charges. He’s pinned against a wall and searched. They seize his passport and computer. What do they find there? Maybe some spammed email. Some nowsuspicious website, visited God knows when. But they come back and ransack the apartment. They handcuff him and bundle him off to prison.’

‘I had no idea,’ I murmur ineffectually.

‘That evening, he’s interrogated. Does he have any connections with Middle Eastern men? Is he in contact with young Muslims in the country? Does he attend mosque meetings? Is he in possession of false passports? Narcotics? Has he been to Afghanistan? To countries in the Middle East? They aren’t satisfied with the replies. They are after names, addresses, code words and messages. He becomes angry with the accusations. That’s a big mistake. They bring in a prison guard. A big fellow who doesn’t believe in talking. He’s a pro. Nothing personal, but he has a job to do.’

‘And?’

Omar wanders away from me. ‘The “rightness” of inequality. You’re intended to feel inferior. It crushes your ego with the force of a hammer hitting an egg. You shrink into a cowering mess, covered in sweat, blood and piss. Two broken ribs, bruised chest, legs and arms. A crushed finger.’ He holds up the crooked index finger of his right hand and brings it close to my face. It looks like an
emaciated plant, perpetually drooping. ‘But no facial injuries. I didn’t say what they wanted to hear, but when they finally left me, even the filth I was covered in was a relief.’ He pauses, smiling grimly, still fuelling his anger against something larger and more elusive than any individual.

‘Did they bring charges against you?’

He shakes his head emphatically. ‘A doctor was brought in the next morning. He strapped me up and gave me pills and injections. They released me after a week. I bought a plane ticket and quit my job. But even then I was planning to return to the States after a break.’

So this is the story he can’t tell his father.

‘I wanted to see places totally different. I wanted to forget. Pluck the memory of hurt and humiliation and fling them away. But that’s not possible, of course…Well, I travelled through Syria, Jordan and Lebanon. Then I went to Palestine. That night there was a raid on a refugee camp. Early next morning, I went for a walk. There was rubble, dust and the eyes of silent children. I tore up my return ticket and continued the journey east. There were people I met and places I called home…’

He won’t say any more. I want to reach out and console him, but a part of me shrinks away. ‘How long were you in Afghanistan?’

‘Five months.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Did you meet him?’

Omar smiles whimsically, much in the manner of a parent who is asked if the Devil is for real. ‘It doesn’t work like that. The networks are extensive and sophisticated.’ He looks around and finds a sturdy twig. He pushes one end into the ground and twists it. ‘Imagine that as the starting point of a historical event.’ Slowly he traces a spiral, both continuity and pattern. ‘And on it goes.’ He pauses. ‘There’s a beginning and it has consequences. The rippling effect spreads through time and distance. The intensity of purpose is not lost. But the links with the origin become less strong. Now
he
is not as important as you might think.’

‘But what is the ending? There has to be one!’

‘That’s beyond anyone’s control.’ He sees that this is a vague reply. ‘It’s like asking if history finishes. It changes its course often. But does it have a destination? I don’t think so. It’s given impetus by nations, people and their ambitions to dominate others, enabling it to meander on; as individuals we’re like the wheels on which it moves. We’ll wear out and drop off at some time, and be replaced immediately. Those who finish at a given time are of little consequence.’

He sounds careless, without self-concern. It’s a nihilism that I remember.

There’s stirring in the forest. Voices and footsteps.

‘Training over for the morning?’

We head for the largest of the tents among the trees.

‘It’s up to you now, Uncle.’ He leads the way. ‘I hope I haven’t been wrong.’

Crumpled bodies. Dangling limbs, gaping wounds and shattered faces. Every available space on the saggy canvas walls is pinned with terrible photographs.

Omar watches me closely.

Cynicism is what I feel first. This is the display of someone intent on sensationalism.

But then the bizarre collage paralyses me—between the desire to turn away and the compulsion to keep looking. I can only think of one of the enduring euphemisms of the twentieth century—
collateral damage.

An unclothed man in a horribly familiar posture: his head bowed, knees bent and the palms of his hands cupped in front of his genitalia. One of the guards is
caught winking at the camera. A pyramid of naked men. A prisoner on a leash, his neck collared as if he were a dog.

In Melbourne I felt disgusted, even glimpsing such pictures on the TV. But the photographs have a special significance here. It’s as though they have personal meaning, and we each have an obligation to dwell on them, and react.

A slow burning anger starts in me, and I’m compelled to participate now in the continuum of shame and pain.

One large photo is stapled to the canvas among pictures of the killed. A young girl, in a torn dress, presses a tattered doll to her chest. Her face is streaked with grime and dirt. Dark eyes reflect hideous wisdom. This child might ride her luck and grow into a young woman, in a refugee camp. Twisted, she will be ready then for the promises of bliss in Paradise.

This is how they come, strapped and deadly. Walking despair. Victim becomes aggressor in the vengeful and ever widening cycle of a life for a life. Spiral Road.

‘We have to see and act,’ Omar whispers. ‘We mustn’t be indifferent.’

H
E WALKS IN
with a bundle of manila folders crammed with papers. I’d already imagined him as a man of medium height with a raven-black beard, wearing a turban or a skullcap,
shalwar
and a long flowing
kameez
. I had thought that communication would be a problem. He might speak Pushto or Duri.

‘Hello! I’m Amin Haider!’ He greets me softly in English, holding out his right hand. He has long and delicate fingers. ‘So glad you could come!’

We sit on a faded, moth-eaten Kashmiri rug.

I resent the image. Amin Haider is clean-shaven and bald, with a cheerful, chubby face that no one would remember in a crowd. A mild-mannered man in his midthirties, perhaps younger, he’s dressed in jeans and an olive-green T-shirt. The accent suggests that a significant portion of his life has been spent in Britain. Privileged education. I conjure up school blazers, striped ties, rugby and cricket, academic gowns, formal assemblies, inflexible rituals, lessons in Latin, alcohol, designer drugs…whatnot. The entire
old boy
syndrome—now infiltrated by outsiders. The world of empires and colonial dreams has been tarnished but not entirely obliterated. An oddity among the Charleses, the Jameses and the Peters. Something must have gone very wrong for him to defect from such elite company. It’s an unforgivable rejection of civilisation.

Omar senses my confusion. ‘We’re not the Taliban. You might say there’s been rapid progress in the evolutionary chain.’

‘How long were you in Britain?’ I ask Amin Haider.

He laughs softly. ‘I was born in Bristol. My parents migrated from Chittagong in the sixties.’

‘You went to private school there, then?’

‘You mean a public school? Unfortunately, yes,’ he replies. ‘Those were some of the darkest days in my life,
Mr Alam. I learned whatever there was to know about prejudice.’

‘I expected someone…well, someone quite different,’ I confess.

There’s a feline gracefulness about everything that Amin Haider does. His gestures look slow, flexible, rehearsed. A raised eyebrow, controlled smiles. With this air of aristocratic charm, he speaks slowly, almost respectfully, as though in deference to my age.

‘Lunch will be slightly delayed,’ he apologises. ‘We can only offer you a simple meal.’

This dealt with, he selects a folder from his collection and looks at a sheaf of papers inside. My life will prove to be precisely documented there. Bewildering details which even I don’t remember.

He begins by quoting from a protest speech I made under the
bhat
tree in the university campus, before the military crackdown.

‘Impressive rhetoric,’ Amin Haider then says, approvingly.

Next he tonelessly reads details of my activities during the nine months before liberation. Amin Haider is careful to avoid any mention of failed attacks or the losses we suffered. He frames things as though we were in a league of superheroes he can never hope to emulate. I have the impression that even if Amin Haider stuck a knife into someone, he would apologise for causing unnecessary pain before death.

Suddenly he switches to Australia. There too he is chillingly accurate. I’m dumbfounded, and resentful now.
Someone’s fingerprints are all over my life. I imagine the strangers who’ve been on trams with me, recall people I’ve seen walking beside me. Picture men on street corners, watching what I do and where I go.

Amin Haider is able to tell me the number of the tram I take to work, the clothes I wear, my usual time of returning home on weekdays, names of people who live on my street, the prominent landmarks in Richmond. He describes the oval and the town hall. He even sounds envious of the number and variety of restaurants on Bridge Road.

And Amelia.

Then he bends down to scrutinise the writing as if he’s misread something.

He sounds incredulous, whispering her surname. ‘Goldstein?’

Omar whips around to look at me. ‘A Yehudi?’

‘I’m not obliged to give you an explanation of who I know!’ I say in outrage.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Amin Haider holds up a placating hand and moves to another page.

Omar continues to glare at me.

‘Mr Alam, during your training as a freedom fighter, you learned about explosives. You were—’

‘Only very superficially,’ I interrupt. ‘Most of that knowledge would be useless now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of rapid advancement in technology.’

‘But the fundamentals wouldn’t have changed greatly,’ Omar insists.

‘Oh, they have,’ I say with the supreme confidence of a born liar. ‘My training was hasty and I was ill-informed. It’s a miracle that I didn’t have an accident.’

‘A testimony to your skill,’ Amin Haider concludes. ‘You have an exceptional memory for numbers. Am I right?’

‘Why does that matter?’

‘Phone numbers…bank account numbers. You could be a very useful addition to our cause, Mr Alam.’

‘I doubt that very much.’

A shadow hovers near the entrance to the tent.

‘Yes?’ Amin Haider inquires.

‘Lunch, sir.’ The voice is almost subservient.

In a smaller tent nearby are seven men, sitting crosslegged on a straw mat, eating silently. The oldest, sitting in the middle, has a scar on his right cheek. He doesn’t look up.

I turn to Omar. ‘You’re better organised than I’d thought.’

‘You’re very charitable in your assessment of us.’ Is he being polite or sarcastic? ‘We have people in strategic places. In banks, the travel industry. Other businesses.’

This hasn’t turned out to be a celebratory lunch for a new member of the group. I can see I’m responsible for the tension. The others depart as soon as they’ve eaten, leaving the three of us in silence. Omar and Amin Haider are guarded. I haven’t taken the lead they’ve dangled. Unfavourable conclusions must follow.

To continue the impression of no interest, I ask about the indigenous people of this region.

Omar’s displeasure sharpens. He looks grim and turns from me. Amin Haider is more accommodating. His talk of the Hill Tracts and tribal culture is punctuated by anecdotes about his own experiences, adjusting to such a different environment.

‘I treat my life in Great Britain as a floating dream,’ Amin Haider tells me. ‘Always to be remembered if I’m ever low on motivation.’

But both of us know that this stalemate must end. I suspect Amin Haider doesn’t make quick decisions, but once his mind is settled, there’s nothing that will make him rethink.

I reassess my reliance on Omar, no longer convinced he might believe that family members help each other in adversity.

Amin Haider invites me to take a stroll along the side of the stream. The afternoon is benign as if it has been detached from summer’s fierce intensity and charted its own course. Along the walk we spot a herd of elephants and several drongo cuckoos. Amin Haider waves to a woman washing clothes on the other side of the stream.

‘Are the tribal people a nuisance to you?’ I ask.

‘Not at all! They work to our advantage,’ he replies cheerfully. ‘You must know that there’s a history of bad relationship between the government and the tribes. It’s all about autonomy and cultural identity. During the liberation war with Pakistan, the Chakma king supported the military junta, and things never improved after
independence. The people here help us to maintain our anonymity.’

‘And what do you offer in return?’

‘Sympathy and promises.’ No trace of contrition sounds in his voice. ‘Oh, and the odd World War II rifle, with a limited supply of ammunition.’

There’s a newly constructed wooden bridge where the stream bends away from the hills and towards lower ground.

‘One of Omar’s little projects,’ Amin Haider explains. ‘It’s probably the only bridge in the country made of teak.’

‘I didn’t know he was such a skilled carpenter.’

‘A very versatile man, is your nephew,’ Amin Haider tells me, stepping on the planking. The water gushes noisily beneath our feet.

‘How did you meet Omar?’

‘By chance. On a flight to Jeddah. Do you know that you’re just about the only man he truly admires?’

I’m foolishly flattered.

‘He’s told me that you never behave impulsively.’

‘Perhaps I’m too cautious. I think of consequences before I act. That’s not necessarily a virtue.’

He leans on the railing and peers into the distance. ‘After an afternoon shower, you can often see the broadest and most wonderful rainbow arcing across the top of those hills.’

‘When we were kids, my brother and I would run towards one to find where it ended.’ I’ve been drawn into
the contemplative mood. ‘We believed there were dancing fairies waiting for us if we could get there.’

‘Ah, childhood fantasies, Mr Alam. It’s a shame that we grow up to think that there may be dancing devils instead. Yes? So, will you join us?’

‘To do what?’

‘Mr Alam, we need someone to liaise with our members in your adopted country.’

I stare at him. I’ve been wondering how he might phrase the offer. He makes it sound so utterly respectable.

‘You would be perfect in the role of a facilitator.’

‘And what does a facilitator do?’

‘You’ve heard of cells?’

‘Yes,’ I admit reluctantly.

‘There will be sleeper cells for the next year or two, but we need someone to coordinate and monitor their lives, especially in Victoria and New South Wales. Young men are easily bored. We don’t want them to do anything foolish to attract attention. Gradually we want to move into other states. Patience, Mr Alam. Patience! It’s our prized weapon. The job we’re asking you to do isn’t arduous, but it needs care and planning.’

‘You’re not being specific.’

‘It involves making brief calls from telephone booths, handling and distributing money, memorising code words, phone numbers and bank account numbers. Occasionally meeting people whose names you won’t know. Nothing written. No records on computers. Certainly no communication on mobile
phones. We’ve learned that technology isn’t always advantageous.’

‘And who and what do you intend to blow up?’

‘Mr Alam, please!’ He recoils in seeming disgust. ‘Nothing quite so crude so suddenly. Are you interested?’

‘No.’ I walk off the bridge and turn my back towards him. ‘No!’

‘Mr Alam, we shall get there, with or without you. In a year or five years. Time is irrelevant.’

‘From what I can gather, you’re already there.’

‘Us?’ He sounds surprised. ‘Not us. Others maybe.’

‘Others? How many groups are there?’

‘Impossible to say. We are, if you like, a franchise.’

‘Licensed to deal in explosions?’

He follows me without perturbation, pausing to examine a native plant. ‘Mr Alam, I would like a considered reply. I’d hate to think that Omar was wrong about you. Do think about the reasons for what we do.’

‘Which are?’

He has no hesitation. The primary objective is to end global dominance by white nations, especially the English-speaking ones. More economic balance worldwide. Justice for the Palestinians. Less exploitation of underdeveloped nations, removal of corrupt regimes in the Middle East, equitable distribution of oil wealth among the less privileged Muslims. In his view the richer countries must pay a higher price for oil.

‘But above everything else, it’s about restoring Muslim dignity,’ he concludes.

‘Even if what you say is more than propaganda, I find it difficult to reconcile your vision with your violence.’

‘What else can young men, born and bred in refugee camps, know besides anger and violence? We tap their emotional resources, release their frustrations. Life is a price they’ll pay, to strike out at a world that pretends to be just and caring.’

I merely gape at him, all my arguments nullified by his cold-bloodedness.

‘Would you say in retrospect that the guillotine in the French Revolution was justified?’

‘I can’t make that judgement,’ I say truthfully.

‘People were beheaded.’

‘But this is more than two hundred years later. Besides, you’re not punishing the corrupt aristocracy of your own country.’

‘Supposedly we live in a global village, Mr Alam,’ Amin Haider says dryly. ‘We’re all interconnected. Unfortunately, everyone’s not equal and there’s massive corruption. During the Bangladesh War, your target was the Pakistani army. Can you say that ordinary citizens were not killed in your operations?’