Mister mister, p.31
Mister, Mister, page 31
The first few folders, Mister, had stains and were frayed at the edges. You threw a few open so that the contents fluttered to my side of the table – photographs, photocopies of photographs. There were thin strips, cuttings from papers, all stuffed inside them wrinkled wallets. I spotted newspaper articles, The Times, the Guardian and local rags, one from the East London Advertiser. Highlighted lines, torn pamphlets, more pictures. You picked out a few and showed me.
– I trust all these are familiar to you?
I felt my stomach turn when you pointed one out to me. The photograph was unclear. A copy of a copy. But it was familiar to me in all the ways images of Al-Bayn are familiar, Mister. That same stance legs apart, and index finger. The picture was taken at a recital somewhere, some early rally. You were watching me from across the table intently, I remember. Searching for some recognition as I looked.
– At Faisal Aswan mosque. In Clapham, 2013.
With your pen you picked out another. Al-Bayn again, similarly half slanted to one side, shawl fallen, revealing my black keffiyeh, eyes mad, lifted up at the ceiling.
– And here – Al-Muriyya Islamic Centre, 2014, July.
You then put three pictures in front of me. All had faces looking up, illuminated by park lamps and glowing spotlights. These were my crowds, Mister. All organised into pages of several records. Someone had made red circles on them. Red dots marking points of interest, faces, bodies, groups of people.
– Do you recognise anyone here?
These faces were dark blurs to me, Mister. Figures half in shadow, faces gurning upward in the direction of the light.
I shook my head. But I’ll admit it, I swallowed hard at the sight of all these gaping mugs again. I could see them strained, arms lifted, reaching out from the huddled crowd. It all put me in mind of my final recital in the domed hall before I’d stumbled out into the alley. I didn’t tell you that then. I just let you continue, Mister, shaking my head, shrugging. I was silent.
From then on you grew more agitated. Them lines around your eyes had returned. Then, you started throwing photos at me. These images, Mister, of my Al-Bayn, and them seething, hungry crowds.
I shut my eyes when you started shouting. Started pushing me, Mister, recalling Al-Bayn’s verses. You’d copied some down and wanted to recite them back to me. Extracts from my poems. The bold stuff from the pamphlets – you tried to read some aloud, Mister, but I couldn’t listen. I covered my ears. Then you knocked over your pens again. This time you didn’t bother picking any of them up.
– There are gaps, you said, blank parts to your history. All of it needs to be accounted for. The people you met, the places you travelled. Names, Yahya. Affiliations…
That’s when you got out the folder, Mister. The blue one from inside the separate box. The one you’d kept to the side. A new folder this time. You opened it in front of me.
– And so, these last two years, all that has happened since. The terrible events that have taken place during your disappearance – while you were exiled as you claim. Do you really expect anyone to believe, Yahya, that you were unaware of the attacks? The attacks here in the UK and in cities across Europe?
I should have paid more attention. When you showed me the face of the lad in your folder, it was, honestly, the first time I’d seen him, Mister. But at the time you wouldn’t hear it. You kept pressing a finger at the face, saying his name aloud, and insisting. It was only when you pointed at them others circled in crowd that I saw – it was the same face circled in the other photos. The same face in the parks, crowded halls and mosques. That same dark, thin face, Mister, completely struck by the light and looking up.
– Younes Hassan…you went, your face drawn, looking at the photo. Six days ago, this young man killed four people in Hamburg. Bystanders. Innocent people, three men, one woman. Attending a local festival. His choice of weapon, you should note, was a kitchen knife.
You didn’t bat an eye, Mister. Neither did I.
And now I wonder whether you still believe I knew this man at all. Hardly think it matters now. All you wanted was for my story to match your own, Mister, having already made up your mind about how my story ended.
179. HAMBURG Here, I’ll write what you said: Of course, you did know, you said, setting down your watch…
Let’s not pretend, play around, waste time. Of course, you knew, Yahya. Knew full well what you were leaving behind when you left. The likes of this killer, this Younes Hassan. And others – Muslim boys with no history, who liked to attend and listen to you speak. No criminal activity on Hassan’s record, no pick-ups, no nothing. Lived his life peacefully. With his mum, dad, a little sister. Lived in the suburbs out there. Attended school there. Decent student, okay marks. Made friends easily. He was well liked. German police were completely undone, they said. Didn’t know what to make of this boy. Younes Hassan. Good son. Immigrant son – father from Yemen. His anger, his violence seemed to come out of nowhere…
Look, here – this is an image of the square right after his attacks. On any other day this is a spot for tourists, shoppers, festival goers, music. And look here – I always find it interesting to see what people leave behind when running for their lives. Dropped clothing, the mess of street food, bags scattered – look, a kid’s balloon and somebody’s very expensive coat. All of it lying on the floor like rubbish. This sort of thing used to be the exception in Europe. And now Hamburg is only the latest exception. One doesn’t shake the sight of terror and abandonment in Europe’s great capitals do they, Yahya – or do you prefer Al-Bayn? Paris, London, Barcelona. These cities belong on postcards, don’t you think? Not the Ten O’Clock News. The families of the victims are marked as well as the rest of us are marked when we see things like this – and I think you know this about people.
I do think you are sensitive to it. I know you are, having watched you. Having listened to you speak, and after reading, as much as I could, of what you’ve written.
Your poems have made a lasting impression on me.
I’ll just take a few lines and read them out for you now – though you should know I’m no poet. I don’t have your, shall we say, flair for oratory. But even so, if you’d allow me, I think it’ll be useful to have these read back to you – fresh ears, as it were – I’ll do my best…
In 2011 you write on an online forum: Raise their bodies to bury, For there is no Heaven for them, Only the pointed edge, Of your pious knife – yes? In two other poems you mention, or actively suggest, the acting out of mass violence. For instance, in 2012 a poem was circulated that has since been credited to your alias: They will say ‘forbidden are those who trespass against us’, But Brothers show might to the meek, Seek them in their streets and pave the ground with their fallen bodies. This same contempt, Yahya, the same hatred spills out of every line – can you hear it? The same year, you write: You are meagre in number, You have the weaker voice, But you have been forever victorious since the battle of Noah, You will be again, my brothers.
Brothers, you called them. And here, in 2013, just before you stole away, you spoke to these brothers directly. In a poem entitled Brutes, you write – Brothers, wield your martyrdom! Leave behind the story of your life! So that you may keep living in its recount!
I could go on. But you can see that I’ve filed several accounts of your works – the files are here, and here, just look – all indicating your premonitions, shall we say. Acts of terror, hatred and violence, which have since manifested across our cities like a rash, like a scourge.
And it’s the last poem, Yahya, on the subject of martyrdom, which was found on scraps written in Younes Hassan’s hand. Your poem was found in Hassan’s bedroom. The boy was a promising poet himself. Hassan liked to use Al-Bayn’s words as practice. Perhaps he thought it would help put into words what he felt about his own country.
The boy took his own life shortly after murdering those others. This is why I find you fascinating, Yahya – you seemed to have foreseen the whole thing coming. You seemed to have identified the anger, the hatred, simmering in these young men. And you wrote about it. And whether intentional or otherwise, it was these very men who read your words and found themselves reflected. Of course, they read you. Came to see you. They felt heard by you, and seen. And now, we all have to live with the consequences.
Which brings me to my point. I’ll likely never have another case like yours, Yahya. There is so much to document, record, a lot of which can be traced back to your writings. Except now, as I sit here, giving you a fair hearing, you refuse to speak!
I find it perplexing.
Tell me how you became who you are to them – and who the people were that helped you, were responsible for you. Names, dates, is what I want. And you will eventually give me your testimony, I can assure you of that. Because, while I don’t take pleasure in saying, it is within my power to detain you indefinitely. I can see to that if you force me – I am capable of it.
But I’ll take my leave of you now…As for – as for…the next few days, you might come to enjoy these facilities – nice room, good shower. Use the courtyard if you like. Get your lungs some air. And in time, you will come to understand the obvious: it is a privilege to have me listen to you. It’s a sanction to have your story set down in our records. There-fore, I trust you’ll become more forthcoming with me. That you will open up. Show a bit of manners. There’s really no need to fight the system of justice that seeks to protect all British citizens – and that includes you, Yahya. This is your country, after all – this…this matchless land, happy and glorious…for England means as much to you as England means to me…
180. CITIZEN’S BARGAIN At the end of my pen, Mister, parts of me pass into you. You can see how easy it is to invent you. It’s the same method I used to invent my Al-Bayn for my poetry. I can hold you here, in my ear, and here – on these pages – I can even make you sing…
Rest assured, I did listen to what you said to me. And you were true to your word about it. I was, indeed, let out for an hour after you left. Them guards let me walk into the courtyard with them, like you said. It was bright, I remember. The skies had cleared. I could see a clean patch of blue behind them towers.
My head became dizzy from the light, I think. I remember reaching out to the world as soon as I stepped into it. Walked out in a kind of delirium. First time the others had a good look at me. Them other detainees, I mean, whom I’d pass in the aisles and outside my cell, whom I knew only as names – names like Namdi, Olumide and Saqib. I noticed how they looked, dressed, went about together, speaking in huddles. I seemed to be the only person sitting alone.
The guard kept me separate. I couldn’t hear what they were saying about me. Some of them would look over and stare. Curious as to why I had someone guarding me. There was a grassy area, and I took my plimsolls off to walk across it. I knelt, Mister. Felt the grass and the hard ground under me. I bent to touch the ground with my forehead and felt the wet and the coldness in the dirt. That felt properly rare after so many weeks alone. I nearly wept, honestly. Just to have my tears touch the earth as I knelt.
For the full hour, Mister, I sat crossed leg-over-leg on the uneven grass and kept very still. I let my knees tremble under the discomfort of it. I listened to my ears ring in my head, and let my tired, starved eyes look around at my surroundings. Nothing but walls and barbed-wire fencing, Mister. Grey surfaces took up most of what I could see. And them towers, and the patrolling officers, passing each other in them heights. I focused on the faces. The murmur of voices from them other men. Shuffling about during their idle hours.
That one sitting there at the stone centre, for instance, could have been Hass, twisting his wrists as he did in class. And them other small, swaying bodies who were standing against the painted gate – were they dressed all in black together? Bearded and baggy-eyed, reciting their own verses out of tune? Big-shouldered Moazzam was there, walking past the other side of the court. Surely it was him – brushing his bald head and beard as he went. And there, I nearly shouted at the sight, Mister – for the tall man, out by the long path, could have been my Ibrahim. I recognised his long and elegant strides, as if he was about to glide over. The stooped old men walking along the stone barriers – that one had my Sisi Gamal’s long nose on him, the other Mother Sadaf’s shabby clothing. And any one of them, Mister, slow-walking and shambling, might have worn the same old face as Abdallah. There – my Mother Aneesa’s fat ankles patrolling the far wing. There – my Mother Miriam’s moon-face on that boy in the corner, sitting with another boy, whose face wasn’t familiar. There – my Bilal sharing shoulders with my Zenab. And there, Mister – could I have really seen him? – watering the plants by the far black wall was Rustum, lumbering along the outer bank.
Apparitions everywhere I looked. It made me yearn to be heard again. Seen by them. But then, the guard gave a grunt and nudged me. And it made my heart sink.
Once back, I wanted to come to a decision about what you asked me, Mister. Did a few rounds in my room, making circles under that flickering light. I realised there was nothing I could possibly say to satisfy you.
My story, for your purposes, could have easily fitted on a list:
Born Bas, Yahya, British-Iraqi, Iraqi-British.
Disabled. Delinquent – raised in poverty.
Radicalised against Western intervention in Iraq.
Gains notoriety promoting works of anti-Western hate.
Absconds from the UK – abandons known family.
Spends several years in exile. Stateless. Displaced.
Returns a pariah. Tail between legs.
You’d know now, of course, that nothing numbered here could have told you anything about me, Mister. At the time I don’t think you really cared. You never were interested in what I had to say. All you wanted was to settle your own story, Mister, one in which I could play your preferred part.
I remember going around in circles that night, trying to think up ways of getting through to you. I knew simply replying to your questions wouldn’t do. I needed to do something that would get attention. I needed you to look, Mister. And proper see me, in the same way, I suppose, the lad in Hamburg made you see him, same as in Paris, same as in Tavistock Square – for it’s only then that the likes of you really look. Only then are you unable to look away.
And that’s what I wanted from you, I think – I didn’t want you to look away.
I made a short prayer for you that night. And then I took my seat at this table, having decided, Mister, that I was going to make a trade with you – a sort of citizen’s bargain, for which I’d need something from you in return.
181. THE ASK And look – the confusion on your face was funny. You’d thought I’d maybe ask for something more, something bigger. Maybe you weren’t really expecting me to go for it at all. You acted like it was an imposition at first. Started going on about the bureaucracy you’d have to wrangle to fetch the thing. But I insisted on it, Mister. Saying it was the only possession I wanted in exchange. It was my wooden figurine. The one I’d brought in from the desert. My last piece of carved wood. It was the figure your lot snatched up upon my return. And I promised that if I’d had it back, I’d trade with you my story.
Still, you blustered. Still, you blew your cheeks. But you said you weren’t without your mercies, Mister. And I could see how it pleased you to say you’d try for me. I’ll make no promises, you said. Which made me laugh. And then, once I got back to my quarters, I prayed for you a second time. I knelt, rose, muttered my prayers into a tattered cloth. I laughed again. Laughing as I prayed, turning my laughter into prayer.
182. THE FLINCH I’ve also – if I may mention it, Mister, before I go on to recount what must follow – wanted to tell you that I’ve noticed something about you. Something revealing about you, Mister, which actually makes me think that you and I, despite our differences, need not feel so distant.
It’s something I noticed from the moment you avoided my eyes. And from how, on every occasion since, you’ve turned away whenever I’ve tried to speak back.
Mister, as you know, you can tell a lot from how a person listens to what others have to say. You have to pay attention to the patterns, of course. Especially in the way the other person replies. How they speak. Their little ums and ahs, repetitions, hesitations and involuntary spills. People are made of language, Mister. You can even get a sense of a person from if they don’t say as much as what they do. There’s a lot in silences alone.
It’s why so many of your fictions too – your novels, fairy tales and uneven histories are stuffed with people with unforgettable faces. I remember my rounds reading on them buses as a boy, noticing how your heroes were similarly drawn, Mister, and how your monsters read so familiar. All them big noses, Mister, mad hair, and disfigured bodies.
It’s why I don’t blame you, honestly. Reading all them English books has helped me read you better, Mister.
For instance – your flinch.
It’s what I’ve noticed about you. The fact that you flinched the first time the guard shut the door and left us alone together. I noticed that little jerk in your shoulder too, which you tried to hide with a hand at the side of the table.
You’re hardly the first, when faced with a mug like mine, to flinch, wince, or scan for a sign of bad intent. But I wonder, Mister, whether you’ve ever considered why you even flinch at all. Could it be that you sense the anger, the stuff unsettled in me, and in all the bellies of the beaten. And maybe the instinct behind your little flinch, in some unspoken sense, is common to that recoil provoked by any black or brown body in a public square, a British street, or any European city.
