Belkis and I have just returned from a mission during which we exposed a gang of human traffickers selling illegal immigrants to companies that employed them without wages and kept them hidden with meagre food and dire living conditions in disused warehouses.
Waiting for us was an invitation from a dear friend, Haqqi Kadir, to his wedding in Ürümqi, the capital of China’s northwestern Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. Drained by the immigrants’ ordeals, we welcomed the opportunity to participate in a life-enhancing event.
We had met Haqqi many years ago, when we had joined the International Relief corps in Indonesia’s Mentawai islands which, following a huge earthquake on Sumatra’s west coast, had been devastated by a three-metre high tsunami.
A tectonophysicist, Haqqi had been engaged by the Indonesian authorities to assess the earthquake’s effects on the earth’s crust and to infer the probable locations and magnitudes of future seisms. Haqqi helped our Relief corps whenever he could take time off from his work and particularly when bad weather hampered our efforts. As our friendship developed, he suggested that he and I became blood-brothers – an Uyghur tradition that bonds kindred souls for life.
We kept in touch and met here and there when our missions and his schedules permitted.
Haqqi picked us up from Ürümqi airport the day before his wedding.
We went to a bar to anoint our reunion. We would meet his fiancée, Yuan Chengzi, that evening. A brilliant economic geologist – as he had proudly written to us – he had met her at a conference where their specialisations had dovetailed. Other conferences and discreet trysts matured into deep love. These days Yuan was on field duty in the Tarim Basin surveying for non-metallic resources around its rich petroleum and gas reserves. She was given only three days leave for her wedding.
Thrilled to be with my blood-brother, I didn’t register the anxiety that lurked behind Haqqi’s bonhomie.
But ever-intuitive Belkis did. ‘Something’s troubling you, Haqqi?’
Her insight surprised him. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘You haven’t raised your glass as heartily as you normally do.’
He forced a laugh. ‘I prefer drinking in the sight of you two.’
‘You can talk to us. We have strong shoulders to lean on.’
Haqqi quipped awkwardly. ‘Must be old bachelors’ butterflies about getting hitched?’
‘Feels more than that.’
Haqqi tried to remain light-hearted. ‘Okay. But they’re only quirky concerns. Like the age difference. I’m fifty-three. Yuan twenty-seven. Disregarding the innuendoes about our “surprising” decision to marry, I’m likely to straddle a cloud long before her. Is it right to condemn her to a young widowhood?’
Belkis scowled. ‘Bullshit. You love each other.’
I backed Belkis. ‘Surely that’s what counts!’
Haqqi frowned. ‘There are other matters. Where do we live? On the coast – in Lianyungang where my Institute is? It’s well regarded internationally and I’m an important cog. Do I give that up and move inland to Lanzhou where Yuan’s based? Or do we take lesser posts and move to a university here?’
Belkis dismissed the notion. ‘No lesser posts for either of you. You told us Yuan’s a gem. And you’re a Colossus. Any Institution – certainly in the West – would welcome you both with open arms.’
Haqqi grimaced. ‘That doesn’t tempt us. We’re Chinese. We love our country. We want to contribute to its development. But we’re Muslim. I’m an aberration as a notable Uyghur. And Yuan, a Hui, deemed to be Chinese like most Huis, is mistrusted for condescending to marry a Turban Head from the Steppes.’
That fired up Belkis. ‘That’s the crux, isn’t it? The political situation – that’s what’s worrying you!’
Haqqi grumbled. ‘Do you know the political situation here?’
I retorted. ‘We know quite a bit. We have read what is there for us to read.’
Haqqi got up. ‘Come. Let me give you an idea about the troubles.’
As Haqqi drove, we summed up what we knew. He could have said more, but we had to stop at a checkpoint.
Haqqi explained. ‘We’re entering our “West Berlin” – the Hui neighbourhood.’
Four PSB – Public Security Bureau – officers came to inspect our papers. Dissatisfied by Haqqi’s assurances that he was giving his overseas visitors a tour of the city, they contacted their superiors. After lengthy deliberations, they let us through.
Haqqi scoffed. ‘We won’t go walkabout. They’ll keep stopping and searching us. Just have a look-see!’
Affluent suburb.
Bustling streets.
Fair amount of traffic.
Kids at school assembled for rollcall.
Fathers taking toddlers to mosques – despite the interdiction against teaching children religious tracts.
Cafés full of men: the elderly, mostly goateed, playing mah-jong. Others talking amicably.
Busy supermarkets and butchers with glaring halal signs.
Neatly dressed women shopping. Some in hijabs and khimars, but many in Western clothes – the ‘fully assimilated’ Haqqi called them.
Numerous armed PSB and plain-clothes MSS – Ministry of State Security – some patrolling, some guarding imposing buildings.
Some MSS photographing us.
The large police presence perturbed me. ‘Is there an alert?’
‘No need for alerts. Security is omnipresent. They protect the Hui. Checkpoint reported us as Uyghurs. They’re vigilant in case we attack.’
‘Are attacks frequent?’
‘Occasional ones. Some from Uyghur separatists. Some from other Turkic minorities. Tajiks, Kazakhs, Uzbeks, Tatars have grievances, too. But they all look like Uyghurs and Uyghurs they are to MSS.’
From ‘West Berlin’ we drove to ‘East Berlin,’ the Uyghur neighbourhood.
Here, too, we passed through a checkpoint – named ‘Checkpoint Charlie’ in sanguine humour.
Haqqi stopped on the main road. ‘Here we can walkabout. If I rant, forgive me.’
It was a walled ghetto sinking into its foundations. There were not many cars about, but a large contingent of armed PSB and MSS.
Haqqi gave a running commentary.
‘The Security here is to control us – not to protect. Few people about, as you can see. So no noise pollution. Mosques almost empty. Some elderly attend, but MSS ignores them as fossils arranging their funerals. No calls from muezzins. Prayers curtailed. Religious classes proscribed. Most people stay at home in case they’re marked as extremists.
‘The cafés. Dormant. Just a few ancient patrons! Where are the workers taking tea-breaks? Or the unemployed? Keeping low. And men with long beards? Outlawed! Long beards mean “abnormal” religiosity.
‘The women! Any hijabs, khimars, burqas? Not one. They’re either in shabby Western clothes or Chinese qipao. Why? New regulation: they mustn’t cover their faces and bodies in public. Particularly at airports and train stations where most work as cleaners.
‘Those going to shops and markets hurry to be invisible. And the children they’re dragging. To mosques? No! They’d be accused of “exaggerated religious fervour”. Then why aren’t they at school studying Chinese culture and ethnic unity as the law demands? Because they’re not allowed to be taught in Uyghur. And the Mandarin they teach is elementary.
‘The butchers – any halal signs? No. Religious signs undermine the “secular life”. Those wanting halal will know which butcher to go to. And can you see the Turkic star-and-crescent anywhere? No. That would mark you a secessionist!
‘The houses. Rundown. Who can afford repairs? The doors – all with photographs of inhabitants and Quick Response codes. Big Brother is watching.
‘Hear the TVs? Very loud – right? The occupants are performing their civic duty by listening to patriotic broadcasts.
‘The big house there – boarded up – was a centre for writers, musicians, painters, students. Now some are in jail under counter-terror laws. Actually, Uyghur artists aren’t the only ones. Numerous Chinese writers and illuminati are imprisoned, too.’
Haqqi paused. ‘I need a drink.’
I nod towards a couple of MSS that had been following us. ‘They’ve been photographing.’
‘And recording everything. Routine. Pity them – imagine the tedium of transcribing what people say …’
We managed to laugh. Humour, the sapling that defies storms. Haqqi led us back to his car. ‘Come, “Serenity” waits to welcome us.’
Serenity was Haqqi’s parents’ timeworn but spick-and-span home. On the way, he told us about them. His mother, Meryem, a midwife in her late seventies, was a Mother-Earth figure, always ready to help whomsoever, including many Hui women. Young wives in their first pregnancies with psychological problems regarded her as their guardian angel.
His father, Timur, almost ninety, was a venerated elder whose faith in an equitable society had vested him with the fortitude to survive. He had fought alongside Mao Tse-tung against Chiang Kai-shek; weathered the Great Leap Forward; and suffered the Red Guards’ brutalities during the Cultural Revolution. Reduced to a paraplegic, he once confessed to Haqqi that his condition had proved to be a blessing in disguise, motivating him to heal the open wounds in people’s minds by absorbing the teachings of both Western psychoanalytic theories and traditional Chinese medicine. His relative success had enabled him to send Haqqi, his only child, to a good university.
Both Meryem and Timur received us ardently. As Belkis remarked, we felt we had finally found the parents our unconscious had imagined. Honouring ancient practices of hospitality, Meryem served a lavish lunch.
She and Timur, humbly brushing aside our praises, contended that they owed their comforts and airy home – way above their needs – to Haqqi who constantly ‘squandered’ his earnings to provide them with a balmy old age.
Later Timur broached a subject that obviously had been badgering the family. ‘Still no issues with your name, Haqqi?’
I, too, wanted to ask that question. Haqqi’s birth name was Ziya, meaning ‘light’. He had changed it to Haqqi, ‘truthful’, in protest against the incessant anti-Islamic laws.
Haqqi shook his head. ‘None. Anyway, it’s not in the forbidden list.’
I was intrigued. ‘Forbidden list?’
Timur spoke ahead of Haqqi. ‘The government’s latest edict. Names with religious undertones like Asadullah – lion of Allah – or Abdulaziz – servant of Allah – are banned. Those with such names forfeit registration as citizens and are ineligible for social services.’
Haqqi interrupted Timur. ‘Haqqi means “truthful”. It’s a common name. Hardly contentious …’
Timur disagreed. ‘Haqq is one of Allah’s ninety-nine names. While the National Congress proposes “a great wall of iron” against so-called “Uyghur terrorism”, it can be interpreted as seditious.’
Haqqi responded passionately. ‘What about our Human Rights? Should we renounce our faith, our ethnicity? Besides, terrorism is alien to Uyghurs. You know, I abandoned religion long ago. That makes me an apostate for many. They wait for Islam to reclaim its compassion. But I’m not that patient.’
Belkis pressed his hand. ‘Hats off to you, Haqqi!’
I was moved, too. ‘And that’s why you insisted on a religious ceremony?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t easy to arrange. But I pulled a few strings. Promised it would be more folkloric than religious ...’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We’ll hold it in a yurt. Like in the Steppes.’
I felt a premonition. ‘Does Yuan agree?’
Haqqi chuckled. ‘Heartily. She’s a socialist. But her parents have disowned her.’
Belkis sympathised. ‘She must be devastated!’
‘Yes and no. Yes, because family is as sacrosanct to Huis as to Uyghurs. No, because she realised that her parents were, as she put it, puffed-up bourgeois with Hui superiority. Also, seeing the way the country is run, she lost faith in politics. She decided science was where she can find integrity and rationality.’
‘Maybe her parents might change their mind and come to the wedding.’
‘Not even if Allah interceded. Disownment is forever.’
‘Won’t any Hui attend?’
‘Only those who esteem my parents.’ Looking at his watch, he stood up. ‘I should check that the yurt’s sorted out. You two must be jet-lagged. Have a siesta. Be fresh when Yuan arrives.’
We stood up. ‘Can you drop us at a hotel ...?’
Meryem objected sternly. ‘No hotel! You stay here! You are family!’
Haqqi laughed. ‘Try and say no to that!’
Meryem took us by the hand. ‘This way …’
Haqqi shouted as he left. ‘Enjoy the mollycoddling!’
At the guest room – simple and sparkling – Meryem kissed us. ‘Dream happy worlds.’
We woke up refreshed.
Yuan had arrived and was helping Meryem pile yet more food on the table.
Haqqi was uncorking bottles.
Timur urged us in. ‘Come! Meet Yuan.’
Yuan rushed over and kissed us both. ‘My Haqqi’s brother and sister!’
We warmed to her instantly.
Haqqi, with Yuan clinging to his arm, served us. ‘Museles. Local wine. Delicious.’
We sat on the settee. Yuan held Belkis’s hand and Haqqi mine.
Meryem and Timur watched us happily.
There’s a saying: when happiness visits Uyghurs, the moon shines bright as the sun.
We spent hours talking, eating and drinking.
In the morning, still imbued with happiness, we attended the brief religious wedding.
Traditionally the ceremony is a private celebration conducted in the bride’s abode with only an Imam, chosen witnesses, close relatives and friends present. But since Yuan’s parents had disowned her, it had to be conducted at Haqqi’s parents’ home – a privation which saddened her deeply.
The Imam, affirming that the couple were dressed in plain Uyghur clothes – ichigi boots, chapan kaftans, doppa skullcaps – and thus possessed equal status to become each other’s lifelines – asked whether they agreed to marry. When they replied positively, he directed Haqqi to kiss Yuan thrice on her cheeks and once on the forehead. Then the newly-weds shared salted bread, which symbolically guaranteed everlasting love.
The ritual should have ended with the groom’s friends forcing their way into the bride’s home with chants and music and urging her to bid farewell to her parents. But since this rite, too, could not be performed at the bride’s family home, Yuan had to struggle with the bitterness of her disownment.
Then we rushed to the yurt.
Built in a corner of the Market Place, the yurt, with its classic simplicity, stood like a temple among the countless stalls selling everything imaginable. Constructed with a circular timber frame, it was covered with wool felts. Ornaments of sacred Uyghur images of geometric patterns, lions, tigers, dragons, the humanoid bird, garuda, and motifs of the universal elements, fire, water, earth, metal and wood, collectively symbolised strength and protection. Designed to be assembled and dismantled at speed – the factor that had sealed the municipality’s permission for its erection during the night – it was big enough to accommodate a large congregation.
The premonition I had felt the previous day rebounded. ‘What made you set the yurt in Market Square, Haqqi?’
‘It’s the perfect place. Customarily the reception must be accessible to everybody – especially to strangers.’
‘Market places have been attacked. They’re soft targets.’
‘There’ll be security. Municipality knows we’re good citizens. They accepted my view that a non-religious, non-political celebration featuring a “celebrity” – me – might defuse tensions.’
I lauded the custom but remained apprehensive.
We made our way through a throng of early comers queuing to get in.
The yurt’s interior was like an ant colony. Streams of caterers brought huge containers of aromatic dishes and piled them on the trestle tables. Other caterers lugged crates of beverages. Bevies of waiters set up round tables – the mark of equality – around the circular dance floor. We calculated that since each table would seat six, some 300 guests were expected.
While on the bandstand the musicians tuned up, Haqqi checked the sound system. Uyghur weddings needed high decibels to reach the forebears’ ears.
Timur – scurrying in his wheelchair – and Meryem and Yuan supervised the preparations and, most importantly, the placement of the wedding cake. The last, a recent addition to Uyghur confectionery, was to affirm that China was moving with the times and that even trouble-afflicted Ürümqi – once a hub of the Silk Road – was re-emerging as an important international centre.
As pampered guests, Belkis and I weren’t allowed to exert ourselves. So we took our time laying out our wedding present – a circlet of statuettes depicting a large family by East Isthmus’s African artists – on the centre tables reserved for the newly-weds, their parents, their close friends and the families of their immediate relatives.
Punctually at 3pm, Haqqi opened the yurt’s door.
The musicians blasted away.
The guests stampeded in.
True to custom, men and women sat separately on opposite sides. Happy that Haqqi and Yuan cherished our gift – we settled together at the centre tables. The banquet started with sweeteners of tea, fruits, dried nuts and pastries. While some people helped themselves to food from the buffet, others took to the dance floor.
Men danced with men and women with women. Now and again, strangers walked in and more round tables were set up to welcome them. The poor, in particular, were pampered and encouraged to dance.
At about 5pm, the wedding cake was brought to our table. Yuan and Haqqi rose to cut it. Wild applause and the deafening music prevented us from hearing the sudden commotion. Seconds later, bullets rained.
Instinctively ignoring the horror that suddenly surrounded them, Yuan and Haqqi catapulted over to the children that had been running around and shielded them with their bodies. Belkis and I – also instinctively – rushed to Meryem and Timur. Too late. They had been shot in the head.
Belkis froze momentarily, then, grabbing a couple of children, hurled them onto the floor and covered them with her body. I flung myself on top of her. People screamed, wailed and ran towards the door. Many slumped over their tables or writhed on the floor.
We caught glimpses of the gunmen. Four of them. Heavily armed, masked and dressed in track-suits. They emptied their guns, then vanished. Moments later the Chinese security forces rushed in.
It took a while for the screams, groans and the pandemonium to abate. Methodically, the security forces, insensible to the prevailing hysteria, hauled us and the other survivors out of the yurt. As Belkis and I were pushed to a police van, we saw paramedics load Yuan’s and Haqqi’s blood-stained bodies into an ambulance.
The MSS informed us that an Uyghur separatist group claimed responsibility for the attack in retribution of what it considered was an ungodly wedding. The government regretting the heavy casualties – twenty-seven killed, fifty-three wounded – offered its condolences to the families and solemnly declared that the perpetrators of the atrocity would be caught and punished.
The state-controlled media proclaimed repeatedly China’s commitment to protect the legal, cultural and religious rights not only of the Uyghurs but of all Chinese minorities. As an affirmation of this policy they published glowing obituaries of Haqqi and Yuan, honouring them as two of the most brilliant and valorous children of heroic China.
Three days later, after the funerals of Haqqi, Yuan, Timur and Meryem, Belkis and I, treated like VIPs, were repatriated in an ‘official’ plane. We had not been allowed to extend our stay and determine whether the attack had really been carried out by an Uyghur separatist group.
Moni had been listening attentively. ‘So tragic. How brave you all were.’
‘Belkis and I were bystanders. The brave were Haqqi and Yuan. They went for the children – and saved some.’
‘When you protected Belkis where was Hidebehind?’
‘Things happened fast. I didn’t feel him …’
‘Don’t you wonder why?’
‘I was sharing my friends’ happiness. I’d had a premonition about the yurt but then I forgot it. Then the gunfire. Shielding Belkis. Whispering: “Keep still, soul of my soul! Keep still, my Queen of Sheba …” That’s when Hidebehind pounced. When I froze. Belkis thought I’d been hit …’
‘You blocked him before he could block you.’
‘I must have.’
‘How else?’
‘I don’t know …’
Moni lectured me as if I were a child. ‘I’ll tell you how. It was your Ethical Self. You’ve heard of Jhinjihar, the Indian horseman. Emerged when violence threatened the oppressed. The despots beheaded him. Undaunted he put his head on his lap and galloped to liberate the people. What made him do that? His Ethical Self. Because that’s what resides in our hearts. It’s our fountain of love. Our birth-force that holds life sacred. Original immaculacy as your mentor called it. The potency that winnows Good from Bad and empowers legions of headless horsemen to defend souls …’
I stare at him. ‘That’s Leviathan talk. Are you a Leviathan?’
Suddenly sirens blare in the distance.
I jump up. ‘Ambulances – from Glorious Acre.’
My Dolphinero sinews scream. I must do something.
I shake Moni’s hand and run.