Whoever Fears the Sea by Justin Fox (english novels to improve english txt) 📕

slo-mo images of the two aeroplane impacts and the towers toppling. What had driven those Arab men to such lengths? What, exactly, were the messages they sought to convey? The virtue of martyrdom for a cause, certainly. But what else? How powerful was their faith, thought Paul, compared to his own wishy-washy Christianity and that of most of the West.

However George Bush wasn’t being wishy-washy at all. His marionette-like head on the TV vowed that America would be ‘ending countries’ and ‘smoking the enemy out of their holes’. Had George been smoking out of his own hole? His ‘crusade against the evildoers’ sounded like just as much gobbledegook as Bin Ladin’s rants.

Ali fingered the remote, flicking between Al Jazeera and CNN. A bombing raid on some remote village had resulted in the deaths of Afghan women and children. There was anger in the group gathered around the television. Paul stayed at the back. Ali came and stood beside him.

‘We do not hate the Americans,’ he said. ‘They are doing what they have to do. It is just some of their policies, especially the Middle East. The Palestinian question goes on and on and America always sides with Israel. For us Muslims, this is important. It is a symbol. What do Bush or Rumsfeld know about the pain their policies cause?’

Just then, Paul noticed a figure on the screen, sitting at a computer behind the newsreader — one of those shadowy presences who conjure the news from the wings. He went cold.

‘Hannah.’ Paul said her name aloud, feeling as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. He made his excuses and hurriedly left.

Paul walked back to Kijani in a daze, not paying much attention to his route. As he turned a corner into a narrow lane, an arm grabbed him from behind and dragged him into a doorway. Rough fingers pulled at his hair, yanking his head back. A knife blade touched his neck. He went stiff with terror.

‘Fuck you, American, you die!’ hissed a voice in his ear.

‘Please, I … I … I’m not American,’ he rasped.

The man’s hand was rifling his pockets. Paul could feel coarse breathing on his neck.

‘Wallet, American pig!’

His passport and wallet were locked in the safe at Kijani House.

‘I have no wallet.’ The knife pressed against his Adam’s apple.

‘I cut you.’

‘Please, please, no, I have dollars!’ Paul reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handful of notes. The man grabbed the money with his free hand.

‘Not enough. You must pay for —’

‘Mwizi! Hey, thief, stop! STOP!’ The shouting came from the top of the alley.

Paul’s face was thrust against the coral wall and the man made a dash for it. The corpulent Ali was running towards him, out of breath and wheezing. A figure in brown shirt and black kikoi disappeared round the corner.

‘Are you all right?’ said a panting Ali, one hand on his knee, the other on Paul’s shoulder.

‘Yes, thank you, Ali, you arrived just in time. Thank you.’ His body was trembling and he found he could hardly stand.

‘Come back to the shop. I’ll make you something sweet.’

Ali put his arm around Paul and they walked slowly back.

‘I haven’t seen that guy before,’ said Ali. ‘He’s not from Shela. I will report it to police. Do you want to make a statement?’

Paul thought for a moment. ‘No Ali, I don’t think so. I don’t want to get involved with the police.’

‘Okay, but still, I am going to talk to them and we will keep a lookout for that guy.’

At the shop, Ali led Paul through to the back and made him a cup of very sweet, strong tea.

‘If you hadn’t come along, I really think he was going to knife me. There was real hatred.’

‘It’s what he sees on TV.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

Back in his room that night, Paul found that Pierre had left a few books on his bed that might be useful for the movie. He was too wound up from the mugging to sleep, so he opened one on Vasco da Gama and began reading.

He was struck by the brutality of the early explorers. Set against Swahili Islam, the Christianity introduced by Da Gama and his men seemed to Paul a violent imposition. Their obsessive hatred of Muslims had its roots in centuries of religious conflict on the Iberian Peninsula: Portugal had been in a state of holy war with the Moors for generations.

The Muslims of the Indian Ocean were shown no mercy and the massacres began as soon as the caravels and carracks entered the Indian Ocean. On one occasion, Da Gama stopped a large trading dhow, the Merim, laden with riches and crammed with passengers. On board were noblemen and a large number of women and children returning from Mecca to Calicut. Da Gama had the cargo transferred to his ships, then ordered his men to massacre all seven hundred passengers. The women pleaded, offering their gold jewellery and holding up their babies, begging for mercy. To no avail. The dhow was set on fire and soldiers were lowered in rowing boats to finish off the survivors in the water with their lances. The ocean turned scarlet with their blood.

 

CHAPTER 18

 

At Ali’s the next day, Bin Ladin droned on, blaming America for the killing of Muslims in Bosnia and Somalia and, through the Israelis, in Lebanon and Palestine. ‘Infidels walk everywhere on the land where Mohammed was born and where the Koran was revealed to him,’ said the bearded figure. The messianic face stared from the screen and called down damnation on the West: ‘Merciful Allah, shatter their gathering, divide them among themselves, shake the earth under their feet and give us control over them.’

Ali and the television had begun to depress Paul. He needed downtime, so when the