Janvier Chouteu-Chando
TISI BOOKS
NEW YORK, RALEIGH, LONDON, AMSTERDAM
PUBLISHED BY TISI BOOKS
This story is dedicated to people who quit the hate groups they used to identify with in favor of serving humanity.
My deepest, warmest, and everlasting thanks to my entire family and friends.
“Evil is something you need to fight until it ceases trying to control you.”
―ANNA MAPAJANE CHITJA
I felt light-headed for several days after Sancho Eko Samson proposed to me that midsummer. My life was sort of surreal right up to the wedding day, which was the last Saturday of December. Even though some people thought my desire for an early wedding was irrational, I did not think I was rash at all. The truth is that I was extremely anxious to become the wife of the man I had loved for a long time but steeled myself from accepting the true nature of my feelings for him until recently.
Throughout the preparations, I hardly gave a second thought to the fact that Sancho agreed to virtually everything I asked for or suggested for the wedding. I just assumed he had no reservations at all and that he viewed my desire to wrap everything up so fast as a good thing.
The wedding itself was an average-sized one. The reception was for family and a few friends only―about a hundred and fifty souls altogether, but it was mixed and spirited enough to make it a special day to remember for the rest of my life.
I always knew Sancho’s idea for a honeymoon would be idyllic, so when he chose the Caribbean as the place for our wedding vacation, I was not surprised at all. We ended up spending more than half of our time in the French Guadeloupe, an overseas department of France, where Sancho’s mother had some family connections. He was eager to introduce me to his mother’s paternal uncle, to his second cousins, and to his mother’s cousin who were on the island at the time. His mother’s late grandfather Jacques Dumas was the owner of several beachside villas on the island where he spent the last years of his life. In fact, the scenic nature of the place and its alluring mix of life made his first son Luc Dumas abandon the enviable life he was living in sunny Nice in the French Riviera in order to make Guadeloupe his home too. He eventually took over the family’s interests in the Caribbean after his father died, and then went on to expand the family fortune to the point where Dumas became a household name in Guadeloupe. His move must have been ordained because the island became the enchanted base where the original Dumas descendants met every now and then to relax, bond and discuss affairs of their world.
The afternoon sun was overhead when we landed at the Pointe-à-Pitre International Airport, known in French as Aéroport Guadeloupe Pôle Caraïbes. Sancho’s second cousin Domique Dumas, the grandson of Luc Dumas, was there to pick us up. He suggested we have lunch first, and then took us to downtown Pointe-à-Pitre, to the Yoshi Restaurant where we had some sushi and red wine. That, of course, was the forerunner to the great time the Dumas clan gave us during our two-day stay in Basse-Terre. I loved it even though Sancho wanted us to dedicate the best part of our time to ourselves.
Sancho’s young relatives introduced me to beguine, a style of music typical to Guadeloupe that combines traditional bélé music with polka. I also acquired skills dancing quadrille, zouk, toumbélé, and zouk-love. It was in Guadeloupe that I first heard about Kassav―the legendary group that invented zouk music. One of Sancho’s second cousins even introduced us to Jacob Desvarieux, a core member of the Kassav band, who offered to show me a few zouk dance steps. I consented in a timid manner, but squealed with laughter, much to the amusement of everyone there when his Verdi beard rubbed on my exposed shoulder.
I loved and enjoyed the beauty of both the Grande-Terre and Basse-Terre islands. Above all, I melted to the warmth of the people who helped me to improve on my French and to pick up a few words in Creole.
When Sancho told his relatives that he would be renting a boat to do some island hopping and get to see what some of the Leeward Islands looked like, his mother’s uncle would not accept it. Instead, he offered us his highly-priced cabin cruiser, a boat anybody who has plied the waters of the Caribbean would appreciate for its value. That piece of marvel made our visits to the islands of Antigua, St Kitts, Nevis and Montserrat and Dominica glamorous to the point where Sancho gleefully extended our island-hopping to the Windward Islands of Martinique and St. Lucia. He found St. Lucia so beautiful and enthralling that he talked me into spending two nights there with him. By a stroke of luck, we found accommodation at The Jalousie Plantation, a UNESCO World Heritage site in the picturesque valley of The Pitons, a serene and breath-taking place nestled between a magnificent rainforest and the sea.
Satisfied though I was with The Jalousie Plantation, I thought the island had more to offer to spice up our stay there if we explored it further. So, when I suggested with sparkling eyes that we spend the last two nights of our honeymoon at the beautiful Le Meridien La Cocoteraie, a luxurious beachfront hotel of classic architecture featuring elegant suites, a private beach and a spectacular pool among other trappings, Sancho acceded with a smile. It was at one of its lighted tennis courts that I grabbed a racket and hit a tennis ball for the first time in my life, an interest I have developed into a passion to the point where lawn tennis is now my favorite sport.
The night before we flew out of the Caribbean was the day terrorists stroke at the Kuta district of the Indonesian island of Bali. The television set was on at the time and I was channel-zapping when I stumbled upon the story, which was CNN breaking news. The images on the screen made me yelp for Sancho out of an impulse and in a manner that must have scared the hell out of him because he emerged from the bathroom with an alarmed look on his face and hurried to my side. I pointed at the television without uttering a word, biting my fingernails as if the action would help in any way.
Sancho joined me on the bed, and then cuddled me and ruffled my hair, all the while holding me tenderly. We did not speak to each other for a couple of minutes as we watched the carnage on the television screen, and we didn’t say much afterwards except for those few moments when Sancho exclaimed his surprise, indignation and sympathy as if his feelings could ameliorate the pains caused by the terrorists. He was silent during CNN’s brief interlude on the news, and for some inexplicable reason, an austere and cautious look appeared on his face like someone brooding about something. I was beginning to wonder what the unknown thoughts racing through his mind could be when he turned around and regarded me with intriguing eyes.
“Where did the smile go? You had a beautiful smile on your face the other day. Did you lose it or something?” he asked and plastered my forehead with a kiss.
A kiss on my lips instead would have been a lot more soothing because it might have stopped me from saying the thought that was at the back of my mind at the time. “It depresses me knowing that people exist out there who are very comfortable killing in the name of religion,” I said.
“Blasphemy in the name of God is the phrase I prefer to use. The misfortune of religious misunderstanding from a twisted mind, I should add. If you don’t mind, I will go ahead and tell you a story about a little experience I had with this pseudo-fundamentalist, an intriguing fellow who considers me a friend.”
“Did you say a friend?” I muttered in disbelief.
“Hmm!” he said with a nod, “He looks up to me as his friend, probably for reasons best known to himself. Or perhaps he regarded me as his friend because I was unyielding in my argument with him without judging or condemning him.”
“I don’t believe you! How could you be friends with a jihadist?”
“Listen to what I have to say,” he said and raised his hands.
“Okay! I am listening,” I offered with a note of wariness in my voice.
“I first ran across this interesting guy called Joseph when I was a kid in Detroit. It was during my first summer holidays there. I was visiting my uncle at the time. Detroit, as you probably know, is where America makes most of its cars. General Motors, Ford, Chrysler, you name it and there is a guy out there in that city who knows someone who had a hand in making a bolt or some of the other parts, or let’s say the guy knows someone who contributed somehow in the process that rolled out a vehicle in one of the assembly lines.”
“Was he working in a car plant?”
Sancho shook his head no. “But that isn’t even the point. What is peculiar about Detroit is its high concentration of Muslims. Joseph was a simple-hearted fellow with very few opinions of his own. He was one of those types who would offer his only shirt to you if he thought you needed it more than he does. As a matter of fact, I ended up liking him and we even struck a special friendship that has stood the test of time. The point of my story is that he turned out to be a very different character from the enthusiastic and simple-minded fellow I knew him to be while we were growing up. This guy had an uncle who used to recount, in a very proud manner, his exploits in the Afghan war against the Soviet army. He would tell anybody who cared to listen that he fought in Afghanistan against the ‘infidels’ as he called the Russians and their fellow compatriots who came from the other constituent republics of the former Soviet Union. He even took Joseph there after the Soviets withdrew from the country. That was about two years ago.
“Do not be tempted to think that Joseph’s trip to Afghanistan with his scary uncle or their inclination towards the drinking of opium were the things that jolted me the most about his story. No, I was particularly shocked by the fellow’s unexpected change. He suddenly lost his empathy and no longer had qualms when it came to the subject of blowing up innocent people, be they women and children. Even though he even claimed at the time that he had never committed such a crime, he would not condemn those who carry out such horrific acts of murder in the name of Islam. So, I posed this question to him one night:
“‘Joseph, tell me something; tell me your opinion on this one as a friend; and tell me while looking at me straight in the eye. What about the children and women that get killed in the wars, innocent women and children who are not participating in it?’
‘They are the women and children of infidels. The women sleep with infidels and bear and nurture the children of those unbelievers. If you look at things from a logical perspective, you will end up sharing my point of view and even the conviction of my faith which is that the women are indirectly responsible for the actions of infidel governments. What about the children? I know you are about to ask that question. So, I will go ahead and answer it too, even though it is obvious you will disagree with me on this one. I say so because the likelihood of the male children growing up and becoming infidels like their fathers is very high. The same goes to the female children. They will mature into women and bear children, children who would then grow up to constitute the next generation of infidels. That is why I consider the elimination of women and children as a tactical move of silencing future infidels from the picture before they become bigger players. By the way, my name is no longer Joseph, my friend. My Muslim brothers call me Yusuf. That is how I prefer to be called henceforth,’ Joseph told me in that emotionless manner that you get only from people who have been brainwashed.”
* * *
“He was crazy,” I told Sancho.
“He certainly sounded crazy. However, I did not let him off the hook so easily,” Sancho said, and then continued:
* * *
“‘Isn’t the name Yusuf the Arabic version of Joseph?’ I asked him with the intention of letting him know that the different monotheistic religions share some of the prophets mentioned in their different holy books.
“I remember Joseph nodding. In fact, I remember the expression on his face because he looked like he was getting the picture of something unfamiliar, that this issue of religious incompatibility was not really what some people in this world make it look like. Believe it or not, Tania, I was sort of enjoying the bizarre conversation and probed him further.
“‘Tell me, Yusuf! What about the innocent Muslims who get caught in the crossfire? More Muslims are killed in the hands of the jihadists than in the hands of your infidels, you know?’
‘They are the revered martyrs―martyrs with the special privilege to enjoy a smooth journey to heaven for their sacrificial role in facilitating the jihad,’ Joseph told me in a defensive manner, but with a sudden sag in his confidence as if I succeeded in touching a soft spot in his soul.
‘Does that mean you are willing to sacrifice the life of a Muslim just to kill your infidel?’
‘Yes, my friend. Such a price is acceptable if there is a need for the infidel to die.’”
* * *
“Tania my love, Joseph’s position, a comically insane position I must say, is the prevalent view of those who justify the irrational murdering of innocent people in the name of religion. Joseph’s outlook on the support of militancy in one’s interpretation of his religious belief pales in comparison with the ideas his young friend once held. In fact, I also came across another guy who made quite an impression on me. His name is Abraham. We were not that close, that is, as compared to Joseph. However, I trusted him more. When I picked up a debate with him about this issue of jihad, Abraham was eager to give me his own perspective of things. He did so by explaining himself in this manner:
‘Sir, there is a lot you cannot understand. I hope you are comfortable with the fact that I am calling you sir. Tell me if you are not because I won’t mind addressing you in a different manner. You see, even as a kid, I always had this urge to squash life. It made me feel like I was all-powerful, like I was someone in control of life and death. I started squashing ants, cockroaches, butterflies, spiders, flies and other bugs when I was a toddler. I moved up to the next rung when I started chasing and killing mice, rabbits, squirrels, birds and fowls. That was even before my tenth birthday. Taking away the life of a sheep, pig, goat and other creatures became the next thing to do. As a matter of fact, deer hunting even became a further passion I developed even before I cast my first vote. There is another secret feeling I started nurturing while I was a teenager. Hmm! I know you will not believe this, but the truth is that I often wished I were the person behind the trigger each time we had newscasts of shootings in high schools and other campuses. There had to be an explanation for all my urges, you know! That is why when I discovered last year that my real maternal grandfather was a Muslim from a war-scarred region, I finally dawned on me that my genealogy had something to do with all those urges that had been driving me to squash life―by life, I mean both the souled and soulless forms. It is not as if my maternal grandfather was married to my grandmother, you know! He just knocked her up, and then took off, probably to seek his fortune elsewhere in the country or perhaps he returned to Sarajevo or something. My grandma’s sweet heart found her a couple of months after my biological grandfather deserted her, and then went on to marry her to the utter relief of her family. I sort of like him. I want you to know that I call him grandpa and treat him like my true grandfather. He is a jolly soul with a sweet heart and fondness for music. He even taught me to play the guitar. I joggle his lyrics every now and then with Islamic songs when I find myself in one of my singing moods.
‘Now, away from those sentimental distractions and back to the point, I was trying to make. My discovery of the fact that my true maternal grandfather was a Muslim explained many of the things I did not understand before about my character or personality. I think there is a connection between the haunting impulses in our lives and the disturbing things that took place in our pasts or in the lives of those we descend from. Or better put, there is a link between our lineage, history and the primordial forces driving us in life. I suppose you too have already given some thought to that.
‘You see, discovering who my maternal grandfather was really went a long way to help me understand the source of most of my urges. I am the descendant of a man whose native land has been a battleground for thousands of years, a land where his family survived and even prevailed. That discovery helped me a lot. It made me identify with my unknown maternal grandfather. I even promised never to let him down. I took that next step by becoming a Muslim and joining this movement to further the cause of Islam. We are going about our mission by using the sword to take over the world. Do not take my usage of the word sword literary. What I mean is that we are doing everything possible that will help us obliterate our enemies. That does not mean I accept one hundred percent all the methods we employ. Please, do not be horrified. Look at everything as my way of saying that I can live my passion for taking away lives, a passion that would be serving a noble cause this time around. My passion for squashing life now has a purpose greater than self-fulfillment. Let me be precise about this: It gives me a great deal of joy and satisfaction knowing that I am doing a good job for Allah by participating in the eradication of the infidels. Yes, my friend, I am serving a divine mission.’
‘Forgive me if you consider my interruption as a form of rudeness,’ I remember interjecting with a smile, ‘Aren’t you justifying killing? One of the Ten Commandments forbids the taking away of life, you know! Besides, killing is a form of madness, don’t you think?’
‘You make me laugh, my friend. I am glad you have a sense of history. You probably know that society construed every single drive by the great men of this world to come up with something new as a form of madness, even though the advances they made ended up benefiting us. The general society initially perceived man’s first attempt to fly, and worse more, his quest to fly beyond this earth, as a form of madness. The demands of progress pitted those movers of the times against reality or the way society perceived it to be at the time. Most of our forebears first regarded all the commandments or directives from the holy books as abnormal rules until society came to terms with them. That is why I am certain society will eventually accept and deal with our jihad in a complacent manner by living according to the laws of the holy book, which our prophet Mohamed received from Allah. The world shall hail us, the foot soldiers, as the messengers of Allah and the heroes of our times. We are the revolutionaries for Islam.’”
* * *
“It is unbelievable. They would have to kill the rational half of this world to achieve something like that,” I said to Sancho with a sense of indignation.
Sancho nodded in acknowledgement of my stance. “I knew I was dealing with the mind of a wandering soul! Yes, Tania! This guy was lost even to himself. However, I think he needed a dance with the religious lunatics to understand the higher purpose of life. I saw him again last winter at the post office. Tania, you won’t believe how much he had to go through to experience a change of heart. Abraham was looking distraught that day and was even mumbling to himself just before he raised his head and saw me. We didn’t chat for long before I found out that he lost his mother and stepfather a month before. They were vacationing in Egypt at the time they met their deaths, killed by a terrorist bomb of all things. Abraham must have looked at me as a source of relief from the tragedy he was agonizing over because he opened up his heart and confessed the errors of his views to me as if I had the powers to atone him of his sins, as if I could absolve him of his guilt for failing to be objective.”
* * *
“‘You pointedly told me before that our notion of jihad that kills innocent women and children is a form of madness. You made your point with a conviction that came from the depth of your heart and with an open mind that did not regard me as an enemy. You are right. It was madness, but sweet madness nonetheless. It was perhaps the sweetest madness I ever felt comfortable living with,’ Abraham articulated that evening in what turned out to be the beginning of a revealing confession.
‘What do you mean by sweet madness?’ I asked him.
Madness is infectious, but there is nothing as joyful as sweet madness. You can also call it deliberate madness. What is deliberate madness? Don’t say a word because I know it is the exact question you want to ask; I know that it is what you want to know. Well, deliberate madness is that state we arrive at when we unleash the full force of our spirit, allowing total and complete freedom to the impulses that have always been threatening to crush those constraints that helped us to stay normal in life. I am telling you from the depth of my heart that I was involved in a sort of deliberate madness. Take my words as the confessions of a soul from hell. My former comrades in the jihad movement are wallowing in deliberate madness of their own, even though some of them may not know it. You see, we are self-deceptive. By the word we, I mean the jihadists, the revolutionary Islamists, the Islamic-fundamentalists, the Islamo-fascists or whatever name you choose to use on us. We intentionally let loose our suppressed demons under the self-delusion that our diabolic acts are not maniacal at all. We do the work of the devil convinced that the hatred, anarchy, murder, terror, intolerance and even lust that we perpetuate are acts that are sanctioned by Allah to serve a divine purpose,’ he told me that with a sort of agonizing expression on his face…
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