Hans was heartily sick of the religious instruction. Sure, they provided some snacks to supplement the otherwise bland diet. Sure, the bearded imam—a Sunni—in charge was an interesting, at least an enthusiastic, speaker and teacher. Sure, and best of all, no one was torturing his body to prepare it for future use as a janissary.
None of that made up for the consistent, and concerted attacks on Hans' most cherished beliefs, learned from earliest age at his mother's knee, and in school.
"To say that man is born into a state of original sin," said the imam scornfully, "means that the very handiwork of Allah Himself must be flawed. Yet this cannot be; Allah is perfect, in all he does. We do not worship mere power, boys, but perfection. Indeed, every child born is born into a state without sin, a state of purity."
Hans was pretty certain, based on his dealings with other children, that they were no such thing.
"Thus, there cannot have been a need for Jesus, Peace be upon Him, who was a prophet and no son of Allah except in the sense that all of mankind are His sons and daughters . . . there was no need for him to die on the cross to redeem that which Allah had—in His infinite mercy—already long since forgiven. This is perhaps the greatest of lies the Nazrani tell."
It was tempting to think and yet . . .
If Christ suffered and died for our sins, it is greater proof of His love for us than if he merely forgave us those sins.
"Now there are some who think," the imam—no slouch as either a theologian or a teacher of young boys—continued, "that this alleged crucifixion of Christ is greater proof of Allah's love for man. Nothing could be further from the truth; for Allah's forgiveness alone is perfect and sufficient. The alleged crucifixion is superfluous."
The imam must have noticed Hans' facial expression.
"Yes, young eagle," he said, with a warm and friendly smile, "I can read your thoughts." The imam laughed. "No, I can't. But I've seen young reverted boys like you balk at that statement so many times I've come to expect it, and to note the signs of it. You have a question; I can see."
Hans bowed his head respectfully. "Yes, sir. How do we know Allah did not have a son, as the Nazrani teach? He can, after all, do whatever he wishes."
"Ah, but why would He want to?" the imam answered. "We have sons to carry on after us, because we all must grow old and die. But Allah is eternal and unchanging. He needs no son and His having one would be, again, superfluous. Worse, it is a form of polytheism, no different, in principle, from the beliefs of the old pagans. Even the accursed Jews never fell into this trap, though they fell into or created many others."
"But Jesus, in both texts, performed miracles," Hans objected.
The imam nodded, his face serious. "In both texts, indeed. Note, though, that even the Nazrani texts tend to agree that Jesus made few or no miracles on his own word, but always invoked the name of Allah. A son, one who was begotten by a father and thus like unto the father, would have needed no help."
Hans nodded, not as if he agreed but as if he had no counter- argument. The imam saw this.
"I know it is hard to give up the beliefs in which you were raised," he said, still smiling. The smile, if anything, grew self-deprecating. "Instant miracles are Allah's purview, not mine. There is time for you to come to the truth, boy. And the longer and harder the road, the more forcefully will you hold on to the truth once you reach it."
Interlude
Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany,
16 January, 2004
Gabrielle shook all the way home from the mosque. She'd torn her burka off and thrown it in the gutter scant steps after passing the mosque door. "They hate us that much? I can't believe it," she said, over and over.
"Believe it, Gabi," Mahmoud said. "They despise everything about you . . . and about me, since I love you."
She missed that admission. Hands waving widely, she said, "But surely those . . . those . . . lunatics are a tiny minority. Mahmoud, I know Muslim people who are nothing like that."
"You think you know them," he corrected. "But you do not know that you know them. We have no problem lying to or hiding our beliefs from the 'infidels' when necessary . . . or just useful."
Gabi shook her head. "But most of our Moslems come from Turkey, which is secular. A lot of them, too, come from the Balkans which didn't take religion seriously anyway."
"And why do you suppose they left, then, some of them? Maybe because secularism and indifference to religion were not very comfortable to them, hmmm?"
"But we're even more secular than Turkey and more indifferent than Bosnians."
"That's true," he admitted, slowly shaking his head in quasi- agreement. "For now, it's true. Yet the Turkish army stands as a bulwark against mixing church and state, if only to preserve its own power. Does your army? As for the Bosnians . . . well, being Moslem there was a decidedly dangerous thing. Little wonder some of them left. And then, too, several thousand Germans convert to Islam annually."
Gabrielle stopped walking and turned to face him. "You keep speaking as if religion mattered. I don't understand that. It doesn't matter to you."
"Just because I'm not devout doesn't mean I'm an atheist, Gabi." He held his hands up defensively. "Yes, yes, I know you claim to be— something I hope to talk you out of, someday, by the way. Yet I've seen you clasp your hands sometimes in what looks to the casual outside observer to be much like prayer. You say things like, 'God help us,' and 'God damn them'—usually with regards to the Americans, of course."
"Childhood conditioning with no faith behind it," she insisted.
"Of course," Mahmoud said dryly.
Ignoring the sarcasm, Gabi turned and began walking again, quietly at first. When she resumed speaking, she said, "It's all because we treat them as second class people here. No wonder they hate us when they see the fat and idle rich drive by in their Benzes. No wonder they hate us when we relegate them to jobs we think are beneath us. They have a right to hate us when we deprive them of the vote, even though they pay taxes, and refuse to let them become full citizens."
"Well," Mahmoud said, in a deliberately neutral voice, "you've changed the law to do that."
"Yes," she hissed, "but with such unfair restrictions that only a few can qualify. What? Fifty-six thousand Turks allowed to join our blessed Reich last year? Fewer, so they say, this year. Out of almost three million?"
"Ah, so you would prefer to be more like the Americans," he chided.
She started to answer and then stopped, mouth half open. When she did speak it was only to say, "Fuck you, Mahmoud."
At that he nodded vigorously. "Excellent idea. Your apartment or mine? And while we're on the subject, why are we still paying for two apartments?"
It was only at that point that she realized what he had said earlier: "since I love you."
Chapter Five
I was never so enthusiastically proud of the flag till now!