Samia was obdurate. Her daughter had wounded her personally by keeping the relationship secret from her for years. But she restrained her two hot-tempered sons Butros and Bulos, who had ranted and raged, accusing their brother Basil from Damascus of lacking principles. Butros would actually have thrown Basil out of the house if his mother hadn’t stopped him.
“Sit down, boy. As long as I’m alive no one else throws anyone out of this house, certainly not his own brother.”
Butros gave way, and Bulos with him. Only Faris kept his temper and took note of everything.
Two weeks later Amira and Mariam arrived with the same request, assuring their mother that no one troubled about a man’s religion in Damascus any more, his character was all that mattered, and the Muslims were very accommodating too. A Christian like the legendary Fares al-Khuri could even become prime minister and the parliamentary leader of the Islamic state of Syria.
Their mother didn’t react, but nor did she refuse outright this time. Bulos, her second son, talked nonsense, and fell silent only after two reproofs, merely complaining now and then. Without the leadership of Butros he was only a simple cowherd.
Butros sat opposite his mother at the great table, ostentatiously taking his father’s place. He was grey-faced and said not a word. At that moment Faris realized that his eldest brother felt their mother was on the point of being reconciled to her favourite daughter.
He knew Butros, and he knew he would do anything to prevent such a reconciliation. From now on he watched his brother’s every move and every contact he made. Only in that way did he find out what Butros said to young Samuel when Amira came back to try changing her mother’s mind again. This time she brought her husband and their spoilt son, whom Faris did not like. When Butros left the room he followed, silent as his brother’s shadow, and overheard his conversation with their nephew.
Faris was hiding behind a haystack when an ingenious plan suddenly formed in his mind. Very close to him, Butros was telling Samuel that the Muslims were to blame for the downfall of Arabia. The boy didn’t understand a word of it. Then Butros started talking about heroes who saved the honour and good name of their families and won immortality. After that he held out the prospect of a great reward to the boy: the finest horse in the Shahin stables, and one of the most modern pistols in the world along with a crate of ammunition. Apparently only three men on earth carried such a weapon, and the fourth pistol could be Samuel’s. Gradually, the boy fell for the lure, and asked what the penalty would be. Butros told him the prison sentence would be six months at the most, because he was avenging his family’s honour, and was still a minor too.
At that moment Faris knew that his sister Jasmin was doomed to die. Finally Butros kissed his nephew and promised to bring the horse to Damascus himself. Samuel cried, “I’ll kill her for betraying us.”
Faris wondered, but only briefly, if he could save his sister’s life. He quickly worked out the answer. No, no one could save her. She had become fair game, she herself had decided to challenge death. If she had fled to America for ever, she could have lived there undisturbed, but she had wanted to flaunt herself. There was something of the daredevil about Jasmin, and she enjoyed the limelight. By standing in it this time, however, she had condemned herself to death.
So Samuel was also releasing Faris from a tiresome duty. If he did give the boy away, this particular attempt on Jasmin’s life would probably come to nothing, but then someone else would kill her at Butros’s urging. However, if he kept his mouth shut he could at least prove who was behind the much-indulged young murderer. And he knew exactly who would take revenge on the man who had wickedly urged Samuel on: Samia, the mistress of the clan.
He held his peace.
44. A Mother’s Lament
Samia wouldn’t have her daughter buried in Mala. She decided on Damascus, and chose the church of St. Mary in historic Straight Street. It was the biggest Orthodox church in the country. A bishop and six priests were to conduct her daughter’s funeral service.
The church was enormous and the congregation of mourners tiny. Although Samia laid on five buses, less than a hundred people came from Mala and Aleppo. And even those who did, family and friends, attended the funeral only reluctantly, although SamDevia had spread the word that her daughter died as she had lived, in the true Christian faith of the Orthodox Church.
In fact Syrian law does not compel a woman who marries a Muslim to convert to Islam. The children of such a marriage are indeed all Muslims, but Jasmin never had any children.
As far as her immediate family was concerned, Samuel’s mother Amira and all Samia’s sons and daughters with their own families sat in the front row, or at least they sat there until Samia gave an address for Jasmin which was an impromptu part of the service.
Faris stuck close to his mother that day. He held her arm until proceedings reached the young bishop’s luke-warm sermon, which ended up half condemning both the dead woman and her murderer Samuel and half asking forgiveness and mercy for them. At that point old Samia shook her arm free of her son’s grasp, went up to the casket at the front of the congregation, and kissed its lid.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, hear my prayer! I commit into your hands a gentle soul who died innocent. Innocent,” said Samia, raising her voice again, “because she followed the dictates of love. Her heart beat for Jesus, who taught us to love our enemies. Then murderers came along and killed her for loving a stranger, and now we’re supposed to pray for those who murder a loving woman in the name of honour. What kind of honour is that? What kind of honour?” cried Samia in a voice that broke, looking at the bishop where he stood frozen like a pale statue at the altar. “What kind of honour is it that men seek not on the field of battle, but in a woman whom they utterly despise? What honour do those murderers have who tore my daughter away from me, robbed me of her for ever and ever? Who gave them the right to end a life? Religion? No! A religion that parts God’s creatures is the work of the devil.”
Samia faltered slightly when two groups of three or four people rose and ostentatiously left the church, making a lot of noise about it. The first to storm out was her son Butros, followed by his wife and his four children. Then Bulos left, with his wife after him.
“Go, daughter,” said Samia to Jasmin in her coffin, this time in a sad and loving voice, “go to your Creator in peace, you bear no guilt, go with your pure heart and Paradise will take you in. There’s more room for lovers there than on this miserable earth. Go, daughter, go in peace. I will love you always, for as long as my heart beats. Go, my little angel, and God be with you,” she concluded her address, in tears, and slowly went back to her seat.
Many wept, Rana among them, although she didn’t understand why her grandmother had been talking about murderers in the plural. Later, Rana remembered not so much the words as the reaction of the congregation. They were horrified. Even her father was ashamed that his mother had spoken out so angrily in the house of God.
The bishop bravely went on with his prayers. The funeral procession was a solemn one after all. And when the bishop’s old housekeeper indignantly denounced Samia at supper, saying she was a crazy old woman, the bishop surprised her even more than the old widow had done. “Samia Shahin taught me more today with her address,” he said, “than I learned in five years studying theology.”