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It was plain from the wings of the stage that his students liked him. The hall was packed. He made his lectures feel like a long and civilized conversation between equals, seldom referring to notes, jacket off, pacing up and down, his short, plump body radiating enthusiasm to impart and share scholarship, to give serious attention to any point raised from the floor, never putting a student down for lack of knowledge, talking in layman’s language, keeping the body of the lecture short with plenty of time for student questions. He had reached that point when the spook from Fort Meade appeared in the wings.
A red plaid shirt in the fifth row raised a hand.
‘You said you disagreed with the use of the term “fundamentalist” to refer to the philosophy of the terrorists. Why?’
Given the blizzard of publicity concerning matters Arabic, Islamic and Koranic that had swept across America since 9/11, every question session swerved quickly from theoretical learning to the onslaught on the West that had occupied so much of the previous ten years.
‘Because it is a misnomer,’ said the professor. ‘The very word implies “back to basics”. But the planters of bombs in trains, malls and buses are not going back to the basics of Islam. They are writing their own new script, then arguing retroactively, seeking to find Koranic passages that justify their war.
‘There are fundamentalists in all religions. Christian monks in a closed order, sworn to poverty, self-denial, chastity, obedience – these are fundamentalists. Ascetics exist in all religions but they do not advocate indiscriminate mass murder of men, women and children. That is the key phrase. Judge all religions and all sects within those religions by that phrase and you will see that to wish to return to the basic teachings is not terrorism, for in no religion, including Islam, do the basic teachings advocate mass murder.’
In the wings the man from Fort Meade tried to attract Dr Martin’s attention. The professor glanced sideways and noted the young man with the short-barbered hair, button-down shirt and dark suit. He had ‘government’ written all over him. He tapped the watch on his wrist. Martin nodded.
‘Then what would you call the terrorists of today? Jihadists?’
It was an earnest young woman further back. From her face Dr Martin judged her parents must have come from the Middle East: India, Pakistan, Iran perhaps. But she did not wear the hejab scarf over the head to indicate strict Muslim.
‘Even jihad is the wrong word. Of course jihad exists, but it has rules. Either it is a personal struggle within oneself to become a better Muslim, but in that case it is completely non-aggressive. Or it means true holy war, armed struggle in the defence of Islam. That’s what the terrorists claim they are about. But they choose to airbrush the rules out of the text.
‘For one thing true jihad can only be declared by a legitimate Koranic authority of proven and accepted repute. Bin Laden and his acolytes are notorious for their lack of scholarship. Even if the West had indeed attacked, hurt, damaged, humiliated and demeaned Islam and thus all Muslims, there are still rules and the Koran is absolutely specific on these.
‘It is forbidden to attack and kill those who have offered no offence and done nothing to hurt you. It is forbidden to kill women and children. It is forbidden to take hostages and it is forbidden to mistreat, torture or kill prisoners. The AQ terrorists and their followers do all four on a daily basis. And let us not forget that they have killed far more fellow-Muslims than Christians or Jews.’
‘Then what do you call their campaign?’
The man in the wings was becoming agitated. A full general had given him an order. He did not wish to be the last to report back.
‘I would term them the New Jihadis, because they have invented an unholy war outside the laws of Holy Koran and thus of true Islam. True jihad is not savage, but what they practise is. Last question, I am afraid.’
There was a gathering of books and notes. A hand shot up at the front. Freckles, white T-shirt advertising a student rock group.
‘All the bombers claim to be martyrs. How do they justify this?’
‘Badly,’ said Dr Martin, ‘because they have been duped, well educated though some of them are. It is perfectly feasible to die a shahid, or martyr, fighting for Islam in a truly declared jihad. But again there are rules and these are quite specific in the Koran. The warrior must not die by his own hand even though he has volunteered for a no-return mission. He must not know the time and place of his own death.
‘Suicides do exactly that. Yet suicide is specifically forbidden. In his lifetime Muhammad absolutely refused to bless the body of a suicide even though the man had ended his own life to avoid the crippling agony of his disease. Those who commit mass murder of innocents and commit suicide are destined for hell, not paradise. The false preachers and imams who trick them down this road will join them there. And now, I fear, we must rejoin the world of Georgetown and hamburgers. Thank you for your attention.’
They gave him a standing ovation and, pink with embarrassment, he took his jacket and walked into the wings.
‘Sorry to interrupt, professor,’ said the man from Fort Meade, ‘but the brass need the Koran Committee back at the Fort. The car is outside.’
‘In a hurry?’
‘Yesterday, sir. There’s a flap on.’
‘Any ideas?’ asked Martin.
‘No, sir.’
Of course. Need to know. The unshakeable rule. If you do not need to know, to do your job, they are not going to tell you. Martin’s curiosity would have to wait. The car was the usual dark sedan with the telltale aerial on the roof. It needed to be in touch with base all the time. The driver was a corporal, but even though Fort Meade is an army base the man was in plain clothes, not uniform. No need to advertise either.
Dr Martin climbed into the back while the driver held the door open. His escort took the front passenger seat and they began to drive through the early evening traffic out to the Baltimore highway.
Far to the east the man converting his own barn into a retirement home stretched out by the camp fire in the orchard. He was perfectly happy like that. If he could sleep in rocks and snow drifts he could certainly sleep on the soft grass beneath the apple trees.
Camp-fire fuel was absolutely no problem. He had enough rotten old planks to last a lifetime. His billycan sizzled above the red embers and he prepared a welcome mug of steaming tea. Fancy drinks are fine in their way but after a hard day’s work a soldier’s reward is a mug of piping hot tea.
He had in fact taken the afternoon off from his lofty task up on the roof and walked into Meonstoke to visit the general store and buy provisions for the weekend.
