dreams. I take tranquillisers, cocaine and alcohol, but it doesn’t make any difference. I still want to go out and strangle Mohammad Atta and his friends in the Syrian, Iranian, Pakistani Afghan and North African wastelands. I sometimes think of stoning activists to a slow and painful death. Then I wake up and accept that Faria was a Muslim. She wasn’t particularly devout. But she had a copy of the Koran and her mother still prays to Allah.
‘So how do we get a resolution?’ I ask.
‘And live together peacefully?’
‘Yes – ’
‘Maybe first we need a serious contest, Rudi.’
With bombs and bodies and the lingering consequences of radiation.
‘I see all of this,’ I say. ‘But how far does it have to go before we get around a table and try to sort out our differences?’
There had to be a way that would allow Muslims and the rest of us to live together in peace. I’m doing my best, but Sharif is switching off – politely and with a charming smile.
‘How did you find Sulima?’ he asks.
Great, fantastic, a star – but not too happy.
‘It’s difficult for her at the moment,’ he concedes. ‘She is keeping our business going however, and for that I am grateful. I don’t have the commitment any more, Rudi. What we’re doing here at the Foundation is taking up most of my time.’
According to reports in the financial press, the Sharifs could get several hundred million dollars from the sale of their oil importing business. For now though I see the Foundation as a possible way through to my former friend.
‘So it’s a big day,’ he says, pointing down to the tree-lined street, where people are gathering to file past the Swiss gendarmes on the gates. They are mostly young men with beards, flowing Muslim robes and embroidered white skullcaps. There are a few older people in suits and a handful of women, modestly covered up with burqas, jilbabs or hijabs.
* * * * *
‘We have a proud history,’ Sharif says when we join the scholarship students, their family members and guests. The Foundation’s reception area is full and people are starting to take their seats in what had been the African politician’s ballroom. ‘I think we have to do something to express how we feel, Rudi,’ the host adds. ‘I see myself merely as a facilitator in this process. I am privileged to assist my brothers and sisters, and what we’re celebrating here today are their academic achievements.’
He’s impressively understated in a pale blue denim shirt, chinos and deck shoes, but people stand aside and lower their heads respectfully as he approaches. I feel like I’m under the protection of the caliph; a favoured guest from another planet, which means that whenever Sharif stops, I’m included in the handshakes and deferential bows.
‘I am Ahmed,’ a member of one group says as the benefactor moves on and I’m surrounded by half a dozen of the Foundation’s scholarship students from Palestine. ‘I have just completed my Master’s in Business Administration at Princeton, and I feel I owe everything that I have achieved to Mr Sharif … he made it possible.’
He has an untrimmed beard and intense dark eyes. For the moment he’s showing me respect as I’m the main man’s honoured guest. I do feel vulnerable however. It’s my Lower East Side New York accent that has me in the frame. ‘ 9/11 was just the start, my man – a taster for what’s to come …we’re preparing now for a big push …it’s pay-back time for the Crusades! ’
‘How have you found the experience of studying in Western countries?’ I ask the group generally, but it’s Ahmed who answers.
‘There’s no question but that you have the best universities,’ he concedes. ‘There is nothing comparable, not even in Russia. So we must come to you … we have no alternative.’
‘And when you complete your studies?’
I’m probing cautiously here between potentially lethal shards of glass, but Ahmed counters with a
‘So how do we get a resolution?’ I ask.
‘And live together peacefully?’
‘Yes – ’
‘Maybe first we need a serious contest, Rudi.’
With bombs and bodies and the lingering consequences of radiation.
‘I see all of this,’ I say. ‘But how far does it have to go before we get around a table and try to sort out our differences?’
There had to be a way that would allow Muslims and the rest of us to live together in peace. I’m doing my best, but Sharif is switching off – politely and with a charming smile.
‘How did you find Sulima?’ he asks.
Great, fantastic, a star – but not too happy.
‘It’s difficult for her at the moment,’ he concedes. ‘She is keeping our business going however, and for that I am grateful. I don’t have the commitment any more, Rudi. What we’re doing here at the Foundation is taking up most of my time.’
According to reports in the financial press, the Sharifs could get several hundred million dollars from the sale of their oil importing business. For now though I see the Foundation as a possible way through to my former friend.
‘So it’s a big day,’ he says, pointing down to the tree-lined street, where people are gathering to file past the Swiss gendarmes on the gates. They are mostly young men with beards, flowing Muslim robes and embroidered white skullcaps. There are a few older people in suits and a handful of women, modestly covered up with burqas, jilbabs or hijabs.
* * * * *
‘We have a proud history,’ Sharif says when we join the scholarship students, their family members and guests. The Foundation’s reception area is full and people are starting to take their seats in what had been the African politician’s ballroom. ‘I think we have to do something to express how we feel, Rudi,’ the host adds. ‘I see myself merely as a facilitator in this process. I am privileged to assist my brothers and sisters, and what we’re celebrating here today are their academic achievements.’
He’s impressively understated in a pale blue denim shirt, chinos and deck shoes, but people stand aside and lower their heads respectfully as he approaches. I feel like I’m under the protection of the caliph; a favoured guest from another planet, which means that whenever Sharif stops, I’m included in the handshakes and deferential bows.
‘I am Ahmed,’ a member of one group says as the benefactor moves on and I’m surrounded by half a dozen of the Foundation’s scholarship students from Palestine. ‘I have just completed my Master’s in Business Administration at Princeton, and I feel I owe everything that I have achieved to Mr Sharif … he made it possible.’
He has an untrimmed beard and intense dark eyes. For the moment he’s showing me respect as I’m the main man’s honoured guest. I do feel vulnerable however. It’s my Lower East Side New York accent that has me in the frame. ‘ 9/11 was just the start, my man – a taster for what’s to come …we’re preparing now for a big push …it’s pay-back time for the Crusades! ’
‘How have you found the experience of studying in Western countries?’ I ask the group generally, but it’s Ahmed who answers.
‘There’s no question but that you have the best universities,’ he concedes. ‘There is nothing comparable, not even in Russia. So we must come to you … we have no alternative.’
‘And when you complete your studies?’
I’m probing cautiously here between potentially lethal shards of glass, but Ahmed counters with a
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