Sharp Focus, Bitter Contrasts

Found these in my inbox. Haven't been able to locate the source (the artist). Some sharp focus and bitter contrasts they present.

An Outpost of Progress - Joseph Conrad

"An Outpost of Progress" is an poignant short story by Joseph Conrad (the famous author of the "Heart of Darkness") written in July 1896 and is based in part on the author's own experience of being Congo. A wiki entry tells us that "Writing in the heyday of the British Empire, Conrad drew upon his experiences in the French and later the British Merchant Navy to create short stories and novels that reflect aspects of a worldwide empire while also plumbing the depths of the human soul."

I was introduced to this story by a professor in an undergrad class. Drawing from this story and a couple of other sources, I wrote a piece on the 'mentalities of the colonizers and colonized', which, unfortunately, I can't find right now. But I distinctively remember this story leaving an enduring impression on me.

Image source.

An Outpost of Progress
by Joseph Conrad

I

There were two white men in charge of the trading station. Kayerts, the chief, was short and fat; Carlier, the assistant, was tall, with a large head and a very broad trunk perched upon a long pair of thin legs. The third man on the staff was a Sierra Leone nigger, who maintained that his name was Henry Price. However, for some reason or other, the natives down the river had given him the name of Makola, and it stuck to him through all his wanderings about the country. He spoke English and French with a warbling accent, wrote a beautiful hand, understood bookkeeping, and cherished in his innermost heart the worship of evil spirits. His wife was a negress from Loanda, very large and very noisy. Three children rolled about in sunshine before the door of his low, shed-like dwelling. Makola, taciturn and impenetrable, despised the two white men. He had charge of a small clay storehouse with a dried-grass roof, and pretended to keep a correct account of beads, cotton cloth, red kerchiefs, brass wire, and other trade goods it contained. Besides the storehouse and Makola's hut, there was only one large building in the cleared ground of the station. It was built neatly of reeds, with a verandah on all the four sides. There were three rooms in it. The one in the middle was the living-room, and had two rough tables and a few stools in it. The other two were the bedrooms for the white men. Each had a bedstead and a mosquito net for all furniture. The plank floor was littered with the belongings of the white men; open half-empty boxes, torn wearing apparel, old boots; all the things dirty, and all the things broken, that accumulate mysteriously round untidy men. There was also another dwelling-place some distance away from the buildings. In it, under a tall cross much out of the perpendicular, slept the man who had seen the beginning of all this; who had planned and had watched the construction of this outpost of progress. He had been, at home, an unsuccessful painter who, weary of pursuing fame on an empty stomach, had gone out there through high protections. He had been the first chief of that station. Makola had watched the energetic artist die of fever in the just finished house with his usual kind of "I told you so" indifference. Then, for a time, he dwelt alone with his family, his account books, and the Evil Spirit that rules the lands under the equator. He got on very well with his god. Perhaps he had propitiated him by a promise of more white men to play with, by and by. At any rate the director of the Great Trading Company, coming up in a steamer that resembled an enormous sardine box with a flat-roofed shed erected on it, found the station in good order, and Makola as usual quietly diligent. The director had the cross put up over the first agent's grave, and appointed Kayerts to the post. Carlier was told off as second in charge. The director was a man ruthless and efficient, who at times, but very imperceptibly, indulged in grim humour. He made a speech to Kayerts and Carlier, pointing out to them the promising aspect of their station. The nearest trading-post was about three hundred miles away. It was an exceptional opportunity for them to distinguish themselves and to earn percentages on the trade. This appointment was a favour done to beginners. Kayerts was moved almost to tears by his director's kindness. He would, he said, by doing his best, try to justify the flattering confidence, &c., &c. Kayerts had been in the Administration of the Telegraphs, and knew how to express himself correctly. Carlier, an ex-non-commissioned officer of cavalry in an army guaranteed from harm by several European Powers, was less impressed. If there were commissions to get, so much the better; and, trailing a sulky glance over the river, the forests, the impenetrable bush that seemed to cut off the station from the rest of the world, he muttered between his teeth, "We shall see, very soon."

Next day, some bales of cotton goods and a few cases of provisions having been thrown on shore, the sardine-box steamer went off, not to return for another six months. On the deck the director touched his cap to the two agents, who stood on the bank waving their hats, and turning to an old servant of the Company on his passage to headquarters, said, "Look at those two imbeciles. They must be mad at home to send me such specimens. I told those fellows to plant a vegetable garden, build new storehouses and fences, and construct a landing-stage. I bet nothing will be done! They won't know how to begin. I always thought the station on this river useless, and they just fit the station!"

"They will form themselves there," said the old stager with a quiet smile.

"At any rate, I am rid of them for six months," retorted the director.

The two men watched the steamer round the bend, then, ascending arm in arm the slope of the bank, returned to the station. They had been in this vast and dark country only a very short time, and as yet always in the midst of other white men, under the eye and guidance of their superiors. And now, dull as they were to the subtle influences of surroundings, they felt themselves very much alone, when suddenly left unassisted to face the wilderness; a wilderness rendered more strange, more incomprehensible by the mysterious glimpses of the vigorous life it contained. They were two perfectly insignificant and incapable individuals, whose existence is only rendered possible through the high organization of civilized crowds. Few men realize that their life, the very essence of their character, their capabilities and their audacities, are only the expression of their belief in the safety of their surroundings. The courage, the composure, the confidence; the emotions and principles; every great and every insignificant thought belongs not to the individual but to the crowd: to the crowd that believes blindly in the irresistible force of its institutions and of its morals, in the power of its police and of its opinion. But the contact with pure unmitigated savagery, with primitive nature and primitive man, brings sudden and profound trouble into the heart. To the sentiment of being alone of one's kind, to the clear perception of the loneliness of one's thoughts, of one's sensations--to the negation of the habitual, which is safe, there is added the affirmation of the unusual, which is dangerous; a suggestion of things vague, uncontrollable, and repulsive, whose discomposing intrusion excites the imagination and tries the civilized nerves of the foolish and the wise alike.

Kayerts and Carlier walked arm in arm, drawing close to one another as children do in the dark; and they had the same, not altogether unpleasant, sense of danger which one half suspects to be imaginary. They chatted persistently in familiar tones. "Our station is prettily situated," said one. The other assented with enthusiasm, enlarging volubly on the beauties of the situation. Then they passed near the grave. "Poor devil!" said Kayerts. "He died of fever, didn't he?" muttered Carlier, stopping short. "Why," retorted Kayerts, with indignation, "I've been told that the fellow exposed himself recklessly to the sun. The climate here, everybody says, is not at all worse than at home, as long as you keep out of the sun. Do you hear that, Carlier? I am chief here, and my orders are that you should not expose yourself to the sun!" He assumed his superiority jocularly, but his meaning was serious. The idea that he would, perhaps, have to bury Carlier and remain alone, gave him an inward shiver. He felt suddenly that this Carlier was more precious to him here, in the centre of Africa, than a brother could be anywhere else. Carlier, entering into the spirit of the thing, made a military salute and answered in a brisk tone, "Your orders shall be attended to, chief!" Then he burst out laughing, slapped Kayerts on the back and shouted, "We shall let life run easily here! Just sit still and gather in the ivory those savages will bring. This country has its good points, after all!" They both laughed loudly while Carlier thought: "That poor Kayerts; he is so fat and unhealthy. It would be awful if I had to bury him here. He is a man I respect." . . . Before they reached the verandah of their house they called one another "my dear fellow."

The first day they were very active, pottering about with hammers and nails and red calico, to put up curtains, make their house habitable and pretty; resolved to settle down comfortably to their new life. For them an impossible task. To grapple effectually with even purely material problems requires more serenity of mind and more lofty courage than people generally imagine. No two beings could have been more unfitted for such a struggle. Society, not from any tenderness, but because of its strange needs, had taken care of those two men, forbidding them all independent thought, all initiative, all departure from routine; and forbidding it under pain of death. They could only live on condition of being machines. And now, released from the fostering care of men with pens behind the ears, or of men with gold lace on the sleeves, they were like those lifelong prisoners who, liberated after many years, do not know what use to make of their freedom. They did not know what use to make of their faculties, being both, through want of practice, incapable of independent thought.

At the end of two months Kayerts often would say, "If it was not for my Melie, you wouldn't catch me here." Melie was his daughter. He had thrown up his post in the Administration of the Telegraphs, though he had been for seventeen years perfectly happy there, to earn a dowry for his girl. His wife was dead, and the child was being brought up by his sisters. He regretted the streets, the pavements, the cafes, his friends of many years; all the things he used to see, day after day; all the thoughts suggested by familiar things--the thoughts effortless, monotonous, and soothing of a Government clerk; he regretted all the gossip, the small enmities, the mild venom, and the little jokes of Government offices. "If I had had a decent brother- in-law," Carlier would remark, "a fellow with a heart, I would not be here." He had left the army and had made himself so obnoxious to his family by his laziness and impudence, that an exasperated brother-in-law had made superhuman efforts to procure him an appoint- ment in the Company as a second-class agent. Having not a penny in the world he was compelled to accept this means of livelihood as soon as it became quite clear to him that there was nothing more to squeeze out of his relations. He, like Kayerts, regretted his old life. He regretted the clink of sabre and spurs on a fine afternoon, the barrack-room witticisms, the girls of garrison towns; but, besides, he had also a sense of grievance. He was evidently a much ill-used man. This made him moody, at times. But the two men got on well together in the fellowship of their stupidity and laziness. Together they did nothing, absolutely nothing, and enjoyed the sense of the idleness for which they were paid. And in time they came to feel something resembling affection for one another.

They lived like blind men in a large room, aware only of what came in contact with them (and of that only imperfectly), but unable to see the general aspect of things. The river, the forest, all the great land throbbing with life, were like a great emptiness. Even the brilliant sunshine disclosed nothing intelligible. Things appeared and disappeared before their eyes in an unconnected and aimless kind of way. The river seemed to come from nowhere and flow nowhither. It flowed through a void. Out of that void, at times, came canoes, and men with spears in their hands would suddenly crowd the yard of the station. They were naked, glossy black, ornamented with snowy shells and glistening brass wire, perfect of limb. They made an uncouth babbling noise when they spoke, moved in a stately manner, and sent quick, wild glances out of their startled, never-resting eyes. Those warriors would squat in long rows, four or more deep, before the verandah, while their chiefs bargained for hours with Makola over an elephant tusk. Kayerts sat on his chair and looked down on the proceedings, understanding nothing. He stared at them with his round blue eyes, called out to Carlier, "Here, look! look at that fellow there--and that other one, to the left. Did you ever such a face? Oh, the funny brute!"

Carlier, smoking native tobacco in a short wooden pipe, would swagger up twirling his moustaches, and surveying the warriors with haughty indulgence, would say--

"Fine animals. Brought any bone? Yes? It's not any too soon. Look at the muscles of that fellow third from the end. I wouldn't care to get a punch on the nose from him. Fine arms, but legs no good below the knee. Couldn't make cavalry men of them." And after glancing down complacently at his own shanks, he always concluded: "Pah! Don't they stink! You, Makola! Take that herd over to the fetish" (the storehouse was in every station called the fetish, perhaps because of the spirit of civilization it contained) "and give them up some of the rubbish you keep there. I'd rather see it full of bone than full of rags."

Kayerts approved.

"Yes, yes! Go and finish that palaver over there, Mr. Makola. I will come round when you are ready, to weigh the tusk. We must be careful." Then turning to his companion: "This is the tribe that lives down the river; they are rather aromatic. I remember, they had been once before here. D'ye hear that row? What a fellow has got to put up with in this dog of a country! My head is split."

Such profitable visits were rare. For days the two pioneers of trade and progress would look on their empty courtyard in the vibrating brilliance of vertical sunshine. Below the high bank, the silent river flowed on glittering and steady. On the sands in the middle of the stream, hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. And stretching away in all directions, surrounding the insignificant cleared spot of the trading post, immense forests, hiding fateful complications of fantastic life, lay in the eloquent silence of mute greatness. The two men understood nothing, cared for nothing but for the passage of days that separated them from the steamer's return. Their predecessor had left some torn books. They took up these wrecks of novels, and, as they had never read anything of the kind before, they were surprised and amused. Then during long days there were interminable and silly discussions about plots and personages. In the centre of Africa they made acquaintance of Richelieu and of d'Artagnan, of Hawk's Eye and of Father Goriot, and of many other people. All these imaginary personages became subjects for gossip as if they had been living friends. They discounted their virtues, suspected their motives, decried their successes; were scandalized at their duplicity or were doubtful about their courage. The accounts of crimes filled them with indignation, while tender or pathetic passages moved them deeply. Carlier cleared his throat and said in a soldierly voice, "What nonsense!" Kayerts, his round eyes suffused with tears, his fat cheeks quivering, rubbed his bald head, and declared. "This is a splendid book. I had no idea there were such clever fellows in the world." They also found some old copies of a home paper. That print discussed what it was pleased to call "Our Colonial Expansion" in high-flown language. It spoke much of the rights and duties of civilization, of the sacredness of the civilizing work, and extolled the merits of those who went about bringing light, and faith and commerce to the dark places of the earth. Carlier and Kayerts read, wondered, and began to think better of themselves. Carlier said one evening, waving his hand about, "In a hundred years, there will be perhaps a town here. Quays, and warehouses, and barracks, and--and--billiard-rooms. Civilization, my boy, and virtue--and all. And then, chaps will read that two good fellows, Kayerts and Carlier, were the first civilized men to live in this very spot!" Kayerts nodded, "Yes, it is a consolation to think of that." They seemed to forget their dead predecessor; but, early one day, Carlier went out and replanted the cross firmly. "It used to make me squint whenever I walked that way," he explained to Kayerts over the morning coffee. "It made me squint, leaning over so much. So I just planted it upright. And solid, I promise you! I suspended myself with both hands to the cross-piece. Not a move. Oh, I did that properly."

At times Gobila came to see them. Gobila was the chief of the neighbouring villages. He was a gray-headed savage, thin and black, with a white cloth round his loins and a mangy panther skin hanging over his back. He came up with long strides of his skeleton legs, swinging a staff as tall as himself, and, entering the common room of the station, would squat on his heels to the left of the door. There he sat, watching Kayerts, and now and then making a speech which the other did not understand. Kayerts, without interrupting his occupation, would from time to time say in a friendly manner: "How goes it, you old image?" and they would smile at one another. The two whites had a liking for that old and incomprehensible creature, and called him Father Gobila. Gobila's manner was paternal, and he seemed really to love all white men. They all appeared to him very young, indistinguishably alike (except for stature), and he knew that they were all brothers, and also immortal. The death of the artist, who was the first white man whom he knew intimately, did not disturb this belief, because he was firmly convinced that the white stranger had pretended to die and got himself buried for some mysterious purpose of his own, into which it was useless to inquire. Perhaps it was his way of going home to his own country? At any rate, these were his brothers, and he transferred his absurd affection to them. They returned it in a way. Carlier slapped him on the back, and recklessly struck off matches for his amusement. Kayerts was always ready to let him have a sniff at the ammonia bottle. In short, they behaved just like that other white creature that had hidden itself in a hole in the ground. Gobila considered them attentively. Perhaps they were the same being with the other--or one of them was. He couldn't decide--clear up that mystery; but he remained always very friendly. In consequence of that friendship the women of Gobila's village walked in single file through the reedy grass, bringing every morning to the station, fowls, and sweet potatoes, and palm wine, and sometimes a goat. The Company never provisions the stations fully, and the agents required those local supplies to live. They had them through the good-will of Gobila, and lived well. Now and then one of them had a bout of fever, and the other nursed him with gentle devotion. They did not think much of it. It left them weaker, and their appearance changed for the worse. Carlier was hollow-eyed and irritable. Kayerts showed a drawn, flabby face above the rotundity of his stomach, which gave him a weird aspect. But being constantly together, they did not notice the change that took place gradually in their appearance, and also in their dispositions.

Five months passed in that way.

Then, one morning, as Kayerts and Carlier, lounging in their chairs under the verandah, talked about the approaching visit of the steamer, a knot of armed men came out of the forest and advanced towards the station. They were strangers to that part of the country. They were tall, slight, draped classically from neck to heel in blue fringed cloths, and carried percussion muskets over their bare right shoulders. Makola showed signs of excitement, and ran out of the storehouse (where he spent all his days) to meet these visitors. They came into the courtyard and looked about them with steady, scornful glances. Their leader, a powerful and determined-looking negro with bloodshot eyes, stood in front of the verandah and made a long speech. He gesticulated much, and ceased very suddenly.

There was something in his intonation, in the sounds of the long sentences he used, that startled the two whites. It was like a reminiscence of something not exactly familiar, and yet resembling the speech of civilized men. It sounded like one of those impossible languages which sometimes we hear in our dreams.

"What lingo is that?" said the amazed Carlier. "In the first moment I fancied the fellow was going to speak French. Anyway, it is a different kind of gibberish to what we ever heard."

"Yes," replied Kayerts. "Hey, Makola, what does he say? Where do they come from? Who are they?"

But Makola, who seemed to be standing on hot bricks, answered hurriedly, "I don't know. They come from very far. Perhaps Mrs. Price will understand. They are perhaps bad men."

The leader, after waiting for a while, said something sharply to Makola, who shook his head. Then the man, after looking round, noticed Makola's hut and walked over there. The next moment Mrs. Makola was heard speaking with great volubility. The other strangers--they were six in all--strolled about with an air of ease, put their heads through the door of the storeroom, congregated round the grave, pointed understandingly at the cross, and generally made themselves at home.

"I don't like those chaps--and, I say, Kayerts, they must be from the coast; they've got firearms," observed the sagacious Carlier.

Kayerts also did not like those chaps. They both, for the first time, became aware that they lived in conditions where the unusual may be dangerous, and that there was no power on earth outside of themselves to stand between them and the unusual. They became uneasy, went in and loaded their revolvers. Kayerts said, "We must order Makola to tell them to go away before dark."

The strangers left in the afternoon, after eating a meal prepared for them by Mrs. Makola. The immense woman was excited, and talked much with the visitors. She rattled away shrilly, pointing here and there at the forests and at the river. Makola sat apart and watched. At times he got up and whispered to his wife. He accompanied the strangers across the ravine at the back of the station-ground, and returned slowly looking very thoughtful. When questioned by the white men he was very strange, seemed not to understand, seemed to have forgotten French--seemed to have forgotten how to speak altogether. Kayerts and Carlier agreed that the nigger had had too much palm wine.

There was some talk about keeping a watch in turn, but in the evening everything seemed so quiet and peaceful that they retired as usual. All night they were disturbed by a lot of drumming in the villages. A deep, rapid roll near by would be followed by another far off--then all ceased. Soon short appeals would rattle out here and there, then all mingle together, increase, become vigorous and sustained, would spread out over the forest, roll through the night, unbroken and ceaseless, near and far, as if the whole land had been one immense drum booming out steadily an appeal to heaven. And through the deep and tremendous noise sudden yells that resembled snatches of songs from a madhouse darted shrill and high in discordant jets of sound which seemed to rush far above the earth and drive all peace from under the stars.

Carlier and Kayerts slept badly. They both thought they had heard shots fired during the night--but they could not agree as to the direction. In the morning Makola was gone somewhere. He returned about noon with one of yesterday's strangers, and eluded all Kayerts' attempts to close with him: had become deaf apparently. Kayerts wondered. Carlier, who had been fishing off the bank, came back and remarked while he showed his catch, "The niggers seem to be in a deuce of a stir; I wonder what's up. I saw about fifteen canoes cross the river during the two hours I was there fishing." Kayerts, worried, said, "Isn't this Makola very queer to-day?" Carlier advised, "Keep all our men together in case of some trouble."

II

There were ten station men who had been left by the Director. Those fellows, having engaged themselves to the Company for six months (without having any idea of a month in particular and only a very faint notion of time in general), had been serving the cause of progress for upwards of two years. Belonging to a tribe from a very distant part of the land of darkness and sorrow, they did not run away, naturally supposing that as wandering strangers they would be killed by the inhabitants of the country; in which they were right. They lived in straw huts on the slope of a ravine overgrown with reedy grass, just behind the station buildings. They were not happy, regretting the festive incantations, the sorceries, the human sacrifices of their own land; where they also had parents, brothers, sisters, admired chiefs, respected magicians, loved friends, and other ties supposed generally to be human. Besides, the rice rations served out by the Company did not agree with them, being a food unknown to their land, and to which they could not get used. Consequently they were unhealthy and miserable. Had they been of any other tribe they would have made up their minds to die--for nothing is easier to certain savages than suicide--and so have escaped from the puzzling difficulties of existence. But belonging, as they did, to a warlike tribe with filed teeth, they had more grit, and went on stupidly living through disease and sorrow. They did very little work, and had lost their splendid physique. Carlier and Kayerts doctored them assiduously without being able to bring them back into condition again. They were mustered every morning and told off to different tasks--grass-cutting, fence-building, tree-felling, &c., &c., which no power on earth could induce them to execute efficiently. The two whites had practically very little control over them.

In the afternoon Makola came over to the big house and found Kayerts watching three heavy columns of smoke rising above the forests. "What is that?" asked Kayerts. "Some villages burn," answered Makola, who seemed to have regained his wits. Then he said abruptly: "We have got very little ivory; bad six months' trading. Do you like get a little more ivory?"

"Yes," said Kayerts, eagerly. He thought of percentages which were low.

"Those men who came yesterday are traders from Loanda who have got more ivory than they can carry home. Shall I buy? I know their camp."

"Certainly," said Kayerts. "What are those traders?"

"Bad fellows," said Makola, indifferently. "They fight with people, and catch women and children. They are bad men, and got guns. There is a great disturbance in the country. Do you want ivory?"

"Yes," said Kayerts. Makola said nothing for a while. Then: "Those workmen of ours are no good at all," he muttered, looking round. "Station in very bad order, sir. Director will growl. Better get a fine lot of ivory, then he say nothing."

"I can't help it; the men won't work," said Kayerts. "When will you get that ivory?"

"Very soon," said Makola. "Perhaps to-night. You leave it to me, and keep indoors, sir. I think you had better give some palm wine to our men to make a dance this evening. Enjoy themselves. Work better to-morrow. There's plenty palm wine--gone a little sour."

Kayerts said "yes," and Makola, with his own hands carried big calabashes to the door of his hut. They stood there till the evening, and Mrs. Makola looked into every one. The men got them at sunset. When Kayerts and Carlier retired, a big bonfire was flaring before the men's huts. They could hear their shouts and drumming. Some men from Gobila's village had joined the station hands, and the entertainment was a great success.

In the middle of the night, Carlier waking suddenly, heard a man shout loudly; then a shot was fired. Only one. Carlier ran out and met Kayerts on the verandah. They were both startled. As they went across the yard to call Makola, they saw shadows moving in the night. One of them cried, "Don't shoot! It's me, Price." Then Makola appeared close to them. "Go back, go back, please," he urged, "you spoil all." "There are strange men about," said Carlier. "Never mind; I know," said Makola. Then he whispered, "All right. Bring ivory. Say nothing! I know my business." The two white men reluctantly went back to the house, but did not sleep. They heard footsteps, whispers, some groans. It seemed as if a lot of men came in, dumped heavy things on the ground, squabbled a long time, then went away. They lay on their hard beds and thought: "This Makola is invaluable." In the morning Carlier came out, very sleepy, and pulled at the cord of the big bell. The station hands mustered every morning to the sound of the bell. That morning nobody came. Kayerts turned out also, yawning. Across the yard they saw Makola come out of his hut, a tin basin of soapy water in his hand. Makola, a civilized nigger, was very neat in his person. He threw the soapsuds skilfully over a wretched little yellow cur he had, then turning his face to the agent's house, he shouted from the distance, "All the men gone last night!"

They heard him plainly, but in their surprise they both yelled out together: "What!" Then they stared at one another. "We are in a proper fix now," growled Carlier. "It's incredible!" muttered Kayerts. "I will go to the huts and see," said Carlier, striding off. Makola coming up found Kayerts standing alone.

"I can hardly believe it," said Kayerts, tearfully. "We took care of them as if they had been our children."

"They went with the coast people," said Makola after a moment of hesitation.

"What do I care with whom they went--the ungrateful brutes!" exclaimed the other. Then with sudden suspicion, and looking hard at Makola, he added: "What do you know about it?"

Makola moved his shoulders, looking down on the ground. "What do I know? I think only. Will you come and look at the ivory I've got there? It is a fine lot. You never saw such."

He moved towards the store. Kayerts followed him mechanically, thinking about the incredible desertion of the men. On the ground before the door of the fetish lay six splendid tusks.

"What did you give for it?" asked Kayerts, after surveying the lot with satisfaction.

"No regular trade," said Makola. "They brought the ivory and gave it to me. I told them to take what they most wanted in the station. It is a beautiful lot. No station can show such tusks. Those traders wanted carriers badly, and our men were no good here. No trade, no entry in books: all correct."

Kayerts nearly burst with indignation. "Why!" he shouted, "I believe you have sold our men for these tusks!" Makola stood impassive and silent. "I--I--will--I," stuttered Kayerts. "You fiend!" he yelled out.

"I did the best for you and the Company," said Makola, imperturbably. "Why you shout so much? Look at this tusk."

"I dismiss you! I will report you--I won't look at the tusk. I forbid you to touch them. I order you to throw them into the river. You--you!"

"You very red, Mr. Kayerts. If you are so irritable in the sun, you will get fever and die--like the first chief!" pronounced Makola impressively.

They stood still, contemplating one another with intense eyes, as if they had been looking with effort across immense distances. Kayerts shivered. Makola had meant no more than he said, but his words seemed to Kayerts full of ominous menace! He turned sharply and went away to the house. Makola retired into the bosom of his family; and the tusks, left lying before the store, looked very large and valuable in the sunshine.

Carlier came back on the verandah. "They're all gone, hey?" asked Kayerts from the far end of the common room in a muffled voice. "You did not find anybody?"

"Oh, yes," said Carlier, "I found one of Gobila's people lying dead before the huts--shot through the body. We heard that shot last night."

Kayerts came out quickly. He found his companion staring grimly over the yard at the tusks, away by the store. They both sat in silence for a while. Then Kayerts related his conversation with Makola. Carlier said nothing. At the midday meal they ate very little. They hardly exchanged a word that day. A great silence seemed to lie heavily over the station and press on their lips. Makola did not open the store; he spent the day playing with his children. He lay full-length on a mat outside his door, and the youngsters sat on his chest and clambered all over him. It was a touching picture. Mrs. Makola was busy cooking all day, as usual. The white men made a somewhat better meal in the evening. Afterwards, Carlier smoking his pipe strolled over to the store; he stood for a long time over the tusks, touched one or two with his foot, even tried to lift the largest one by its small end. He came back to his chief, who had not stirred from the verandah, threw himself in the chair and said--

"I can see it! They were pounced upon while they slept heavily after drinking all that palm wine you've allowed Makola to give them. A put-up job! See? The worst is, some of Gobila's people were there, and got carried off too, no doubt. The least drunk woke up, and got shot for his sobriety. This is a funny country. What will you do now?"

"We can't touch it, of course," said Kayerts.

"Of course not," assented Carlier.

"Slavery is an awful thing," stammered out Kayerts in an unsteady voice.

"Frightful--the sufferings," grunted Carlier with conviction.

They believed their words. Everybody shows a respectful deference to certain sounds that he and his fellows can make. But about feelings people really know nothing. We talk with indignation or enthusiasm; we talk about oppression, cruelty, crime, devotion, self-sacrifice, virtue, and we know nothing real beyond the words. Nobody knows what suffering or sacrifice mean--except, perhaps the victims of the mysterious purpose of these illusions.

Next morning they saw Makola very busy setting up in the yard the big scales used for weighing ivory. By and by Carlier said: "What's that filthy scoundrel up to?" and lounged out into the yard. Kayerts followed. They stood watching. Makola took no notice. When the balance was swung true, he tried to lift a tusk into the scale. It was too heavy. He looked up helplessly without a word, and for a minute they stood round that balance as mute and still as three statues. Suddenly Carlier said: "Catch hold of the other end, Makola--you beast!" and together they swung the tusk up. Kayerts trembled in every limb. He muttered, "I say! O! I say!" and putting his hand in his pocket found there a dirty bit of paper and the stump of a pencil. He turned his back on the others, as if about to do something tricky, and noted stealthily the weights which Carlier shouted out to him with unnecessary loudness. When all was over Makola whispered to himself: "The sun's very strong here for the tusks." Carlier said to Kayerts in a careless tone: "I say, chief, I might just as well give him a lift with this lot into the store."

As they were going back to the house Kayerts observed with a sigh: "It had to be done." And Carlier said: "It's deplorable, but, the men being Company's men the ivory is Company's ivory. We must look after it." "I will report to the Director, of course," said Kayerts. "Of course; let him decide," approved Carlier.

At midday they made a hearty meal. Kayerts sighed from time to time. Whenever they mentioned Makola's name they always added to it an opprobrious epithet. It eased their conscience. Makola gave himself a half-holiday, and bathed his children in the river. No one from Gobila's villages came near the station that day. No one came the next day, and the next, nor for a whole week. Gobila's people might have been dead and buried for any sign of life they gave. But they were only mourning for those they had lost by the witchcraft of white men, who had brought wicked people into their country. The wicked people were gone, but fear remained. Fear always remains. A man may destroy everything within himself, love and hate and belief, and even doubt; but as long as he clings to life he cannot destroy fear: the fear, subtle, indestructible, and terrible, that pervades his being; that tinges his thoughts; that lurks in his heart; that watches on his lips the struggle of his last breath. In his fear, the mild old Gobila offered extra human sacrifices to all the Evil Spirits that had taken possession of his white friends. His heart was heavy. Some warriors spoke about burning and killing, but the cautious old savage dissuaded them. Who could foresee the woe those mysterious creatures, if irritated, might bring? They should be left alone. Perhaps in time they would disappear into the earth as the first one had disappeared. His people must keep away from them, and hope for the best.

Kayerts and Carlier did not disappear, but remained above on this earth, that, somehow, they fancied had become bigger and very empty. It was not the absolute and dumb solitude of the post that impressed them so much as an inarticulate feeling that something from within them was gone, something that worked for their safety, and had kept the wilderness from interfering with their hearts. The images of home; the memory of people like them, of men that thought and felt as they used to think and feel, receded into distances made indistinct by the glare of unclouded sunshine. And out of the great silence of the surrounding wilderness, its very hopelessness and savagery seemed to approach them nearer, to draw them gently, to look upon them, to envelop them with a solicitude irresistible, familiar, and disgusting.

Days lengthened into weeks, then into months. Gobila's people drummed and yelled to every new moon, as of yore, but kept away from the station. Makola and Carlier tried once in a canoe to open communications, but were received with a shower of arrows, and had to fly back to the station for dear life. That attempt set the country up and down the river into an uproar that could be very distinctly heard for days. The steamer was late. At first they spoke of delay jauntily, then anxiously, then gloomily. The matter was becoming serious. Stores were running short. Carlier cast his lines off the bank, but the river was low, and the fish kept out in the stream. They dared not stroll far away from the station to shoot. Moreover, there was no game in the impenetrable forest. Once Carlier shot a hippo in the river. They had no boat to secure it, and it sank. When it floated up it drifted away, and Gobila's people secured the carcase. It was the occasion for a national holiday, but Carlier had a fit of rage over it and talked about the necessity of exterminating all the niggers before the country could be made habitable. Kayerts mooned about silently; spent hours looking at the portrait of his Melie. It represented a little girl with long bleached tresses and a rather sour face. His legs were much swollen, and he could hardly walk. Carlier, undermined by fever, could not swagger any more, but kept tottering about, still with a devil-may-care air, as became a man who remembered his crack regiment. He had become hoarse, sarcastic, and inclined to say unpleasant things. He called it "being frank with you." They had long ago reckoned their percentages on trade, including in them that last deal of "this infamous Makola." They had also concluded not to say anything about it. Kayerts hesitated at first--was afraid of the Director.

"He has seen worse things done on the quiet," maintained Carlier, with a hoarse laugh. "Trust him! He won't thank you if you blab. He is no better than you or me. Who will talk if we hold our tongues? There is nobody here."

That was the root of the trouble! There was nobody there; and being left there alone with their weakness, they became daily more like a pair of accomplices than like a couple of devoted friends. They had heard nothing from home for eight months. Every evening they said, "To-morrow we shall see the steamer." But one of the Company's steamers had been wrecked, and the Director was busy with the other, relieving very distant and important stations on the main river. He thought that the useless station, and the useless men, could wait. Meantime Kayerts and Carlier lived on rice boiled without salt, and cursed the Company, all Africa, and the day they were born. One must have lived on such diet to discover what ghastly trouble the necessity of swallowing one's food may become. There was literally nothing else in the station but rice and coffee; they drank the coffee without sugar. The last fifteen lumps Kayerts had solemnly locked away in his box, together with a half-bottle of Cognac, "in case of sickness," he explained. Carlier approved. "When one is sick," he said, "any little extra like that is cheering."

They waited. Rank grass began to sprout over the courtyard. The bell never rang now. Days passed, silent, exasperating, and slow. When the two men spoke, they snarled; and their silences were bitter, as if tinged by the bitterness of their thoughts.

One day after a lunch of boiled rice, Carlier put down his cup untasted, and said: "Hang it all! Let's have a decent cup of coffee for once. Bring out that sugar, Kayerts!"

"For the sick," muttered Kayerts, without looking up.

"For the sick," mocked Carlier. "Bosh! . . . Well! I am sick."

"You are no more sick than I am, and I go without," said Kayerts in a peaceful tone.

"Come! out with that sugar, you stingy old slave-dealer."

Kayerts looked up quickly. Carlier was smiling with marked insolence. And suddenly it seemed to Kayerts that he had never seen that man before. Who was he? He knew nothing about him. What was he capable of? There was a surprising flash of violent emotion within him, as if in the presence of something undreamt-of, dangerous, and final. But he managed to pronounce with composure--

"That joke is in very bad taste. Don't repeat it."

"Joke!" said Carlier, hitching himself forward on his seat. "I am hungry--I am sick--I don't joke! I hate hypocrites. You are a hypocrite. You are a slave-dealer. I am a slave-dealer. There's nothing but slave-dealers in this cursed country. I mean to have sugar in my coffee to-day, anyhow!"

"I forbid you to speak to me in that way," said Kayerts with a fair show of resolution.

"You!--What?" shouted Carlier, jumping up.

Kayerts stood up also. "I am your chief," he began, trying to master the shakiness of his voice.

"What?" yelled the other. "Who's chief? There's no chief here. There's nothing here: there's nothing but you and I. Fetch the sugar--you pot-bellied ass."

"Hold your tongue. Go out of this room," screamed Kayerts. "I dismiss you--you scoundrel!"

Carlier swung a stool. All at once he looked dangerously in earnest. "You flabby, good-for-nothing civilian--take that!" he howled.

Kayerts dropped under the table, and the stool struck the grass inner wall of the room. Then, as Carlier was trying to upset the table, Kayerts in desperation made a blind rush, head low, like a cornered pig would do, and over-turning his friend, bolted along the verandah, and into his room. He locked the door, snatched his revolver, and stood panting. In less than a minute Carlier was kicking at the door furiously, howling, "If you don't bring out that sugar, I will shoot you at sight, like a dog. Now then--one--two--three. You won't? I will show you who's the master."

Kayerts thought the door would fall in, and scrambled through the square hole that served for a window in his room. There was then the whole breadth of the house between them. But the other was apparently not strong enough to break in the door, and Kayerts heard him running round. Then he also began to run laboriously on his swollen legs. He ran as quickly as he could, grasping the revolver, and unable yet to understand what was happening to him. He saw in succession Makola's house, the store, the river, the ravine, and the low bushes; and he saw all those things again as he ran for the second time round the house. Then again they flashed past him. That morning he could not have walked a yard without a groan.

And now he ran. He ran fast enough to keep out of sight of the other man.

Then as, weak and desperate, he thought, "Before I finish the next round I shall die," he heard the other man stumble heavily, then stop. He stopped also. He had the back and Carlier the front of the house, as before. He heard him drop into a chair cursing, and suddenly his own legs gave way, and he slid down into a sitting posture with his back to the wall. His mouth was as dry as a cinder, and his face was wet with perspiration--and tears. What was it all about? He thought it must be a horrible illusion; he thought he was dreaming; he thought he was going mad! After a while he collected his senses. What did they quarrel about? That sugar! How absurd! He would give it to him--didn't want it himself. And he began scrambling to his feet with a sudden feeling of security. But before he had fairly stood upright, a commonsense reflection occurred to him and drove him back into despair. He thought: "If I give way now to that brute of a soldier, he will begin this horror again to-morrow--and the day after--every day--raise other pretensions, trample on me, torture me, make me his slave--and I will be lost! Lost! The steamer may not come for days--may never come." He shook so that he had to sit down on the floor again. He shivered forlornly. He felt he could not, would not move any more. He was completely distracted by the sudden perception that the position was without issue--that death and life had in a moment become equally difficult and terrible.

All at once he heard the other push his chair back; and he leaped to his feet with extreme facility. He listened and got confused. Must run again! Right or left? He heard footsteps. He darted to the left, grasping his revolver, and at the very same instant, as it seemed to him, they came into violent collision. Both shouted with surprise. A loud explosion took place between them; a roar of red fire, thick smoke; and Kayerts, deafened and blinded, rushed back thinking: "I am hit--it's all over." He expected the other to come round--to gloat over his agony. He caught hold of an upright of the roof--"All over!" Then he heard a crashing fall on the other side of the house, as if somebody had tumbled headlong over a chair--then silence. Nothing more happened. He did not die. Only his shoulder felt as if it had been badly wrenched, and he had lost his revolver. He was disarmed and helpless! He waited for his fate. The other man made no sound. It was a stratagem. He was stalking him now! Along what side? Perhaps he was taking aim this very minute!

After a few moments of an agony frightful and absurd, he decided to go and meet his doom. He was prepared for every surrender. He turned the corner, steadying himself with one hand on the wall; made a few paces, and nearly swooned. He had seen on the floor, protruding past the other corner, a pair of turned-up feet. A pair of white naked feet in red slippers. He felt deadly sick, and stood for a time in profound darkness. Then Makola appeared before him, saying quietly: "Come along, Mr. Kayerts. He is dead." He burst into tears of gratitude; a loud, sobbing fit of crying. After a time he found himself sitting in a chair and looking at Carlier, who lay stretched on his back. Makola was kneeling over the body.

"Is this your revolver?" asked Makola, getting up.

"Yes," said Kayerts; then he added very quickly, "He ran after me to shoot me--you saw!"

"Yes, I saw," said Makola. "There is only one revolver; where's his?"

"Don't know," whispered Kayerts in a voice that had become suddenly very faint.

"I will go and look for it," said the other, gently. He made the round along the verandah, while Kayerts sat still and looked at the corpse. Makola came back empty-handed, stood in deep thought, then stepped quietly into the dead man's room, and came out directly with a revolver, which he held up before Kayerts. Kayerts shut his eyes. Everything was going round. He found life more terrible and difficult than death. He had shot an unarmed man.

After meditating for a while, Makola said softly, pointing at the dead man who lay there with his right eye blown out--

"He died of fever." Kayerts looked at him with a stony stare. "Yes," repeated Makola, thoughtfully, stepping over the corpse, "I think he died of fever. Bury him to-morrow."

And he went away slowly to his expectant wife, leaving the two white men alone on the verandah.

Night came, and Kayerts sat unmoving on his chair. He sat quiet as if he had taken a dose of opium. The violence of the emotions he had passed through produced a feeling of exhausted serenity. He had plumbed in one short afternoon the depths of horror and despair, and now found repose in the conviction that life had no more secrets for him: neither had death! He sat by the corpse thinking; thinking very actively, thinking very new thoughts. He seemed to have broken loose from himself altogether. His old thoughts, convictions, likes and dislikes, things he respected and things he abhorred, appeared in their true light at last! Appeared contemptible and childish, false and ridiculous. He revelled in his new wisdom while he sat by the man he had killed. He argued with himself about all things under heaven with that kind of wrong-headed lucidity which may be observed in some lunatics. Incidentally he reflected that the fellow dead there had been a noxious beast anyway; that men died every day in thousands; perhaps in hundreds of thousands--who could tell?--and that in the number, that one death could not possibly make any difference; couldn't have any importance, at least to a thinking creature. He, Kayerts, was a thinking creature. He had been all his life, till that moment, a believer in a lot of nonsense like the rest of mankind--who are fools; but now he thought! He knew! He was at peace; he was familiar with the highest wisdom! Then he tried to imagine himself dead, and Carlier sitting in his chair watching him; and his attempt met with such unexpected success, that in a very few moments he became not at all sure who was dead and who was alive. This extraordinary achievement of his fancy startled him, however, and by a clever and timely effort of mind he saved himself just in time from becoming Carlier. His heart thumped, and he felt hot all over at the thought of that danger. Carlier! What a beastly thing! To compose his now disturbed nerves--and no wonder!--he tried to whistle a little. Then, suddenly, he fell asleep, or thought he had slept; but at any rate there was a fog, and somebody had whistled in the fog.

He stood up. The day had come, and a heavy mist had descended upon the land: the mist penetrating, enveloping, and silent; the morning mist of tropical lands; the mist that clings and kills; the mist white and deadly, immaculate and poisonous. He stood up, saw the body, and threw his arms above his head with a cry like that of a man who, waking from a trance, finds himself immured forever in a tomb. "Help! . . . . My God!"

A shriek inhuman, vibrating and sudden, pierced like a sharp dart the white shroud of that land of sorrow. Three short, impatient screeches followed, and then, for a time, the fog-wreaths rolled on, undisturbed, through a formidable silence. Then many more shrieks, rapid and piercing, like the yells of some exasperated and ruthless creature, rent the air. Progress was calling to Kayerts from the river. Progress and civilization and all the virtues. Society was calling to its accomplished child to come, to be taken care of, to be instructed, to be judged, to be condemned; it called him to return to that rubbish heap from which he had wandered away, so that justice could be done.

Kayerts heard and understood. He stumbled out of the verandah, leaving the other man quite alone for the first time since they had been thrown there together. He groped his way through the fog, calling in his ignorance upon the invisible heaven to undo its work. Makola flitted by in the mist, shouting as he ran--

"Steamer! Steamer! They can't see. They whistle for the station. I go ring the bell. Go down to the landing, sir. I ring."

He disappeared. Kayerts stood still. He looked upwards; the fog rolled low over his head. He looked round like a man who has lost his way; and he saw a dark smudge, a cross-shaped stain, upon the shifting purity of the mist. As he began to stumble towards it, the station bell rang in a tumultuous peal its answer to the impatient clamour of the steamer.

The Managing Director of the Great Civilizing Company (since we know that civilization follows trade) landed first, and incontinently lost sight of the steamer. The fog down by the river was exceedingly dense; above, at the station, the bell rang unceasing and brazen.

The Director shouted loudly to the steamer:

"There is nobody down to meet us; there may be something wrong, though they are ringing. You had better come, too!"

And he began to toil up the steep bank. The captain and the engine-driver of the boat followed behind. As they scrambled up the fog thinned, and they could see their Director a good way ahead. Suddenly they saw him start forward, calling to them over his shoulder:--"Run! Run to the house! I've found one of them. Run, look for the other!"

He had found one of them! And even he, the man of varied and startling experience, was somewhat discomposed by the manner of this finding. He stood and fumbled in his pockets (for a knife) while he faced Kayerts, who was hanging by a leather strap from the cross. He had evidently climbed the grave, which was high and narrow, and after tying the end of the strap to the arm, had swung himself off. His toes were only a couple of inches above the ground; his arms hung stiffly down; he seemed to be standing rigidly at attention, but with one purple cheek playfully posed on the shoulder. And, irreverently, he was putting out a swollen tongue at his Managing Director.

"Good Muslim, Bad Muslim"

Good Muslims are moderate, rational, non-violent, and progressive, who chant, "Islam is the R-O-P" (Religion of Peace). Bad Muslims are extremists, irrational, violent, and fundamentalists, who chant "Death to Amreeka" and are against everything modern-and-civilized. Often this is how Muslims are presented in the mainstream news media. Which box do you fit in?!

Three Responses

Usually three kinds of responses to the above binaries have been seen in the mainstream media. Some do not see any problem at all in these binaries. You might hear them saying something on the following line, "Yes, you are right...there is some trouble with Islam." "Bad Muslims in fact do exist, just like you said it." "But...we are not like them! We are Good Muslims! We are just like you want us to be!"

The second does see a problem with these binaries. This is the apologetic response that tries to defend Islam and Muslims but without questioning the underlying assumptions of those binaries. The people following this stance seem to have internalized the underlying assumptions and are unconcerned or unaware of their politics. You might hear them saying, "No, not all Muslims are terrorists." "There are a few bad apples among all people. We renounce all forms of violence. Islam is a religion of peace." "Islam also preaches tolerance just like you are demanding." These responses are often defeatist. How so? Ask a simple question to them: Are you a fundamentalist?

The third kind of response starts by questioning the underlying assumptions and interrogates their politics. So, for example, it would first ask who is a fundamentalist, who is defining that to be so, with what assumptions, and for what political ends? Before invading Taliban-controlled Afghanistan when President Bush demanded, are you with us or with them, the third kind of response absolutely refused to play within this false dilemma: Neither you, nor them!

I find the third approach most fruitful and assertive. This discussion is important if we are concerned about the questions of patriotism and integration in the mainstream, if we are concerned about the future of our activism and politics, about how others think of Muslims and Islam, and how even Muslims see themselves and their religion in an era of information age and globalization.

Let me elaborate the third approach by way of examining their underlying assumptions and politics below. This discussion is informed by Mahmood Mamdani's widely acclaimed book Good Muslim, Bad Muslim: America, the Cold War, and the Roots of Terror (2005).

I should also clarify at this point that this piece focuses on how a certain mainstream discourse tries to frame and control Muslim outlook and politics. I do not deny that we have all kinds of social and political problems in our midst. We definitely need critical self-reflection and change. The concern in this piece is to be mindful of who is shaping the agenda of that "change", from what perspective, and toward what end? Another related concern is that even for resolving our "internal" problems we need to understand the role of "external" factors and long term historical interconnections.

The Underlying Assumptions

Want to understand why Muslim women are so oppressed? Why are Muslim men so violent? Why are there too many authoritarian regimes in the Middle East? WHY DO THEY HATE US? The answer to all of these questions, as the media and many political pundits tell, lies in understanding the "Muslim Mind" (or the "Arab Mind" or the "Shia Mind"). How do you read that mind? Read it by reading their religious texts. Understand the "logic of their culture" – often presented with quite simplistic and reductive formulas in the media. No surprise that immediately after 9/11, so many Americans rushed to Barnes & Noble to buy the Qur'an. No surprise that 'burqa' became the singular explanation of all kinds of oppression on women in Afghanistan. And no surprise that the anti-US-Israel resistance in many countries are many times explained through the so-called "martyrdom complex". ("It's not our fault that they are bent on killing themselves – we are just poor victims of their irrational beliefs.")

The Politics and Messy History

A historically informed perspective on the other hand would demand that the audience connect the abovementioned questions with wars, militarization, poverty, power struggles, the competition for global hegemony during and after the Cold War, the pursuit of oil and gas and other forms of economic and cultural exploitations, the direct support of the global powers to dictatorial and oppressive regimes. But you don't see that on the media most of the time. You instead see the above binaries that are simple, clear, and easy to understand and follow. These binaries, however, emphasize a narrow cultural logic for explanation at the expense of political causes and messy history, distorting the truth altogether.

That narrow cultural logic assumes that Muslim societies and politics are governed exclusively by their religions and culture and have developed in isolated containers, and the so-called 'West' had nothing to do with their political outcomes. Not many ask, for example: Were women in Afghanistan not already in bad conditions before the Taliban came to power (and worsened the situation further)? Why were they in such bad conditions? And why, out of various ideological inclinations and interpretations of Islam, only the most extremist versions became so dominant in Afghanistan during and after the Afghan Jihad?

Instead of focusing on the cultural logic, a better place to look at is the twisted history of the Cold War and its aftermath. The reality is that the battle ground for the Cold War was not America or Europe. It was fought mainly in the so-called "Third World" countries, of which the turbulent Pakistan and Afghanistan were key regions. The US interest in Afghanistan was to create a Vietnam for the Soviets, to "bleed them white", and for that purpose, a certain understanding of Jihad, devoid of its underlying Islamic ethics and respect for human life, was promoted with the co-sponsorship of Saudi Arabia. The combined interest of the two countries was also to contain the Iranian Revolution. Against the wishes and reservations of other jihadi and nationalist resistance groups, the most extreme and sectarian of those groups were officially patronized in Afghanistan and Pakistan during those years. The same groups were also given exclusive access to the refugee camps in the two countries to indoctrinate the next generation of mindless and ethics-less jihadis. The Taliban, their understanding of Islam, and style of jihad, all are the direct outcome of that joint enterprise.

The rise of the Taliban in Afghanistan has a history and political context. So does the al-Qaeda. And so do the movements in Algeria, Egypt, Palestine, Lebanon, and Iraq. The origins, development, and forms of these various movements are often very distinct from each other. But by emphasizing those simplistic binaries, the mainstream media often conflates these very different kinds of movements into each other. No consideration is given that the pure terrorist organizations, many times created by those on the payroll of the CIA, like the Contras in Nicaragua or the shady al-Qaeda, are very different from those Islamist movements in Lebanon, Palestine, and elsewhere that are today engaged in principled resistance (militant or otherwise) and have legitimate causes and mass support base. Interestingly enough, the former groups – the pure terrorist movements – are used as the pretext in the so-called "War on Terror" through which the global powers and their supported dictatorial regimes suppress the legitimate resistance movements in their countries. Even non-Muslim states in South Asia, Latin America, and Africa have learned to use the rhetoric of terrorism to suppress various kinds of internal resistances opposing their oppressive policies and exploitative neo-liberal economic reforms.

Unfortunately, many urgently composed statements by Muslim media relations organizations denouncing "all violence in the name of religion" after tragedies like the Fort Hood shootings and Mumbai Attacks also collapse the distinctions among various groups and show little attention to the politics of these binaries. (I discuss this politics in more detail below.)

Power and Powerlessness

The adjectives "Islamist" or "Sectarian", as in "Islamo-fascism" or "Sectarian violence", are often used as both the 'description' and its 'explanation'. The answer is already assumed in the way question is defined. This is again an example of a narrow cultural logic which erases more than it explains.

Instead of the narrow cultural logic, the motivations of state rulers and grievances of people may be better understood by the logic of power and powerlessness. Saddam Hussein, for example, may have selected the most anti-Shia elements in his army to brutally suppress the Shia rebellion after the Gulf War, but if his Machiavellian suppression of the members of his secular-nationalist from the 1970s onward and the indiscriminate killing of the Kurds in 1987-88 are any indicators, Saddam himself was driven more by power ambitions than anti-Shia prejudice.

But what do we do about the explicitly religious vocabulary used by various terrorist and Islamist movements? We did discuss that there are important distinctions between various groups, between their origins, contexts, and modes of resistance, but at the end of the day they all claim themselves to be religiously motivated – so why the emphasis on power/powerlessness logic?

Two considerations: First, particularly in the context of the failure of various kinds of leftist and nationalist movements in the second half of the last century, religion provided the space to resist neo-colonial advancements and dictatorial oppression. In some movements, religion expressed itself in mainly 'reactionary' terms. But at other places, the Islamists 'proactively' sought to create a vision for an alternative future based on spiritual values and social justice. Among others, the poet-philosopher Mohammad Iqbal and Ayatollah Muhammad Baqir al-Sadr come to mind. Understanding their distinctive approaches and how they engaged with both traditional Muslim and Western scholarships and politics of the time are crucial to de-mystify 'fundamentalism' and its appeal to masses. The emphasis here is to understand the issues and responses in their historical context without undermining their distinctions and weight.

Second, Islam as-a-solution needs to be distinguished from the historical "causes" of contemporary issues. The power/powerlessness logic, although not the only effective logic, is analytically more useful than the narrow cultural logic for understanding the historical background of 'Muslim politics' in many parts of world, particularly that of the Shia populations.

Consider the following illustration: Facing systematic discrimination and exploitation from their rulers (who came to power due to multitude of historical factors, of which the colonial and neo-colonial experiences of the last 200 hundreds years is the most important), these Shias found a powerful expression of their grievances and a solution in the Islamic ideology around and after the Iranian Revolution in 1979. However, instead of falling in the trap of polarizing identity politics, this Islamic ideology and movement sought to be pan-Islamic (non-sectarian, but at the same time, it sought empowerment of oppressed Shias under many Arab regimes). It was also anti-imperial and dedicated to the Palestine cause (which, despite the rhetorical overkill of the Arab nationalist leaders still today, was gradually abandoned by the Arab states from the late 1960s onward). No wonder that the aware masses in the Middle East and elsewhere, from all kinds of religious and ideological backgrounds, were naturally attracted to the Iranian Islamic movement and its manifestations. Glimpses of that attraction was again seen during and after the 2006 Summer War in Lebanon, despite the concerted efforts by the dictatorial rulers and the US and Israel to raise the false specter of the "Rising Shia Crescent".

It is in understanding the politics those in power and those marginalized in each case can we find answers of many questions asked in the mainstream media. The apologetic commentators spend hours defending how Islam is a religion of peace which does not support violence, etc. But these theological discussions cannot explain the problems that have their roots in power/powerlessness. Those media discussions at best serve as distractions from the real issues and at worst as control mechanisms in the hands of powers-that-be. (See below.)

A False Sense of Moral Superiority and Self-righteousness

Why does the American public support the neo-colonial enterprise of its government? Or, put differently, how is it that the politicians are able to sell their war-mongering agenda to people every time? This is a critical question. Among other factors, a crucial ingredient is nurturing a sense of self-righteousness in the people based on a blissful ignorance of history and a belief in the moral superiority and universal validity of the ideals of the so-called Western civilization. A few issues with that sense of moral superiority have been discussed in a previous piece, where I reviewed Fatemeh Keshavarz's book Jasmine and Stars. A useful book that dissects this blissful ignorance of history is James Loewen's Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Book Got Wrong (2nd edition, 2007).

The point I want to make here is that the neo-colonial enterprise is of course not presented in blunt terms. There is a whole moral discourse that is based on that blissful ignorance and sense of moral superiority among the masses that the governing elites use to advance their agenda. In the past, the rhetoric of saving the poor, oppressed women from the oppression of "Muslim"/"Arab"/"Indian" men was used by the colonial powers to advance and justify their expansionist agenda. More recently, the same moral discourse of "colonial feminism" was used to "liberate" the Afghan women from 'burqa'. Yesterday's colonial expansionism is today advanced through "humanitarian interventions" and "Operation Iraqi Freedom" to promote democracy, freedom, human rights, and enlightenment. The fact that before the US invasion of Afghanistan, the cause of "liberating" Afghan women from 'burqa' was endorsed by people from a variety of political and ideological persuasions, from far-right and conservatives to Hollywood celebrities and liberals and leftists, suggests the pervasiveness of this particular way of seeing Islam and Muslim societies. Columbia University Professor Lila Abu-Lughod's following piece provides valuable insights in regards to the connection with the colonial discourse: Do Muslim Women Really Need Saving?

A useful question to ask in this regard is how come we see a simultaneous development of the so-called European Enlightenment and Colonial expansionism. The answers are complex, but one thing to realize is that the two tendencies were not necessarily contradictory to each other. Colonial subjugation of "other" people was not contradictory to the liberal ideals of political rights and self-determination. Because the very ideals of European Enlightenment, anchored in the notions of uni-linear historical progress of civilizations, the emphasis on particular modes of reasoning, the importance on individual rights and private property as the means of self-actualization, and the difference between the "modern" and "backward", implied that Europeans see themselves as "different," "superior," and "civilized" in comparison to other unfamiliar cultures and peoples. Both John Locke and John Stuart Mill, the champions of Liberalism, supported and rationalized the practice of colonialism through these ideals. To them it was a "progressive force" that would civilize the indigenous populations in colonized territories. That was the "White Man's Burden". These ideals were also incorporated into particular versions of Christianity that were brought to the Americas by the European settlers.

This moral discourse has deep roots and is directly intertwined with those cultural binaries. By tracing those roots, we can find useful clues and illustrations for deconstructing the contemporary neo-colonial moral discourse, equally popular among the liberals and conservatives speaking on Islam in the media.

The Politics of "Good Muslim, Bad Muslim"

Neo-Colonial Humanitarianism

Be it the Fort Hood shooting, 9/11, Mumbai Attack, Hostage Crisis, Taliban, al-Qaeda, or Palestine-Israel violence, when political context and messy history is removed from the picture, when important distinctions among these cases are blurred, and simplistic cultural logic of "irrational, violent, fundamentalist" is emphasized, they not only lead to wrong identification of causes but also suggest misleading solutions. A whole intellectual industry of "reforming" Islam under the patronage of RAND Corporation, Freedom House, and similar organizations has exponentially developed post 9/11.

When focus is on culture and 'the tensions/conflicts within', defined by burqa or some age-old sectarian divide in different cases, it takes the role of powerful state actors and external powers out of the picture (whereas many times the state and foreign powers are the ones behind staging terrorist activities and instigating violence in the name of religion). Thus, for example, the failure of the Bush administration's policies in Iraq was conveniently blamed on "sectarianism". By blaming it on the cultural logic, the global powers can thus be presented as saviors, as the only recourse of the poor, oppressed people, and if they leave that region (as in Iraq or Afghanistan today), then one should only expect chaos and civil war.

As the Control Mechanism

The "Good/Bad" Muslim rhetoric also serves as a control mechanism that seeks to (re-)socialize the Muslims to a certain 'cultural script' where they are to live and act under constant fear and self-discipline. The "Good" Muslims are expected to distance themselves from the "Bad" Muslims. See how people react to the labels of "fundamentalist", "extremists", "militant" in our communities and how so many like to be considered "moderate", "modern", "peaceful". This 'cultural script' is already widespread in our midst demanding people to act and align themselves along certain politics (or lack thereof). Among other things, it polarizes and disunites our communities.

Every time a tragedy happens, they feel obliged to immediately respond and distance themselves from those 'bad' Muslims. No consideration is usually given over the framing of the issue: Should it be seen through the lens of "Islam" (and therefore the "problems" with its teachings and its people) at all. That 'cultural script' is reinforced every time tragic incidents like Fort Hood happen (last year it was the Mumbai attacks). Again, there is usually no discussion of political context or messy history (not for 'justifying' these acts but to 'understand' them).

On a related note, these binaries are not new. The African American community has already experienced them during and after the civil rights movement, where Martin Luther King, Jr. was presented as the 'Good Black' and Malcolm X was the 'Bad Black'. It is an interesting topic in itself if MLK could have succeeded without Malcolm X type parallel resistance against the powers-that-be and if the historical context were that of a century earlier and MLK was doing his non-violent activism in the South. Interestingly enough though, MLK was also coerced to shut up when he raised his voice against the Vietnam War.

De-legitimizing the Legit Movements

At times the mindless chanting of 'peace, peace, non-violence, non-violence' by Muslim activists are used to de-legitimize militant resistance (as 'irrational' and 'unjustifiably violent') in Palestine. They take attention away from the whole history of Israeli atrocities by focusing too much on – and even blaming at times – the victims for responding with violence in defense. (Same goes for the case of Lebanon.) The 'peace, peace' slogans sometimes neglect the fact that the international community has failed to deliver any positive results in the last sixty years. So far the only thing that has been directly effective against the Israeli expansionism is militant resistance.

One can also argue that instead of 'wasting' time on the two-state solution over the last 30 years or so (since Camp David), if we had spent our time and energies on discrediting political Zionism in public opinion, perhaps we would have made at least 'some' accomplishments by now. Two-state solution was never the right answer (see "How Realistic is the Two-State Solution?"). If nothing else, at least we could have somewhat united our own communities – their opinion and activism – for the cause over these years. Communities here refer to the general Muslim community but also people of conscience from any background. The glimpses of that possibility (of uniting those concerned) were seen during the Summer 2006 Lebanon War and even more so during the Gaza massacre eleven months ago.

This point also highlights the need for developing sound political analysis especially from those engaging themselves with the media and public opinion campaigns. How do we frame our concerns that are beyond the narrow objective of appearing as "Good Muslims"?

Obama/Clinton's "Smart Power" for the Middle East

So far, the Obama administration has shown no meaningful signs of any major change to the old grand plan of a "New Middle East" (as Condy Rice famously stated), other than slight modifications in the tactics. Suspending the expansion of settlements and recognizing the two-state solution that the current administration is asking of Israel were already part of Bush's "Road Map for Peace". Neither of them had actually enforced these demands on Israel.

Against the Bush administration's "hard power", however, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton has put forward the idea of "smart power", combining diplomacy and "iron fist". What that probably means for Muslim countries is the 'Good Muslim vs. Bad Muslim' game. The good Muslims are those compliant to the US-Israeli imperial ambitions. The Bad Muslims are those who resist that and therefore must be disciplined.

The status quo regimes of the Middle East – Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Jordan – are presented as the "moderate" Muslims. Those opposing their corruption and the hegemonic ambitions of US-Israel from within the status quo states and from outside are labeled as the Bad Muslims. And it is demanded from the latter (those resisting) to 'reform' and become 'good Muslims'. After the inauguration, Obama went to the West Bank, not Gaza, and then to Egypt, where he delivered his now popular Cairo speech.

Consider the following two sentences from the end of that speech: "Islam has a proud tradition of tolerance. We see it in the history of Andalusia and Cordoba during the Inquisition." What?! During the inquisition?! Muslims were slaughtered, forced to convert or exile under the Inquisitorial Regime. Is that what Mr. Obama is suggesting that Muslims do today against the oppression of their own dictatorial regimes and from outside? Perhaps it was a blunder on the part of Obama's speech writer.

But in practical terms, this is exactly what the current administration is asking of the Palestinian people: Keep suffering. Rhetorical gestures of re-conciliations by the new administration aside, the US and Israel are more or less continuing the same policy of turning Gaza into a virtual prison and dividing the West Bank into small quarantines through the Security Wall, with Israel having effective control over water, communication, and security matters of both areas.

Towards Conclusion

Perhaps we should also reflect upon the role of power (and powerlessness) that we too face in our societies, in our daily lives, in our activism: Why is it that we feel pressured to apologize/condemn every time a Fort Hood like incidence happens? Why don't our public relation organizations in America also condemn the ongoing US atrocities in Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Somalia, and other places with the same dedication? On another level, is it even correct to frame/understand Fort Hood shooting or 9/11 in terms of a narrow cultural logic of binaries? Who is defining that framework, with what perspective? What is the politics of this framing? Who benefits?

A challenge for all of us, especially the scholars and activists, is to come up with practical strategies and rhetorical tools for the media and public opinion that are in line with our principles and based on sound strategic analysis. Where we do not 'apologize' for the crimes that we did not commit, but at the same time, we proactively counter the negative propaganda against us and our legit causes. This is crucial not only for reaching out to the general audience and politicians but also for the outlook and identities formation of our own communities.

Important also is to closely study various anti-war/civil/human rights movements in the US, UK, South Africa, India, and elsewhere. What kinds of strategies and alliances worked, what did not, and in what political and historical context? Can we use the same strategies and tactics in the present context of the country we may be in?

Lastly, we need to do more than just issuing reactionary responses after every tragic incidence threatening the Muslim image. We need to come up with a more proactive vision for what our role as individuals and communities could be in the countries we may be in. An important point here is to not become so self-absorbed in our national interest that we dissociate ourselves from the conditions in the rest of the world. The challenge is to come up with sound analysis and detailed action plans – not just empty proposals and rhetoric in annual conferences – that combine our principles, national objectives, and global interests.

Ali A. is a doctoral student in social sciences. He can be reached at alismails786@gmail.com

The article was first published at: http://www.islamicinsights.com/news/opinion/good-muslim-bad-muslim-cracking-the-media-code.html