Anwar Ibrahim may have been in Saudi Arabia to seek the return of funds managed by Abrar business partner Sheik Yassin Al-Kadi seized by Mohamad Bin Salman, and that may explain why the Salmans refused to see him.
........., Anwar (Ibrahim) asked me to come and see him. He had moved into a new house in Damansara, an upwardly mobile residential area of Kuala Lumpur occupied by ministers, government officials and professionals. I met him.... in his library late at night.
‘The Saudis are adamant,’ Anwar said. ‘I’ve received several calls.’
‘I think they’re sincere and it’s an unconditional offer,’ Anwar answered. ‘And their support will give a tremendous boost to our efforts to develop an intellectual convivencia.’
It’s settled then,’ I said. ‘I’ll take the money.’
In an op-ed article for the New Straits Times, Malaysia’s major English language newspaper, I argued that Muslims are trapped between two evils. On one side was Saddam Hussein, whose record of brutalities needed no elaboration. In a fit of megalomania, he had invaded and occupied Kuwait. On the other side, there was the medieval Kingdom of Saudi Arabia where foreign workers were treated as slaves and dissent was rewarded by torture. On balance, I suggested, we should side with the lesser evil of the Saudi Kingdom. Besides, they had no territorial ambitions. The Saudis were outraged. The Ambassador made an official complaint to Anwar.
A few weeks later I received a call from Naseef. ‘They won’t be asking you to do any more favours,” he said, laughing. ‘But they do want to see you.’
‘Whatever for?’ I was intrigued.
‘They’re going to give you five million dollars,’ Naseef replied in a matter-of-fact voice.
I was dumfounded. ‘FIVE MILLION DOLLARS! Whatever for?’
‘To help you with your intellectual efforts,’ came the answer.
‘Doctor,’ I replied after a long pause for thought, ‘let me think about it.’
I thought seriously, talked to Merryl and other Ijmalis, and then decided not to pursue the offer from my old nemesis. Had I not been down the Saudi route and retired hurt before? A few days later, Anwar asked me to come and see him. He had moved into a new house in Damansara, an upwardly mobile residential area of Kuala Lumpur occupied by ministers, government officials and professionals. I met him, along with Merryl, in his library late at night.
‘The Saudis are adamant,’ Anwar said. ‘I’ve received several calls.’
Merryl and I looked at each other. ‘What’s your advice, YB?’ she asked.
‘I think they’re sincere and it’s an unconditional offer,’ Anwar answered. ‘And their support will give a tremendous boost to our efforts to develop an intellectual convivencia.’
‘It’s settled then,’ I said. ‘I’ll take the money.’
A week later I was in Jeddah. We were sitting in the living room of Sheikh Salah Kamel. Anwar too was there, having flown in on an official plane. En route to Sheikh Kamel’s house, Naseef explained that the offer came from ‘the very top’. Sheikh Kamel, as our mutual friend, had been ordered to hand over the cheque. ‘No doubt,’ Naseef said, grinning, ‘he will be rewarded for his deed.’
On Salah Kamel’s ostentatiously large sofa, I was sandwiched between Naseef and the Sheikh. Anwar sat opposite on an equally large and flamboyant setee. ‘We have been asked,’ the Sheikh began after a painstaking extended round of ‘kahifa hal’ (‘how are you’) and an endless litany of Alhamdulillah (‘Allah be praised’), ‘to give you five million dollars, Brother Zia.’
‘Dollars?’ I said, affecting bemused shock and surprised. ‘I live in London where we deal in pounds sterling. I don’t recognize dollars as a legitimate currency!’
Sheikh Kamel looked first at Naseef and then Anwar. They were smiling.
‘We have been asked,’ the Sheikh began again, ‘to give you five million pounds.’
The Sheikh allowed a pause for the significance of his words to be appreciated. ‘This money is for you to use as you wish to support your intellectual activities. Like Brother Anwar, we too would like to see a new intellectual renaissance in the Muslim world.’ He made a gesture with his left hand beckoning someone. An overweight Egyptian man came running and sat on a small leather ottoman beside the Sheikh. He was carrying the largest cheque book I’d ever seen. ‘Write a cheque for five million pounds sterling,’ Salah Kamel instructed. The clerk opened the cheque book and, with what looked like a heavy, gold-plated Dupont fountain pen, started to write the figure in words and numbers. He lavished such time and attention on writing the cheque that it was evident he was a calligrapher.
‘Who shall we make the cheque out to?’ the Sheikh enquired.
‘It should be made out to Dr Zia,’ Anwar replied.
‘No,’ Naseef intervened. ‘It should be made out to an institution.’
We were now joined by the roly-poly figure of Dr Abdo Yamani. He apologized for being late and sat next to Anwar.
‘Let us make the cheque out to Brother Zia,’ Yamani said. ‘He can establish whatever intellectual institution he wants later on. After all we don’t expect him to spend the money on himself!’ Everyone laughed; I joined in hesitantly.
When he finished, the Egyptian clerk handed the cheque book and pen to the Sheikh.
‘Before I sign,’ the Sheikh said, ‘Dr Yamani wishes to say something.’
All eyes turned towards Abdo Yamani.
‘Brother Zia,’ Yamani began, ‘we all love and respect you as a noble intellectual. You have strong opinions and you’re not afraid to express them. We admire that.’ I was in mid ‘true, true’ nod when his last observation struck me motionless. ‘But before we hand you the money, we’d like you to consider a small stipulation.’
Now I turned in confusion to look at Naseef and Anwar; they seemed just as puzzled.
‘Intellectuals should speak freely,’ Yamani continued. ‘But sometimes, just sometimes, they shouldn’t say what they think.’ Yamani paused to survey our expressions. ‘For the greater good, for the sake of the Muslim ummah, they ought to listen occasionally and pay attention to what the authorities have to say.’
My face turned red. Anwar looked embarrassed. My immediate impulse was to grab the cheque from Salah Kamel’s hand, tear it into shreds, and sprinkle it like confetti over his head. But I couldn’t move. Naseef had my right arm in a vice-grip.
‘Brother Anwar,’ he said, turning casually towards him and speaking with a nonchalant air, ‘I don’t think you’ve seen Sheikh Kamel’s garden. Let me show it to you.’ He got up, keeping my arm pinioned in his grip and bodily pulling me along with him. He led the way out of the living room, and moved swiftly through the main hall and out to the garden. Anwar followed. My departing view was of Salah Kamel and Abdo Yamani sitting still.
Salah Kamel’s garden was the size of several football pitches. It was elegantly laid out, palm trees lined pathways, an artificial lake shimmered, and a string of gazebos dotted the landscape. But one’s eyes were inevitably drawn to three mosques artistically integrated into the landscaped gardens to create a pleasing panorama. Doubtless the landscape artist and architect who designed them had been dreaming of the gardens of Granada. Naseef, astute, diplomatic, courteous and concerned as ever, was intent on smoothing over our embarrassment. He pointed towards the first mosque. ‘Brother Anwar,’ he said as if nothing was more significant, ‘Sheikh Kamel made that mosque for himself.’ Anwar attentively turned to admire the mosque from a distance. ‘That one,’ Naseef pointed in another direction, ‘he made for his mother.’ Anwar dutifully turned his gaze towards the second mosque. ‘And the one at the end…’
‘…is there for the times, just some times, when he doesn’t want to pray,’ I completed Naseef’s sentence. The garden filled with the sound of our laughter. I left Jeddah wiser and poorer. [ ]
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