Those Anointed with Oil (6)
On the vehicle deck of the Becklux, I gave instructions to the cadres on how they should conduct themselves going forward.
"There are three things I want to entrust to you all."
The cadres focused their attention.
"As you've all felt firsthand, the corruption among this country's public officials will only grow more dangerous as time passes. On the flip side, integrity will emerge as the most powerful political weapon of all. Those who've already crossed an irreversible line with their past misdeeds won't be able to compete on equal footing with those who haven't."
I caught my breath and continued.
"You haven't crossed that line yet."
To be precise, they'd only just reached a position where they could peek beyond it, but I wasn't so lacking in intelligence as to say that outright.
"From today onward, I'll help you remain upright people. Remember what I said: a single bill stashed in a safe place is worth more than a mountain of wealth in a spot where the flames could spread. As long as you hold the line you must and rely on me, you—my valued assets—will have access to a vault safer than any underground safe belonging to the high and mighty. Your integrity will be rewarded with the weight it adds to that vault. This comes from a superior who wishes for his assets to prosper."
So don't betray my expectations. I wrapped up the admonition with a calm warning.
Back in my office, a new report awaited.
"A riot among the Uyghurs on the Poyang Lake ship? At this hour?"
"Yes."
Kang Suyeon bowed her head.
"It was an incident where tensions between key figures from each group, which had been simmering under the surface, erupted into a fistfight in an instant. The exact circumstances are under investigation, but the situation suggests a religious issue as the cause. Three sustained minor injuries requiring treatment, but no serious injuries or deaths."
"How did that happen? Weren't we managing them in separate groups?"
"It occurred while calling out a certain number from each group for supply distribution. They exchanged a few words in Uyghur, then immediately started fighting—our response window was too short. It's all my oversight, sir."
"Enough. Lift your head. Why bow over something like this?"
We hadn't assigned many personnel to the Poyang Lake from the start. With limited combat-ready personnel fluent in Chinese conversation, we needed to minimize wasted resources. Communicating with Uyghurs required Northern Mandarin, so those who only spoke Cantonese couldn't be deployed at all. And no matter how skilled my subordinates were, suppressing a riot wasn't the same as just killing someone. I'd even issued orders not to get heavy-handed unless absolutely necessary, so firing first probably wasn't an option.
"Who were the key figures involved?"
"Alim Shahidi, Tumur Azizi, Shorat Abdikadir, Nurmemet Khan, and Maryam Batur—a total of five."
The names from Kang Suyeon's lips matched the list I'd been watching closely. The first three fell under the Sunni category, while the latter two belonged to the Ismaili lineage of Shia. Even the three classified as Sunni seemed to have their own distinct factions. Uyghur Islamic faith was known to be highly secular regardless of sect, but combined with the nationalism of a persecuted people, it harbored the embers that could flare into extremism at any moment. Alim Shahidi, the first one Suyeon mentioned, seemed a prime example.
While I was focused on the cadres, this had happened...
"So all the major groups got dragged in."
"Yes."
"Is there anything else I need to know?"
"The ringleaders all want to meet the person in charge. Considering their intended roles, it didn't seem like something for me or Kyung-tae to handle, so I've put their request on hold for now."
"No idea why?"
"No. They insist on speaking only to the person in charge."
"They've got some nerve."
"Nurmemet Khan reportedly said this: 'We know you're not Chinese.'"
"...Hm."
It wasn't particularly surprising that they'd figured it out. There were plenty of clues, and I'd been waiting for them to realize it themselves. As I sank into thought, Suyeon offered advice.
"The violence started with Alim Shahidi and Maryam Batur. The other three just joined their argument. If you're going to meet them, I recommend summoning Shahidi and Batur first."
"Any CCTV footage?"
"Of course. Shall I play it?"
"Let's see it."
The footage wasn't long. Shahidi snapped first, Batur responded quietly, and Shahidi clutched his forehead, grimacing. Then the others piled in, raising their voices, until the groups split into two factions—large and small—and brawled. From argument to fists, it took just 14 seconds. As Suyeon said, it happened in a flash. The subordinates on site must have been stunned.
I can't make out what they're saying. Frustrating.
It hadn't even been ten days since I took in the Uyghurs. Securing a reliable Uyghur interpreter with good security in that time was no easy task. Uzbek might roughly convey meaning, but good Uzbek interpreters weren't exactly lying around. Maybe I should have forced all communication to be in Chinese. In any case, the conflict among the Poyang Lake's passengers felt suspicious. Fellow countrymen who'd endured the same humiliation should share sympathy first, right? A fistfight over a few words couldn't have built up in just a day or two. Maybe they had bad blood from way back—perhaps from their time in the Uyghur camps, or even before they were prisoners.
Not some staged act... probably not.
They had nothing to gain from putting on a show with assigned roles. I rewound the footage and studied Shahidi's twisted face. The emotion he showed was clear contempt. Checking the timestamp, I nodded.
"Bring Batur. If she's uncomfortable coming alone, tell her Khan can come too. Make sure the Sunnis don't notice when escorting her."
This considered Maryam Batur's gender. From what I knew, the Ismaili sect—mainstream among Uyghur Shia—allowed free female social activity and left hijab-wearing to personal choice, quite progressive. Still, better safe than sorry. I didn't want pointless religious grudges from potential assets whose future use was uncertain.
And coming out alone late at night would be daunting anyway.
Setting aside her own fears, she'd be conscious of others' gazes. We'd given them one person per cabin, but the Chinese-built Poyang Lake wasn't great for soundproofing. Footsteps alone could spark suspicion and rumors.
I waited while finishing the paper revisions I'd left incomplete. Contrary to expectations, a report came that Batur had come alone. Interesting. The cabin I used as an office was cramped, so I closed my documents and headed to the briefing room where Batur waited, accompanied by Suyeon.
Under the watch of an armed subordinate, Batur rose tensely as I entered. I waved my hand downward and spoke in standard Chinese.
"No need for that. Sit comfortably."
"Ah..."
Batur visibly wavered. What was it?
"This voice..."
"My voice?"
"You're the one who saved us back then."
"You recognized me just from my voice?"
"Yes. I remember you saying, 'If you don't want to die, eat slowly,' when you shared the food. Better late than never—thank you for saving my life, benefactor."
That was when I'd used my real voice. Not like now, pretending to be the fictional Li Gyu-hwi. I sat across from her at the long table, gazing steadily.
"Impressive memory."
"Thank you."
"Not really a compliment... Anyway, I heard you wanted to see me. Maryam Batur."
"Please call me Maryam."
"Alright, Maryam. Before we get to your business, let's confirm something else first. What made your fellow countrymen do this to your eye?"
At my question, Maryam touched her bruised eye. One side of her eye socket was purpled from the blow. Alim Shahidi's fist mark. Burst capillaries had reddened even the white, but at least her vision seemed intact—a small mercy. Despite the state of her eye, the beauty of the "premium" product selected by the deceased Hulong Bang leader for the communist nobles hadn't faded. And beauty was an innate talent that enabled many things.
Maryam, silent for a moment, spoke in a subdued voice.
"They called me a kafira. In Chinese, that means..."
"Unbeliever."
"You know it?"
"Masculine is kafir (كافر). Feminine is kafira (كافرة). It's the charge those Daesh (IS) mongrels habitually pronounce while slitting throats. Thanks to them, along with a few Quranic verses, it's one of the few bits of Arabic I know. What I don't get is why you were branded with such a disgraceful title."
Maryam gave a bitter smile.
"The Quran says: 'I will not accept worship from an unclean body...'"
"Can't you just wash before praying?"
"Not for some people. They said I'd become too filthy to ever wash clean, so I no longer had the right to pray. That I should end my life without staining my ancestors' name and preserve my final honor."
"Because you slept with Han Chinese?"
"...Not just that."
"Then?"
"I received frequent anointings of oil from the Han."
A chill flickered through my mind for an instant. Even knowing it couldn't mean that, with my constant wariness of the Round Table lurking in a corner of my thoughts, I couldn't help reacting sensitively to "anointing with oil." Especially after that bad dream this morning. Unaware of my unease, Maryam continued her confession.
"It happened in the camp. It was a kind of mental torture meant to break my spirit... They'd strip me naked, pour pig fat over my head calling it 'anointing,' then leave me for hours in a space thick with pig excrement, exposed to the winter chill..."
In Islamic culture, pigs were unclean. Some jurists even interpreted doctrine (fatwa) to say merely touching one barred heaven. That's why Israel hung pig bladders in risky areas to deter terrorists, and in America, bullets laced with pig fat were sold as "express tickets to hell" for Muslims. Back in 5th century BCE, Persian Cambyses II routed the Egyptian army by leading with cats. Twenty-five hundred years later, the shadow of religious zealotry hadn't changed.
"Karamay winters are cold."
Maryam's recollection was dark.
"The only warmth I could get was from the pig fat, heated nice and warm. The Han guards would stomp on the iron bars above my head, scooping and pouring it with ladles. 'Receive baptism,' they'd say. 'Don't you Muslims love this stuff?'"
Anointing was a sacred Christian rite and symbol, meaningless in Islam. Thus, Karamay camp guards had mocked their prisoners in the manner of infidels.
"At first, I'd scream every time the oil poured down. The feeling of it hardening white over my skin was utterly horrific. I'd cry and scrape desperately to get it off faster."
A quiet sigh escaped her.
"But with each round, my mind grew numb. Eventually, I'd just wait resignedly for the oil to come. I stopped scraping it off once it hardened. The oiled spots were that much less cold..."
Empathy is a cheap, efficient tool for handling people. I let the unveiled woman talk as much as she wanted.