But God Will Save Them (1)
The meeting dragged on well into the late hours. It was fully twenty minutes past the scheduled end time when I finally rose from my seat, but before I could change into comfortable clothes, I had one more private audience to handle.
Entering the dining cabin, I addressed the Awakened ability user sitting under the watchful eyes of my subordinates.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
Alim Shahidi, one of the central figures in the Uyghur Sunni group, only tore his gaze from the TV mounted above the cabin at the sound of my voice. His piercing eyes gleamed fiercely beneath thick brows.
Shahidi stared at me wordlessly for a moment before parting his chapped lips—roughened by the dry season—and asked, "Are you the one? The leader of those who pulled me and my brothers from the hands of the Han?"
"That's right."
"We meet at last. It's been quite some time since I asked your men to let me see you."
He stared at me intently, hiding his trembling hands while deliberately sharpening the venom in his unwavering gaze, then spat out, "If you were expecting gratitude, I'm sorry to disappoint. You're surely not on our side."
What an arrogant pup, I thought. Settling into the seat across from him, I replied, "I wasn't expecting any such thing. But I am curious—how can you be so certain on our first meeting? That I'm not on your side."
"Isn't it obvious? First, no non-Muslim can truly stand with Muslims. Second, even our brothers in faith have never properly taken our side. They're all apostates who cower before the Han's power and chase their money. In the end, no one in this world stands with us Uyghurs except ourselves."
"How do you know I'm not a Muslim?"
"Then tell me—do you believe in Allah?"
"No."
Shahidi lifted his chin triumphantly, as if to say, See, I was right.
The more I looked at him, the more his brazenness appealed to me. Wearing a tool of a smile, I added, "But even if I'm an infidel, I can still take your side—and that of your people. That's precisely why I need you."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm sincere."
"I'm no fool. We're abandoned wretches with nowhere to turn. No one gains from helping us—especially not now, with the Han flaunting their strength."
As he spoke, Shahidi gestured at the TV screen he'd been watching. It alternated between footage of the Eight-One Iron Army— the Communist Party's pride—marching and performing feats.
This time, my smile was genuine, not calculated. The footage was so blatantly propagandistic it was nauseating to anyone with eyes, but to a Uyghur like him—who'd never seen anything but this sort of media and thus had no immunity to its sway—it clearly hit home. That irony amused me.
"Why are you smiling?"
"Pay it no mind. It's nothing."
"……."
"Back to the point. I understand your distrust, Shahidi, but my desire to help you is real. Because I wish for the death of imperialists—and I want to join hands with the Uyghurs against them."
The imperialists I meant and the ones he envisioned were different beasts entirely, but this Muslim before me had no way of seeing through that. A flicker of confusion and defensive hostility crossed his face.
"Grand words that amount to nothing. Is that why you took us in?"
"And if it is?"
"It makes no sense. What power do we have? We've been nothing but slaves to the Han. What can wretches like us—with only the bodies God gave us—possibly do?"
"For now, little enough. But that will change. I'll make it so."
"How?"
"By providing ample money and weapons."
I gestured, and my subordinates brought over the prepared item. A box was placed on the table between Shahidi and me.
To Shahidi, who couldn't quite hide his curiosity, I motioned leisurely. "I didn't expect this topic to come up so soon... but since it has, no need to drag it out. Open it. It's for you."
Glancing between me and the box, Shahidi opened it with extreme caution. Inside were identity documents and a passport from Uzbekistan.
He examined the papers and passport in turn, but the unfamiliar script—and his likely lifetime without ever seeing a passport—left him wearing a perplexed expression.
"What is this?"
"Things to let you start a second life on Uzbek soil. Proof of identity and a passport. Shares for your brothers and sisters are prepared too."
"Passport? This is a passport?"
"Good. At least you know what one is."
His ears reddened at my teasing remark, and he glared at me with a scowl before lowering his eyes to stare intently at the gold-embossed national emblem beneath the country name O’ZBEKISTON RESPUBLIKASI.
Between the tricolor ribbons weaving wheat and cotton stems in the emblem soared a phoenix with wings spread—the Huma from Persian mythology. Above its head was embossed the crescent moon and star symbolizing Islam.
Shahidi's expression grew complicated.
"Back home, many dreamed of fleeing to the West's lands."
Uzbeks and Uyghurs shared ancestors, split east and west. Their languages were nearly identical—differing only in script—so they understood each other without special study. No wonder Uyghurs yearned to escape oppression for the West's domain.
It was a felicitous coincidence that the emblem's phoenix symbolized efforts for peace, prosperity, and freedom.
Opening the passport, Shahidi spotted his photo on the first page and squinted.
"When did you take my picture?"
"Curious about that? You must know I've always been watching over you."
"You act just like the Han."
"Like them? That's surprising, if true. Han who offered you 'halal' things and even freedom."
"……."
After a brief silence, his gaze—tense with hostility masking fear—turned back to me.
"You said you'd sponsor us with money and weapons."
"Yes."
"That means you want us to join the warriors of Turkistan in Uzbekistan and Afghanistan?"
"If you mean the Turkistan Islamic Party, then yes."
"Are you a fool? Those great independence fighters don't accept just anyone. How could wretched nobodies like us—who've slaved for the Han—join their honorable ranks? If they don't suspect us as Han spies clinging to them, we'd be lucky. Even if we made contact, they'd use us once and discard us like tools. For us, even that would be a worthy death... but."
His self-deprecating tone showed a grasp of reality unusual for a Muslim steeped in extremism. Clasping my hands on my knee, I replied, "No need to worry. I have ways."
"What ways?"
"Ways to make them come to you, rather than you seeking them."
"......You're talking nonsense, more and more."
"You'll understand once you hear it. Care for something to eat while we talk?"
"I don't eat food from someone who might be the enemy's ally."
"You've been living off my food this whole time, and now?"
"Because you dared mention the Turkistan warriors by name. We thought you weren't Han before, but now we're doubting again. Trying to trick me into being a collaborator to infiltrate the Uyghurs' last fighters, pretending not to be Han. We've suffered that cunning from Han oppressors too often."
"Very cautious. Wise, even."
Saying so, I had my subordinates bring a glass of apple juice. Fresh, with no additives, it was the drink Shahidi had guzzled like an addict from the cafeteria on the Yongping Lake, where we'd housed the Uyghurs.
Surveillance footage captured his dazed expression the first time the cafeteria opened and he tasted the juice—like a black cocoa farmer trying chocolate for the first time.
Xinjiang Uyghur lands were famed for high-sugar fruits due to the climate, but Uyghurs rarely enjoyed the yield. Farms belonged to the quasi-military Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps, wealthy Han, or collaborators selling out kin for luxury—and most produce shipped out of the autonomous region.
Shahidi swallowed hard and said gloomily, "I said I won't eat."
"Hear my plan first. I'll train you and your comrades into true fighters."
"Train?"
"Yes, train. How to kill, handle various weapons, survive hostile environments, fight effectively against mighty foes—I'll teach it all, step by step. To that end, you'll cross the sea under new identities and endure hardships. Only then will you qualify to head to Uzbek lands."
"You think that'll make the great independence fighters accept us? Training would only make us more suspicious."
"That's where fame comes in."
"Fame? What kind?"
"What fame but that of massacring Han in droves and shitting on the Han Communist Party's faces?"
"……."
"By the time you're ready as fighters, I'll have prepared a stage for you. One where you can reap countless Han lives, with a plan so foolproof you couldn't fail if you tried. When that day comes—when you smash your enemies' skulls with lead slugs and flay their hides with sharp blades—"
I paused poetically before continuing.
"You won't doubt the purity of my intentions anymore."
Shahidi swallowed dryly again, his hand unconsciously fondling the juice glass. His gaze remained fixed on me. Rubbing his forehead with his free hand, he chewed his lip and asked, "I still don't get it. Why? Why choose us? What are we to you?"
"What else? Men whose hatred for the Han burns to the marrow."
"Just for that?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"......I don't know. I just don't."
His head-shaking refusal to shake off the doubt was amusing. Treated like slaves for no short time, his self-esteem scraped the bottom—but coming from Karamay's camps was no ordinary resume. Being interned marked one as a subversive or dangerous element irking Chinese authorities.
So when selecting Uyghurs resistant to colonial rule, camp survivors deserved bonus points, naturally.
If I likened my work to Japanese-occupied Korea, it was like pulling a burreongsin—a prisoner from Seodaemun Prison dragged to forced labor—and tempting him: Here's money and guns; join an independence army group with your fellows.
Especially if the candidate was an Islamic extremist—no hesitation needed. Unless he was utterly brainless, just pass him and be done.
My top priority was my own survival and gain—not some ideal Uyghur independence struggle.
Even if Islamic extremists seized East Turkistan someday, dooming Uyghurs to a future darker than North Korea under the Kim dynasty, it couldn't worsen beyond the Chinese monopolizing everything and erasing the ethnicity itself—as now.