#19. Nevertheless, the Lord Will Save (2)
“With such massive ships at your command and powerful subordinates under your banner, you might just have the means to back up your words. It’s strange, then, that a man like you would feed us obvious lies that could so easily be exposed. However.”
Shahidi asked, “The question remains: what benefit do you gain from helping us? What profit compels you to risk making enemies of those mighty and ruthless Koreans?”
I leaned back in my chair and replied, “What I seek is twofold. First, China tearing its hair out over you—that in itself. Second, forging bonds with you that let me build friendships with even more warriors of Allah. Not some shallow transaction driven by mere profit, but a true camaraderie that lets us pursue grander ambitions together.”
“Using us as guarantors to meet Allah’s warriors and earn their trust?”
“You catch on quick.”
“And once you have their trust, what then? Don’t tell me a non-Muslim like you has designs on jihad?”
“I’m not quite ready to reveal that much to you yet.”
“……”
“Let me say it again: I’ll prove my sincerity by letting you and your brothers slaughter Koreans en masse. If I were their frontman, a puppet of the Communists, there’d be no reason to incur this needless cost and sacrifice just to deceive you. As you said, for weaklings with nothing but the bodies God gave them, it’s far quicker and simpler to just crush us underfoot. Am I wrong?”
Lost in thought, fiddling with his glass, Shahidi paused as he lifted the juice to his lips and glanced at me. With a calm, unchanging expression, I gestured for him to drink. Flustered by his own hesitation, he downed the apricot juice like a man in a huff.
“Hoo.”
Setting down his glass, Shahidi composed himself and changed the subject. “For our fame to reach the ears of great independence fighters, we’d need at least an incident rivaling the Akhsu Uprising. Can you make that happen?”
“Akhsu Uprising?”
“You don’t know it? Twenty-nine heroes attacked the Akhsu coal mine and slew over fifty Koreans—”
“I’m not asking out of ignorance. It just struck me as odd to call such a minor skirmish a ‘great incident.’”
Shahidi erupted. “Minor?! Do you mean to mock the noble sacrifice of heroes who laid down their lives for the Uyghur people in Allah’s name?!”
“Regrettable as it is, that’s the truth, isn’t it? Aside from five policemen, it was just dozens of sleeping miners stabbed in their beds—a small affair. Their resolve to fight to the end with knife and gun, even as public security and the army closed in, is admirable enough. But judged purely on results? Pathetic, if I’m being honest. Calling it a ‘great incident’ only highlights how pitiful you Uyghurs are.”
“You don’t understand! Those weren’t ordinary miners!”
“I figured as much. Every Korean in Xinjiang belongs to the Construction Corps without exception. Lifelong military training, mobilized at every crisis to don uniforms and beat or kill you lot—then brazenly claiming they’re not soldiers. Only the Communists or foreigners ignorant of local affairs would call them innocent civilians.”
There are no innocent Korean civilians among Xinjiang’s Han population. Despite the name “Uyghur Autonomous Region,” it’s ruled by the Xinjiang Production and Construction Corps (XPCC) and the local Han colonial government. Every adult Han is bound by unwritten law to serve in the Corps. That’s the engine producing three million riot suppression troops from a Han population of just over twelve million in a pinch.
In short, the very notion of a “non-combatant Korean” is alien to Xinjiang-born Uyghurs. The only exceptions might be young children. But Han kids in Xinjiang start learning brutality by age ten or so, blurring even that line.
Children who learn and commit evil embody pure malice like nothing else.
Even modern Koreans barely react to “juvenile offenders” anymore. In a reasonably democratic nation with fair judiciary, that’s the case—let alone a colony where rulers and ruled are starkly divided.
Thus, to Uyghurs, the only good Chinese is a dead Chinese.
Shahidi trembled with rage, as if I’d insulted his parents. “Kafir! Infidel without honor! You know this, yet you belittle the heroes’ deeds?!”
As his men stirred to react to Shahidi’s near-lunge, I raised a hand to calm them and continued evenly. “Not belittling—just stating facts. It was a surprise attack on unarmed foes, netting a paltry victory at best. They didn’t even bag a single worthwhile target. No meaningful change came of it. What’s there to praise?”
“How dare you spout such nonsense…!”
“Nonsense? Then tell me, Shahidi: was killing fifty-odd Koreans sufficient recompense for twenty-nine heroes’ lives? Barely two per man? Is that all the worth of each fighter you revere?”
Anger mingled with bewilderment in Shahidi’s eyes. I shrugged.
“By my math, you’d need hundreds or thousands more to break even. Your calculations must differ.”
“That’s, uh…”
“Do they?”
“……No, they don’t.”
“We agree, then. A relief.”
“……”
“Alim Shahidi, don’t mistake me for some fool. I promised you the chance to reap many Korean lives. And I’m not the type satisfied with mere dozens as ‘many.’ Streets piled with corpses, screams of mercy echoing from every direction, over a million in terror driving the Communist oppressors to fits—”
I caught my breath and concluded calmly. “That’s my bar for ‘many lives.’ Clear enough?”
Shahidi’s throat bobbed. The rage that filled him moments ago had vanished, yielding to other emotions. Clutching his jaw, he fell silent, then finally spoke, avoiding my gaze with faltering confidence.
“I hate to admit it, but China is mighty. Is pulling off something that massive truly possible? Even the father of fighters, great Dia al-Din Yusup’s final battle, fell far short of the scale you describe.”
“Dia al-Din? Light of Faith?”
“You know Fus’ha?”
“No, but I have enough culture to pick up honorifics. If your ‘Light of Faith’ is Zaidin Yusup and that battle the Kuqa Armed Uprising, I’d call it another worthless sacrifice. What did it achieve? A figure dubbed ‘father of fighters’ dies in person, and there should be gains—but it was pure loss.”
Basic due diligence: investigating your counterpart before negotiations. Among Uyghur independence groups, the sole armed-struggle outfit was the Turkistan Islamic Party, Islamists nearly extinguished by Chinese ops. Their major actions? You could count them on one hand. Nothing Shahidi said fell outside my prep.
His breathing grew ragged. The anger he tried to summon was dying embers—more sorrow than fury. His strained words sounded less like rebuke, more like plea.
“You mustn’t speak that way.”
“Mustn’t I?”
“I remember my uncle’s tale of that day. Noble Dia al-Din appeared at Barin’s mosque in white robes, proclaiming jihad in God’s name. With his followers, he waged three days and nights of fierce battle against the oppressors. Though the noble one martyred himself, that fight kept us Uyghurs from forgetting the spirit of struggle. It showed noble souls still fight for God and nation…”
“And most locals who ‘realized’ that got dragged straight to camps, as I recall.”
“……”
“Or am I wrong? The whole area got razed post-uprising. No people, no realization.”
“Infidel. Aren’t there deeds judged by intent, not results?”
“Maybe. The intent was good.Even failure has merit in the attempt. That’s the mindset I despise most. Patching reality to lofty ideals instead of pragmatic action—forcing costs on innocents, yet never admitting fault. The elect’s self-righteousness and mental gymnastics.”
Even after such merciless barbs, Shahidi just clenched his fists and panted—no retort. Why? Because they bore the costs—themselves and their kin.
Every Turkistan Islamic Party stunt brought suffering to local residents. From their view, useless brats should just stay quiet. Bet on it: Shahidi’s uncle lamented post-uprising woes more than the “great deed” itself. Chinese colonial policy turned unimaginably harsher after.
The Party’s ops afterward? Pathetic scattershot. Arson on buses or station stabbings every few years won’t free a nation. Pointless terror, no vision—just amateurs wasting breath. Zero high-level Party or Corps hits screams poor planning.
The weak must strike surgically, economically. One precise blow after years of patience and buildup, aimed at the enemy’s core. Instill fear in those who should fear. Leverage the fame for Islamic world attention and jihadist funding. Then prepare the next.
Uyghurs need a landmark bomb like Shanghai’s Hongkew Park blast.
“Then…” Shahidi asked. “What else could they have done? Without that, all they’d have left is prayer.”
“Was there truly no alternative? I doubt it. Even if there was none, better not to worsen things.”
“Accept the doom of nation and kin?”
“Deny it, and does reality change? Pure loss, shoving kin into hell for no gain—isn’t that twisted self-satisfaction? Self-deluded martyrdom, selfishly heaven-bound.”
“Satan’s tongue now mocks martyrs too?!”
“Satan? Mind your words. I’m the one offering to aid you and yours against imperialists—aid your brothers never got from fellow faithful. Show due respect.”
“……”
Wiping his dry face, Shahidi met my bloodshot gaze and swore. “If you break your word, by the Lord of Just Vengeance and Judgment, Allah, Lord of All—glory be to Him—you’ll die by my hand.”
“I hope so.”
Deal sealed. I extended my hand. Shahidi, brow furrowed deep, stared at his own before gripping it reluctantly.
I withdrew and said leisurely, “Now that we’re in the same boat, one trivial question.”
“What?”
“About what happened between you and Maryam Batur in Karamay’s forced labor camp.”
“Maryam Batur?”
“Yes.”
Hearing her name, Shahidi’s eyes widened in clear discomfort. “You mustn’t call her that.”