Your assignment was unexpected. Commander Noor explained that the carriage doorman had fallen ill and there was no one else who could fill in their role. You’d been chosen to meet the Seer. Not just meet them –you will be alone with them! Only the most fluent in Arabic are normally allowed to meet the Seer, not people like you.
The Seer’s presence is an incredibly rare occasion. London fell to the Bloods a long time ago now, but ever since they took Birmingham, the resistance had been forced to take greater measures. The Voice of Whiteness transmits into our minds from its signal station above the Shard and whispers propaganda in the pristine accent of the King’s English. It had been key in Birmingham’s downfall. Your parents still recall it, though you were too young to remember more than shapes and sounds. The resistance had ignored the Voice when its transmission began because they had the willpower to block it out. But weaker people fell for it. They became turncoats, traitors.
<img src="https://www.cultureword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Saad-1-Ali-Al-version-Bsmall.jpeg" width="400" height="500" alt="desk">
That’s why we have the Language Seers now. Al-Khansa is the Arabic seer. She was raised in the very heart of the desert, in Al-Yamama, and named after one of the greatest poets your Arab ancestors ever produced. Under immeasurable risk, she was brought in to guide the Arab contingent of the Free Northern Army.
She does not know a single word of English, she is pure. Language purity is her power.
You see, the rest of us are compromised by English, at risk of the Voice of Whiteness that hums constantly in our minds. Even those of us in the resistance, trained to suppress it, are at constant risk.
Al-Khansa is not the only one. There are Seers for Urdu, Hindi, Yoruba, Kiswahili and many more—one for every language of the Free Northern Army. And they are gathering for the first time in the Lancashire countryside, far beyond the reach of the Bloods. And here you are, just a grunt, but an Arabic speaking grunt, chosen to open the door to Al-Khansa’s carriage!
At the back of your mind, the Voice spoke louder than its usual background hum: “One Nation, One Race, One Language…”
Options:
a) [[Suppress voice]]
or
[[Listen to voice]]
Suppression involves reciting something in your mother tongue until the Voice is quelled. You know the drill by heart. Without hesitation, you recite under your breath.
//A’udhu bil-Allahi min al-shaytan al-rajim, bismillahi al-rahman al-rahim.//
(text-style: "emboss")[I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed Satan, in the name of the most gracious and merciful God…]
You recite the fatiha, the opening verse of the Quran, holding on dearly to every Arabic consonant. When the verse is complete, you turn to poetry.
<i>Ana-ladhi nazara al-a’ma ila adabi wa asma’a kalimati man bihi samamu…</i>
(text-style: "emboss") [I am the one whose words the blind read and the deaf hear
I sleep soundly from the strays while the world rolls restless through the night
A child in their innocence laughs even as the knights approach
If you see the lion bare its fangs, don’t confuse it for a smile]
The voice recedes, but you grimace, and press a hand against your ear. As if that would stop it. The hum is still there, at the back of your mind.
Do they know about her? You glance at your phone. It’s nearly 14.00 and you have a briefing with the Commander.
The briefing room is a clutter of paper covered in spidery, coded handwriting. The Commander’s left ear is covered by the metallic sheen of an audio receptor. Deaf in one ear, the other shot off in combat, she nods you to your seat and positions herself so that the audio receptor will pick up acoustics well.
She begins abruptly.
“Do you know why you were selected for this role?”
“The previous doorman fell ill.”
“He fell into Voice-madness.” She closes her eyes as if in prayer, then looks back at you. “Do you know why you were selected to take his place?”
You shake your head.
“Complete after me.” Commander Noor looks down, as if readying herself. She recites in Arabic, (text-style: "emboss") [I am the one whose words the blind read and the deaf hear.]
You reply, (text-style: "emboss") [I sleep soundly from the strays while the world rolls restless through the night.]
(text-style: "emboss") [Time is full of surprises], says Commander Noor, and you complete the verse, (text-style: "emboss") [It ignores the tail but lops off the head.]
(text-style: "emboss") [The mask has fallen,] she says. You finish, (text-style: "emboss") [from the mask covering the mask, the mask has fallen.]
(text-style: "emboss") [My deep passion for nature has nearly made me mad, I love date-palms, and mountains, and willows,] says Commander Noor. You finish, (text-style: "emboss") [and I love myself, because I know in my depths there’s a fantasy world steeped in shadows.]
The Commander claps her hands together, “That’s why. We have on record that you can recite the Quran, and over three hundred lines of poetry. And some of those lines are very obscure these days! Your skill at containing the Voice is hard to come by.”
You smile shyly. Should you mention that recitation is not the same as understanding? You have memorised the lines your parents gave you, but you understand so few of them. The truth is, they barely understood it too.
The Commander swaps seamlessly into Arabic, “Now it’s time to discuss your mission. As you know, the Language Seers are gathering from free regions across the North. In order to protect ourselves from the Bloods and their propaganda, we are shedding English. The problem, of course, is that we were raised in English and our grips on our mother tongues are loose, while our language seers know nothing but their mother tongue… We are, in consequence, unable to take full advantage of the assets we have. We don’t understand each other well enough.”
It sure sounds to you like Commander Noor is fluent, but she doesn’t seem to think she is. You don’t have the Arabic to express this thought, so you keep it to yourself.
“This conference is the first of its kind, where we will turn our diversity from a defence into an offence. The Bloods have some knowledge, and we fully suspect they will try to subvert the meeting. The way the Voice works, the finesse the Bloods have achieved at microtargeting individuals with it, means no one should spend too long with any of the Seers, hence the multiple escorts each one has. You’re just the first one that Lady Al-Khansa will have at the meeting. Your job is to open the door to her carriage and escort her to Mansion Redwood where the meeting is held. Then you’ll pass her to her next escort. That is it. Are you able to do that?”
You nod.
“If you are, then repeat the instructions back to me. What have I asked you to do?”
You repeat it back in Arabic. You really want to impress Commander Noor and show you’ve been listening. You repeat it back in a simplified Arabic.
“I’ll greet Al-Khansa outside Redwood Manor. I’ll lead her to the door. Someone else will take her.”
Commander Noor cocks her head towards you. “You’ll lead her to the gate,” she corrects you, “The next escort will then come.”
“It’s a small difference.”
She shakes her head. “This is why we need our Seer.”
“Is that all?
“One last thing. Don’t speak to Lady Al-Khansa. The less interaction she has with spoiled tongues, the better.”
You take your leave.
Redwood Manor stands in the Lancashire countryside. A small palace, once the residence of some long-forgotten nobility. You peer through the rusting iron gates. Its gardens have been cleaned up ahead of today’s gathering, but there’s no mistaking that until recently it was an overgrowing mass of ivy and thorn. In the distance, you can see the tall manor, human specks fidgeting around its entrances. These monuments to the Bloods’ ancestors have been allowed to fall into ruin, but there’s no denying their usefulness in times of war.
In the back of your mind, the hum of the Voice seems to grow slightly louder. "One Nation, One Race, One Language…" It’s nothing that a suppression verse can’t reduce.
A car with tinted windows crunches up the gravel and you turn to meet it. The Seer’s carriage.
You walk up, a faked confidence, in your blue uniform. With a gloved hand you open the door and then stand at its side. You offer out your hand for the figure within.
A brown hand, more deeply tanned than your own, takes yours and she emerges gracefully from the car. Her deep blue abaya and hijab roll down like waves of the sea, interrupted by patterned white lines, like water’s foam.
The driver briefly emerges to salute you and the Seer, you salute back, and he drives away.
You are alone with Al-Khansa. Your heart races. You greet her in Arabic.
"Ya sayyidat al-lugha," you say. (text-style: "emboss") [My Lady of Language,] and offer her your most formal greeting "Al-salamu alaykum wa rahmat-ullahi wa barakatah."
A brief smile crosses her face.
You continue, "Sawfa nantadhir huna liman sayasṭaqbilika min dakhil al-qasir." (text-style: "emboss") [We will wait here for the next person to greet you into the palace.]
[[You wait]]
You know the drill by heart and without thinking begin to recite under your breath.
//A’udhu bil-Allahi min al-shaytan al-rajim. //
(text-style: "emboss") [I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed Satan…]
But you pause. Something about this voice is louder than before. Common training tells you to block it out regardless, but what if the Bloods know about the Gathering of the Voices? And they must know, they have spies everywhere… Yes, you tell yourself, if you are to serve Al-Khansa, you best make sure you know what the enemy might be saying.
“…International support for The Knights of the Blood of Jesus Christ continues to pour in from around the world, with the United States this week vetoing a vote for sanctions called at the United Nations by the Iranian Axis. Two terror cells were flushed in the West Midlands yesterday, making that five in one month. Internationally backed terrorism continues to be the number one threat to our order but as our Divine Monarch himself makes clear, order is being maintained and spread across the land. Now as the hour approaches we stand ready to repeat the oath of loyalty…”
You flinch, you definitely don’t want to muddy your mind with that racist claptrap. Recently there has been talk of the Voice targeting peoples’ minds more directly, but this seems to be a generalised broadcast. You’ve never felt like they were speaking directly to you – and that’s always made it easier to resist.
(text-style: "emboss") [I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed Satan,] you repeat to yourself, and continue the verse, loudly exclaiming one memorised verse of Arabic after another, and slowly, the voice fades into a hum, still there, but easily ignored.
You open your eyes and glance at the clock. It’s 14.07. Shit. You have a briefing with the Commander Noor now – you run to make it.
The briefing room is a clutter of paper covered in spidery, coded handwriting. The Commander’s left ear is covered by the metallic sheen of an audio receptor. Deaf in one ear, the other shot off in combat, she nods you to your seat and positions herself so that the audio receptor will pick up acoustics well.
She begins abruptly.
“Do you know why you were selected for this role?”
“The previous doorman fell ill.”
“He fell into Voice-madness.” She closes her eyes as if in prayer, then looks back at you. “Do you know why you were selected to take his place?”
You shake your head.
“Complete after me.” Commander Noor looks down, as if readying herself. She recites in Arabic, (text-style: "emboss") [I am the one whose words the blind read and the deaf hear.]
You reply, (text-style: "emboss") [I sleep soundly from the strays while the world rolls restless through the night.]
(text-style: "emboss") [Time is full of surprises,] says Commander Noor, and you complete the verse, (text-style: "emboss") [It ignores the tail but lops off the head.]
(text-style: "emboss") [The mask has fallen,] she says. You finish, (text-style: "emboss") [from the mask covering the mask, the mask has fallen.]
(text-style: "emboss") [My deep passion for nature has nearly made me mad, I love date-palms, and mountains, and willows,] says Commander Noor. You finish, (text-style: "emboss") [and I love myself, because I know in my depths there’s a fantasy world steeped in shadows.]
The Commander claps her hands together, “That’s why. We have on record that you can recite the Quran, and over three hundred lines of poetry. And some of those lines are very obscure these days! Your skill at containing the Voice is hard to come by.”
You smile shyly. Should you mention that recitation is not the same as understanding? You have memorised the lines your parents gave you, but you understand so few of them. The truth is, they barely understood it too.
The Commander swaps seamlessly into Arabic, “Now it’s time to discuss your mission. As you know, the Language Seers are gathering from free regions across the North. In order to protect ourselves from the Bloods and their propaganda, we are shedding English. The problem, of course, is that we were raised in English and our grips on our mother tongues are loose, while our language seers know nothing but their mother tongue… We are, in consequence, unable to take full advantage of the assets we have. We don’t understand each other well enough.”
It sure sounds to you like Commander Noor is fluent, but she doesn’t seem to think she is. You don’t have the Arabic to express this thought, so you keep it to yourself.
“This conference is the first of its kind, where we will turn our diversity from a defence into an offence. The Bloods have some knowledge, and we fully suspect they will try to subvert the meeting. The way the Voice works, the finesse the Bloods have achieved at microtargeting individuals with it, means no one should spend too long with any of the Seers, hence the multiple escorts each one has. You’re just the first one that Lady Al-Khansa will have at the meeting. Your job is to open the door to her carriage and escort her to Mansion Redwood where the meeting is held. Then you’ll pass her to her next escort. That is it. Are you able to do that?”
You nod.
“If you are, then repeat the instructions back to me. What have I asked you to do?”
You really want to impress Commander Noor and show you’ve been listening. You repeat it back in a simplified Arabic, but you trip over your words and, here and there, code-switch into English.
“I’ll greet Al-Khansa outside of, of—...” Struggling to say ‘Redwood Manor’ in Arabic, you say, “—the place. I’ll lead her to the door. Another will come to—...” Here you slip into English, “...—to escort her.”
Commander Noor turns her head away, as if she wants to turn off her hearing aids and stop listening.
“You meet her, you take her to the gate, and there the next escort will meet her.” The Commander switches back to English, “You are under no circumstance to speak to the Seer. You are only there to guide her.”
You gulp and take your leave. The Voice rises from the hum within you:
There is no language but the language of Christ and the King James Bible, there is no language but English, there is no lord but Christ, and we will eliminate all terrorists hiding behind their shields of foreignness!
When you’re free from the Commander, you begin reciting suppressive verses in Arabic to control it.
Redwood Manor stands in the Lancashire countryside. A small palace, once the residence of some long-forgotten nobility. You peer through the rusting iron gates. Its gardens have been cleaned up ahead of today’s gathering, but there’s no mistaking that until recently it was an overgrowing mass of ivy and thorn. In the distance, you can see the tall manor, human specks fidgeting around its entrances. These monuments to the Bloods’ ancestors have been allowed to fall into ruin, but there’s no denying their usefulness in times of war.
In the back of your mind, the hum of the Voice seems to grow slightly louder. "One Nation, One Race, One Language…" It’s nothing that a suppression verse can’t reduce.
A car with tinted windows crunches up the gravel and you turn to meet it. The Seer’s carriage.
You walk up, a faked confidence, in your blue uniform. With a gloved hand you open the door and then stand at its side. You offer out your hand for the figure within.
A brown hand, more deeply tanned than your own, takes yours and she emerges gracefully from the car. Her deep blue abaya and hijab roll down like waves of the sea, interrupted by patterned white lines, like water’s foam.
The driver briefly emerges to salute you and the Seer, you salute back, and he drives away.
You are alone with Al-Khansa. Your heart races.
You greet her in:
[[stuttering Arabic]]
or
[[in English]]
“Ya sayyidat al-lugha,” you begin. (text-style: "emboss") [My Lady of Language..] You pause, racking your brain for the right greeting, then continue. “Al-salamu alaykum wa raḥmat-ullahi wa barakatah.”
<img src="https://www.cultureword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Saad-2-Ali-alsmall.jpeg" width="500" height="600" alt="car door">
She looks at you passively. You catch your hand going to tug at your ear, a nervous tick.
“Lāzim nantadhir…” you stumble a bit. “Al-hurs al-thani biyakhidiki.” We have to wait, another guard will come. You feel your neck flushing. You’d practiced last night, yet this is all you could muster? Like a migraine, the Voice shoots through your conscience.
"One Nation, One Race, One Language, One Nation, One Race, One Language, ONE BRITAIN!!"
You gasp out a suppression verse but it’s useless. The microtargeting is intense, and for every verse you recite, the Voice seems prepared to counter with verse of its own, distracting you, trying to overcome you.
You feel an arm fall around you and a whisper in your ear, and as you jump from one suppression verse to another, Al-Khansa too echoes you and recites the same.
//wa ja’ al-rabi’ bi anghamihi wa ahlamihi wa sabahul utur…//
(text-style: "emboss") [Thus dawns Spring, the Melodious, the Fragrant, Inspirer of Dreamers… ]
Al-Khansa recognises what you’re doing and adds her voice to yours, helping you suppress the Voice of Whiteness. She helps you stand up and holds your arms.
She begins the recitation:
//A’udhu bil-Allahi min al-shaytan al-rajim, bismillahi al-rahman al-rahim…//
(text-style: "emboss") [I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed Satan, in the name of the most gracious and merciful God… ]
Meekly, you add your voice to hers until the Voice quietens in you. Her voice, like a shephard’s, guides you back from the mental wilderness, shephard calming you.
“Bas, bas…” you say weakly. (text-style: "emboss") [Enough, enough.] She stops, and it is like a trance has ended.
You barely register it when the gate opens and a new guard takes over. Al-Khansa releases a storm of complaints to them. Where were they? They left a novice exposed, they put her in danger, see that they help the guard…
Al-Khansa turns back to you momentarily and kneels by you.
“Shukran sayyidati,” you manage to say. (text-style: "emboss") [Thank you. You saved me.] “anqadhtini.”
She smiles at you, leans in close to help pull you up. Her lips brush past your ear. You expect Arabic to spill from her lips into yours. “You’re welcome.” she says, in English. Not in Arabic. What words did you scream before?
Before you can question what she’s just said, before you can warn the others, the Voice surges back in your head stronger than ever, overwhelming your senses—
"RULE BRITANNIA, BRITANNIA RULE THE WAVES!"
You are left writhing and screaming. The guard escorts the Seer away in a rush, shouting that they will get help for you.
“Ma fi fayda!” you scream out in Arabic, (text-style: "emboss") [it’s pointless!] It’s the last thing you can bear to say. But they do not know what you blather means. The Voice in your head becomes a rumbling laugh, and you know nothing but Voice-Madness.
“Ya sayyidat al-‘lugha,” you say. (text-style: "emboss") [My Lady of Language] As you bow, the Voice amplifies inside your head, shooting through your conscience like thunder.
"One Nation, One Race, One Language, ONE NATION, ONE RACE, ONE LANGUAGE, ONE BRITAIN. WHAT CULTURE IS THERE BUT IN THE LANGUAGE OF SHAKESPEARE, DICKENS AND ELIOT… RISE UP AND GREET THE KING HIMSELF, YOUR LORD, YOUR MAJESTY, YOUR SAVIOUR, AND BRING THIS WOMAN WITH YOU"
“We must wait for your next guard,” you blurt.
Al-Khansa’s eyes twitch. Your hands grab at your neck and you take your head down, you gag.
You continue babbling in English, repeating all the Voice of Whiteness propaganda, screaming it out. You scream it at her, sobbing. You try to bite down your tongue but cannot. Al-Khansa tries to cover her ears, but you pull her hands away and continue babbling.
You hear Al-Khansa weaving verses, reciting, trying to snap you out of it, to help you suppress the Voice of Whiteness. She helps you stand up and holds your arms.
She begins the recitation:
//A’udhu bil-Allahi min al-shaytan al-rajim, bismillahi al-rahman al-rahim…//
(text-style: "emboss") [I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed Satan, in the name of the most gracious and merciful God…]
But you scream back, “Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves!”
She shouts over your voice, reciting verses by her namesake, the ancient poet Al-Khansa herself,
//—wa lawla kithrat al-bakiyn hawli ala ikhwanihim laqataltu nafsi—//
(text-style: "emboss") [—And only the host of mourners crying for their brothers saves me from myself]
“—Stop it, stop it, stop with all your bloody words!” you scream, “There’s only one language and one law in this country, can you HEAR the Voice? Can you hear it?!”
Al-Khansa looks at you, unable to comprehend, she runs to the gate and calls for someone to come.
“No one is coming for you who doesn’t have this VOICE screaming down their ear! You’re a lost and pointless cause, you and all the Seers!”
The gate opens, and guards emerge, multiple ones. Someone immediately comes and tackles you to the ground and restrains you. Tears stream down your eyes.
“Tell everyone it is too late, your precious Seer is compromised,” you say, the Voice in your head and the voice from your mouth one and the same. “Tell them all, tell them the Bloods say hello.”
<img src="https://www.cultureword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Saad-3-Ali-Alsmall.jpeg" width="500" height="600" alt="scream">
The next guard to take over her care is late. It’s taking too long. You feel exposed to the cold wind on this autumn day. Al-Khansa broaches conversation with you.
“Ma afdal abyatik li-tasakkut al-sawt al-ansari?” (text-style: "emboss") [What’s your favourite verse to suppress the racist Voice?]
Amazing how you cannot think of any now that you’ve been asked to offer some. In any case, ‘favourite’ is an odd thing. These are prayers, only half-understood. Instead of an answer, you ask your own question, “Hal tasma’ina fi dhimmatiki?” (text-style: "emboss") [Can you hear it in your conscience?]
Al-Khansa wraps her arms and hugs herself for warmth. “Al-sawt mithl al-dhibbana. La asma’ahu wa la altifit ilayhu. Wa fi ay hal, la afhamahu fa la lahuw quwwa.” (text-style: "emboss") [The Voice is like a fly’s buzz. I neither listen to it nor pay it attention. In any case, I cannot understand it, and so it has no power.]
“Ma sha’ Allah,” you say. (text-style: "emboss") [God protect you.] You try to sink the jealous inadequacy you feel next to her. In your own head, the Voice amplifies itself into a scream.
"ONE NATION, ONE RACE, ONE LANGUAGE. IT IS THE DUTY OF EVERY PERSON ALIVE IN ENGLISH TO SPEAK ENGLISH, TO PASS ON THIS LANGUAGE TO ANY LESSER BEING WHO LACKS IT. EDUCATING THE UNCIVILISED IS OUR NOBLE CAUSE."
“Ayyyyn al-hurrrrs?” Your words come out slurred. (text-style: "emboss") [Where’s the guard?] You grope at your head. The Voice is getting louder, and it sounds personalised. What had the Commander said about microtargeting?
TELL YOUR LADY TO—
You fall to your knees, grasping your ears, screaming. Al-Khansa drops down and tries to help you.
You attempt the suppression technique again:
//A’udhu bil-Allahi min al-shaytan al-rajim, bismillahi al-rahman al-rahim,// you say
(text-style: "emboss") [I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed Satan, in the name of the most gracious and merciful God!]
And you gasp out the Fatiha, trying to drown out the Voice
"ONE NATION, ONE RACE, ONE— "
//–Ana-ladhi nazara al-a’ma ila adabi wa asma’a kalimati man bihi samamu—//
(text-style: "emboss") [I am the one whose words the blind read and the deaf hear]
–SIN OF SELF-LOVE POSSESSETH ALL MINE EYE
AND ALL MY SOUL AND ALL MY EVERY PART—
//–Wa ahtifu ya nara qalbi al-gharib
wa mawja ahsasi al-thaira—//
(text-style: "emboss") [—I cry out to the fire in this heart
and the wave of feeling sin revolt—]
—WHAT ARE THE ROOTS THAT CLUTCH, WHAT BRANCHES GROW
OUT OF THIS STONY RUBBISH? –
//–Abariku min al-nasi ahl al-tamuh
wa man yastalidhu rakub al-khatar—//
(text-style: "emboss") [—I bless of your lot the children of ambition
who chase and snap at the heels of danger—]
—PERFECTION IS TERRIBLE, IT CANNOT HAVE CHILDREN–
It’s useless. The microtargeting is intense, and for every verse you recite, the Voice seems prepared to counter with verse of its own, distracting you, trying to overcome you.
You feel an arm fall around you and a whisper in your ear, and as you jump from one suppression verse to another, Al-Khansa too echoes you and recites the same.
//wa ja’ al-rabi’ bi anghamihi wa ahlamihi wa sabahul utur…//
(text-style: "emboss") [Thus dawns Spring, the Melodious, the Fragrant, Inspirer of Dreamers… ]
Finally, the Voice recedes into a background buzz. You’re clutching the ground, sweating, It’s Al-Khansa who pulls you up. You’re left to stew in your thoughts.
You barely register it when the gate opens and a new guard takes over. Al-Khansa releases a storm of complaints to them. Where were they? They left a novice exposed, they put her in danger, see that they help the guard…
Her new companion ushers her through, radioing in support for you. But you are left behind, and you watch as they enter into the mansion. Soon, the gathering will begin. No doubt Al-Khansa will put you out of mind as she sits to meet her counterparts.
Your job here is done. But, you can’t help but shudder at the thought. This microtargeting had nearly overwhelmed you. And each and every person taking care of Al-Khansa, and the many other Language Seers in attendance today, are at risk. It would only take one person to falter for the entire resistance to come crumbling down.
Redwood Manor looks more alive than when you first arrived here. These palatial homes had been abandoned as the heritage of the Bloods. Had it been so wise to meet on their ancestral territory? But there is nothing more that you can do. You take your leave, praying for the best. Within you, the Voice hums, biding its time to strike at you again.
(END)