It is the year 2049. John Ennis, a writer and political analyst, finds himself in Medina Hurriya, capital city of Algharb. His goal is a new media series for Global Focus Report, but he quickly finds himself dangerously ensnarled in a struggle against Algharb’s oppressive regime.
The story has its roots in the early part of the twenty first century. During that period Europe and more particularly France had entered a period of intense transformation. In addition to the wave of continued immigration from Muslim countries, the sons and daughters of previous generations of immigrants reached maturity. The Muslim population of France reached eleven million. Islam had replaced Protestantism to a very large extent as the second religion of the country.
Successive governments had encouraged or condoned immigration, without looking further than their next election, without questioning the changes that were taking place in the world, without taking the decisions necessary to integrate the new arrivals into the mainstream population.
The result was a gradual radicalisation of attitudes of both the recent arrivals and the existing population towards each other. Most immigrants felt excluded or discriminated against and many were easily converted to the attitudes of their co-religionists in their countries of origin, who in turn were conditioned by events in the Middle East and elsewhere in the world, where Islam was in conflict with the West.
This novel was originally written in 1991 and I have altered relatively little in the story as it is told here. Many of the scenarios have come to be: a Middle Eastern Caliphate, the massive flight of refugees towards Europe, the rise of right wing political parties, encroaching Islam, the spread of communitarism, the retreat of the UK from the EU, and the threat of disintegration of both. The politicians of Europe and the USA are largely to blame for the situation that exists in the Middle East today and the paths that lay ahead for France the United Kingdom and the rest of Europe are fraught with danger.
Excerpt:
John Ennis looked out at the approaching coastline from the window of the decrepit Airbus of ACA Airlines. It seemed as though he hung suspended in the clear sky above the sea which reflected the afternoon sun like a silver mirror. The plane banked into a broad turn, entering its final flight path towards Medina Hurriya, the capital city of Jaziirat al Gharb. He glanced at his watch; it was almost five o’clock, an hour since they had taken off from Algeria, an Emirate of the Arabian Caliphate of Misr-Maghrib.
Jaziirat al Gharb was an autonomous region according to the Evian Agreement, signed in Paris fifteen years previously. It was administered, in theory, by the Nation of France under the tutelage of the European Federation.
Ennis was filled with curiosity; it was his first visit to that young country since travel restrictions to Algharb, as it was generally known, had been lifted for foreign journalists and in particular for Americans.
As the plane descended the airport he saw the sprawling city of Medina Hurriya lying beneath a fine brown haze of pollution. The city centre with its buildings and monuments, built in the characteristic rose coloured stone of the region, stood out against the parched hills that formed its northern boundary, to the west he could make out the endless shantytowns that stretched beyond the city suburbs, almost as far as he could see, covered by the pall of low-level haze.
The plane bounced on the runway, brakied violently then turned towards its gate. Once inside the terminal building Ennis followed the disembarking passengers towards the passport control where he joined one of the slow moving lines. Thirty minutes later he presented his passport to the uniformed official, whose shoulder badge indicated ‘Police des Frontiers’.
“Tu vas rester combien de temps?” the official enquired in a curious French accent, whilst closely examining the visa Ennis had obtained at their consulate in Algiers.
“Ten days.”
“You’re a journalist?”
“Yes, I’m here for my work.”
“Have you a permit? A letter from the Ministry?”
“Yes,” Ennis replied, presenting the letter of authorisation from the Ministry of Information of Algharb.
“You were born in London.” It was more of an accusation than a question.
“Yes, my father was Irish and I’m a naturalised American citizen.”
The agent gave him a sneering glance of disapproval, then stamped the passport and shoved it towards him.
“Remember the conditions in the letter. Don’t forget to report your arrival tomorrow morning to the Ministry,” he added referring to the numerous restrictions listed in the letter.
Ennis collected his bag from the carousel and turned towards the customs where he expected problems. He took one of the Green Lanes where a senior customs officer engaged in apparently idle conversation with two men in business suites feigned disinterest, and then with no more than a cursory glance nodded him towards the exit. A few moments later he found himself outside of the arrivals building where he pushed past a small crowd waiting for the newly arrived passengers. Relieved by the relative lack of formalities, he turned his attention to the taxi stand.
He headed to the first available taxi, passing two heavily armed RAS Corps men dressed in black uniforms, who inspected him with a look of contempt. He pulled out the confirmation for the hotel reservation and noted it indicated an address near the Old Port, in the city centre.
The air was stifling with the temperature in the mid-thirties and the humidity like a hamman. For late afternoon it seemed surprisingly quiet for an international airport with little movement outside of the arrivals terminal. He passed his bags to the driver and climbed into the taxi. It was an old model bio-fuel Renault; he noted that the telemedia and tracking system was new, the latest, apart from its frame, which was deeply scratched and twisted along the edges, probably the work of a heavy screwdriver. Perhaps stolen in France, he thought.
“Where to my friend?” asked the driver, in the curious style of French Ennis had remarked at the passport control.
“Hotel Medina Hurriya.”
“Okay, the Sofitel.”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
“Yeah, before it was the Sofitel, I remember it was already there when I was a kid.”
o0o
The taxi drove at a reckless speed towards the city. On both sides of the autoroute, beyond the grass verge, stood a wall consisting of pre-cast concrete slabs and posts that separated an endless shantytown from the traffic. Here and there a slab was broken or missing, the opening in the wall acted like a doorway onto the autoroute where small groups of adults and children gathered watching the passing traffic. A few of them risked their lives by crossing to a low central dividing rail, which they clambered over to face the stream of traffic from the opposite direction. A small dark skinned boy waited alone, lost, unable to climb the barrier.
It was the only way to reach the shantytown on the other side of the autoroute. Now and then he caught a flashing glance of the miserable huts, mere shelters, built of almost any available material; rusty corrugated steel sheets, old wood from pallets, packing cases and even cardboard. The doors consisted of old blankets draped across the openings. There were carcasses of old cars, washing machines, fridges and other household appliances. A satellite panel stood incongruously on the roof of one of the huts.
The driver observed Ennis in his rear view mirror. “They arrive every day, from the north by train, from Africa by boat. We need money to build houses.” He shrugged as a sign of hopelessness. “They wanted independence, now it’s here. Look at it!” He accelerated to even greater speed as if to escape the landscape of misery.
Ennis had seen such scenes many times before, but he could not help being appalled by the transformation of Algharb from the prosperous land he had known as a student.
The city centre was quite a good distance from the airport and in spite of the light traffic it was almost forty minutes later when the taxi pulled into the forecourt of the hotel.
“Here you are my friend, that’s one hundred and seventy.”
Ennis gave him a two hundred note. The driver dug deep into his pockets with a semblance of searching for the change.
“Keep the change.”
“Thank you my friend, welcome to our country. Allah be with you! Here’s my card, if you need a taxi.... just call me on my phone.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that, bye!”
“Inshallah!”
The hotel was located in the quarter known as the Old Port; it overlooked the harbour with the boats moored at the nearby quay. The view was splendid. The hotel was surrounded by gardens, which were well maintained, it had been one of the best hotels in the city. Inside it was different, it was a little run down with an air of seediness, there had been an evident lack of maintenance and investment. It was no longer the five star establishment indicated in the brochures.
He checked in at the reception desk and filled in the obligatory registration card with his personal details and passport number, which would be transmitted to the police immediately over the net.
The bellboy, who appeared to be not more than fifteen years old, took his bags and pointed the way towards the lifts.
“Where are you from my friend?” said the boy without real interest, using the familiar form of tu.
“I’m from Boston.”
“Boston?”
“Yes, Boston in the USA,” Ennis reaffirmed.
The boy whistled with astonishment.
They arrived at the room door on the fourth floor, which the boy opened with the plastic key card and then carried the bags inside.
“Gimme a dollar my friend” he said in English with a large grin of pleasure and satisfaction at having the rare opportunity to use his few words of English.
Ennis looked in his wallet, selected a five-dollar bill and handed it to the boy, who had just started to show him the appointments of the room.
“Here’s your TS vision!” he said pointing the remote control at a plastic panel that rose with a soft swish exposing a life size mural screen, which lit up. In one corner was an information window with a menu, in the centre screen an attractive girl stood before them and welcomed John Ennis with a smile.
“Nice,” the bellboy said with a sly smile. He zapped again and the girl disappeared giving way to a mosaic of entertainment channels. “We have all the interactive channels you want, even the French ones!”
Ennis thanked him and the boy left rubbing the five-dollar bill between his fingers with an evident satisfaction.
The bathroom was acceptable, nothing more, hot and cold water ran from the taps and a pile of towels was placed to one side of the washbasin, a row of toilette articles were aligned on the other side. It was clean and quite an improvement compared to Algiers, though it was a little worn and the style rather dated.
He looked at the folder on the writing table; there was a description of the hotel services. It was printed in two languages, French and Arabic. The French was strange, the spelling phonetic, the style colloquial and at worst illiterate, using a very familiar tone with the second person singular form of tu.
He opened his Satpac and switched it on and selected his personal securised uplink. His virtual assistant appeared and informed him with a regretful smile that the link was unavailable at that moment, suggesting that he try a connection via terrestrial cable, alternatively she could inform him later when a link became available.
Shit! Ennis thought, even in Algiers there were few problems with satellite connections. Perhaps he could connect using the hotel links. He glanced around for a connector, there were none. He zapped the TS to the hotel information desk. After a few moments a flustered girl appeared on the TS.
“Good evening Monsieur Ennis, can I help you,” she said with a sour smile.
“Yes, I’d like a secure uplink to a Boston site.”
“Boston? What address?
He gave her the address name and she informed him she would come back in a moment.
He swore silently. They were twenty years behind the times.
The girl from the information desk reappeared back on the TS mural.
“We don’t have a secure uplink to the USA at the moment, there’s a technical problem, the system is down.”
“What!”
He saw her face stiffen.
“I’m sorry, okay, when do you think it will be up again?”
“Maybe a couple of hours.”
“Two hours!”
He realised it was no use insisting.
“Yes, we have to go through Algharb Telecoms.”
"Okay, I’ll try later.”
He was surprised. In the Caliphate there had been little difficulty to communicate with the USA by an uplink, normally Algharb should have been more open. It was obviously not the case.
He looked at the mini-bar then opened it. It was full, cold beer and an array of other drinks. Splendid he thought, it was a great improvement after Algiers and the ACA in-flight service, which were totally dry; alcohol was forbidden throughout the Caliphate. It was more than four weeks since he had drunk a good cold beer; the last was at London, Heathrow, just before his departure. After that it had been as dry as the Sahara, alcohol was even off the drinks list on the Anglia National flight to Cairo in compliance with Caliphate regulations concerning all arriving flights.