The Violence of Ideas: Violence of Slavery, #2

By Tom Pope

Rumi grows up in 1880s' Egypt as his father, Sharpy, extended the rights for workers in Morocco. But Rumi is plagued by ideas of violence when a person's value is demeaned. He struggles with the ideas of identity, ethnicity, and truth. Who are we? An ethnic group, a part of a social movement, the color of the skin?

 

Frustrated by his father's work with Arabs, Rumi turns away from the ideals of his hero, the poet Rumi. He needs action. He searches for a cause. Rumi wants to free Blacks in most of Africa. But his frustration of dealing with lies from his family drives him to gun running and a seedy lifestyle.

 

Through a prison stay, he learns about self sustaining as a means to free local tribes from a growing imperialism. Once out of prison, his actions with a spiritual leader creates a Black Power movement that builds a sanctuary called tents or a different form of temple. However, enemies including the spiritual leader, force him to leave Africa.

 

His pilgrimage Hajj allows him to reconnect with Islam. He meets a Frenchman who speaks of the failed Paris Commune and the ideas of communalism. In the midst of European banking control over many lands, Rumi sets up coops to counter the bankers' power.

 

By the time he reaches America, Rumi finds the companies of former slaves his father set up need help. Banking interests have taken the power away from the companies. Rumi's system of coops and self sustaining create a new Black Power movement.

 

Rumi's activism ends in a near assassination in New York, but his son, Huey is hoped will continue the struggle. Rumi fears the growing war sentiment that seems to be headed for Europe. Yet that will have to for his son to solve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Pope
• Release date: Jul 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578908755

Book preview

The Violence of Ideas

By Tom Pope

Prologue

Late 1860s — Coins and Rocks

RIVERS OF TRUTH FLOW to the Sea

"How should Spring bring forth a garden on hard stone?

Become earth, you may grow flowers of many colors.

For you have been a heart-breaking rock.

Once, for the sake of experiment, be earth!"

— Jalai ad-Din Muhammad Rumi, Sufi Poet.

THOUGHTS COULD KILL.

R kicked the rock across the path leading to the beach. His foot held back. Why go on kicking that same rock?

Looked up through the day’s heat to see more sails in the distance coming from America.

His arms felt the goosebumps again.

Strangers to come between him and Uncle Sharpy. 

Forget that rock and turn around. Time for lunch anyway. His eyes blinked through the light to the tall Atlas mountains rimming the distance.

Forget the rock. Time for more studies. R liked the stories about that old poet, Rumi.

That wouldn’t take away the rock. He sighed. Obligations from others. Like he was a rock they kicked for their own reasons.

Glanced back to the edge of the path, going down to the beach, the wide sea, and that larger Rock. 

Gibraltar grabbed everyone here like it was a Caliph. The power of that rock was one idea that R hated. Hated power...rocks.

The wide gulf of water from there to R’s Morocco was another idea. Separation. The water was one thing, the powers around him was another idea. An idea that made a barrier between people.

He shuffled his feet to the stone on the path, kicked the rock back to the other side. Why should he study when it didn’t matter knowing poems?

The rock skidded to the dry earth, mixed with sand, and slid into a pocket of the earth. Like people who could not be seen because they didn’t live on the crest of a hill.

Mom said that. That was another thought.

He reached the rock and wondered what he wanted to do. 

Maybe stand in one spot till the ache went away.

Hooves beat on the path from behind.

You couldn’t stand in one place either. You had to anticipate. Keep moving. That was another idea.

He rushed past the rock, tried to seek cover. Life should not always be the need to react...survive. He was a rock following the rock.

The sand covered the left side in a dune, barring his path. He wanted to follow the path to the beach to help those shirt salesman when they landed. Uncle Sharpy wanted more of those Americans to come and sell items to the Moroccans.

R wanted to remain above it. Too many ideas to understand it all. Life should be simple.

Not like finding that letter from Mom to Uncle. She loved him. Where was Dad? Was it around the time Dad was lost going south to help people? But Uncle was in America. Aunt Jessie was there. How could Uncle have loved Mom — Kassa — who was here in Africa? Was Dad with Uncle in America?

Too many ideas. Stopped his feet from moving. Stopped the mind from working.

Horses snorted around the bend behind him carrying the ones with the djellabas who always rode high as though they could run over others.

The leader, wearing royal green, moved his garment to show a hilt in his belt, hiding a sharp blade probably. His eyes made you feel you were sand. That you owed him a day’s work in the sun.

His hand shot up, halting the others. His nose flared with a frustration at seeing him. "Salam. What is a boy doing out here?"

As-Salamu Alaykum.

You speak our language well. His head turned, demanding answers from those who followed. Who is he?

The boy from those Egyptians — the labor organizers.

The leader spat on the sand next to R. You people are a great deal of trouble. What do you do here...your name — boy?

Rumi...my friends call me R.

Laughter broke from the leader’s followers.

The leader’s hand shot up. When his men became quiet, he turned back to look at R with hatred on his face.

He leaned over his horse to stab Rumi with a threat. Tell your Uncle Sharpy that we only let him stay here because...because we hate him less than the black uniforms.

Rumi felt the goosebumps again. But he had to stand up, say something. You mean the Prussians. 

A large hand dipped from the leader to hold R’s chin in a vice. Your Sharpy hasn’t told you — children should only speak when addressed.

Another burst of laughter from the men behind. Probably at R’s boldness.

The leader’s horse stomped with a will to move. He grasped the reins harder. "You tell...Uncle Sharpy...stay away from our affairs."

The horseman opened his tunic, pulled out some garment. Threw it down by Rumi’s feet. A finger speared Rumi. "We don’t need Egyptians to tell our workers how to live. To sell shirts to us. From people who were  slaves in America. Fes does not need outsiders." 

His hand whipped the reins. Yallah.

Goosebumps remained after the troops scampered off.

Rumi? He was R.

Who was Rumi, or R? Another idea.

His foot found that stone, sticking out of the sand next to the garment thrown by the leader. Stone...garment. Was that drops of blood on the torn piece of shirt? That’s what the garment was. Knelling on the ground, he lifted the stone, partially covering the cloth.

A shutter as he realized that the pattern of the garment was the shirt Dima wore just yesterday. Was Dima all right? Was that his blood?

The stone had a power. Someone made the garment...another person sold the garment. But the workers did not have the stones...the power. People with power made the decisions. Ideas pushed us. Ideas were the big rocks.

Taking a few steps, other thoughts flowed. Those people from America were sales people who came to help the textile industry. They were once slaves. Now they were selling the shirts. But who made that clothing, he wondered. Was that person paid well?

Rights to be paid, to work?

Those were other thoughts. 

More ideas.

What was a person? An Egyptian? A Moroccan? A Prussian? Even the Prussians would no longer be Prussians — soon to be Germans.

That was another word.

His fingers rubbed the stone. He noticed his mahogany brown, black fingers. Were those colors a sign of being a worker, fighter...even a slave?

Running his fingers up his clothing, Rumi thought his garment fit like a skin. Other garments told different pasts.

His mom brought the linen fibers, loin clothes, kilt, and sandals from Nubia. Sharpy brought the buckskin leather made from a deer. Soft and strong, and yellow or gray.

What did those clothes say about those cultures?

Rumi kicked the rock back across the path. He wanted to see why those Berbers were in such a hurry.

His head shook with a sharp pain. He should have been on the beach instead of kicking that rock. Uncle wanted those new people to land later.

Was this the reason the Berbers were a threat? Problems with the rulers from the government in Fes?

He saw the rock, just sitting there and wanting to remain. Should he continue down the path? Maybe it was too late. Time for studies anyway.

He turned around and moved a few feet back to the house. But some pull made him turn.

Rumi picked up the rock and tried to walk slowly. But his feet felt like quicksand sweeping him faster from his spot on the beach. He threw the rock down the path, his feet following. He reached the boulder hiding the turn to the cove.

Right near the water, those Fes men surrounded others who came from a longboat. In the waters, a ship dipped up and down. Rumi had to back away from being seen.

Breath stuck in his throat. Those people from the longboat were the men he had to warn. Men from that company of former slaves Uncle Sharpy set up in America.

Back braced against the boulder, Rumi’s hand squeezed the small rock.  Those people were trying to change things in Morocco. Did he feel now like the independent R he wanted to be? Or was he that observer like Rumi? Just watch life unfold? No. Rumi did more. But how could R do more? Too many forces around him. All shouting ideas.

He listened. Words shot out from the Fes leader who had thrown the garment down by him just moments before. Invader...imperialist...our people can not buy from your company.

We’re here...just to...work with your companies.

Rumi had heard about what it was like for Sharpy’s dad to be a slave. But his uncle had turned those slaves into salesmen. Once slavery was gone in America, factories made those shirts from cotton. Quicker shirts from cotton. Faster machines picking the crop, quicker to sew material into shirts. But the factories had to sell the shirts. Sharpy set up companies of those former slaves to help the factory owners sell the shirts — go to Africa, and make those owners happy.

His hand ached with the pain as though the rock he was holding actually stung him.

They were salesmen, outsiders, slaves.

Shots rang out, thuds of people falling.

Could they be dead? He dropped the rock.

No. Killing them for being outsiders? Why kill them? That was another idea — another force driving people. 

Rumi should have been there sooner. He hesitated. Uncertain of which way to kick the rock.

The rock had kicked him. 

Hooves beat off into the distance, clouds of dust covering the red stains on the beach. 

Rumi slipped down to the bodies on the beach and stared straight ahead in the direction of the rising weight of Gibraltar. Some barrier of water flowed between Rumi and there. Between those European places and the African ones. A barrier between people. The barrier came from that giant rock he wished he could see. A barrier of wealth, of hating people who were different.

Another thought.

Rumi thought he saw the past of those men. Once working in the fields of cotton. Hoping for some way to beat the rock that lay in their life, the whip or the massa.

Now he held the rock and saw that rock of Gibraltar — an image of a knife, a point of death, right in front of him.

He looked at the stone in his hand...took a deep breath, He heaved it into the Alboran Sea at the British stone. Of course, you couldn’t see the giant rock of the British. But you felt its presence.

No. His small rock would not reach there. Rocks never do. They don’t answer anything. Only the Truth answers.

Malc. Malc? Are you down there?

The voice came from Sharpy, over his shoulder, on a hill where Uncle didn’t see the death on the sands. How could Rumi tell Sharpy the truth? About his delay?

My name’s not Malc.

The voice sounded reassured. I know...It’s Rumi.

Rumi felt the goosebumps. No. It’s R.

Thoughts did kill.

Telling the truth could kill. But you had to find that truth.

Maybe the truth could help the thoughts.

Starting to turn to face that hill with Uncle, he stopped. Sighed. Then ran the other way, away from Sharpy. 

Chapter I

Truth Hides Under Rocks

"Well, maybe you shouldn’t be leading a camel.

Stay with those like yourself.

A mouse has nothing really to say to a camel.

‘Would you help me cross the desert?’"

— Jalai ad-Din Muhammad Rumi, Sufi Poet.

R FELT A BULLET BORING a hole inside his chest as he watched the dock workers march down the pier. He pressed his tunic, feeling flesh, his stomach roaring as the sun beat down from above.

Bullets hadn’t killed him. They killed those people Uncle Sharpy wanted him to warn. Those people who were friends of the marchers on the pier.

A pole from a banner struck him as crowds swayed back and forth along the pier.   Loose coins thrown at the pier official’s feet made R laugh.

They had some small change to throw away since Uncle set up those credit unions. Now they tossed them at the pier officials to show they knew about the bribes they made to benefit some wealthy merchants. Those people of his uncle had some power to defy the officials.

Snorts from camels threatened as people parted for the Sharif’s armed guards.

R stepped back into a food stall to avoid the camels. He could see men stomp on workers. Like those men down on the beach.

His chest ached from the feel of the bullet he avoided. He had played at being safe. By watching those African Americans die on the beach. 

Touched his shirt, feeling the cotton from America.

That’s all these marching workers wanted. To buy the shirts from those factories in America.

There was that horseman from Fes again, the one on the beach who forced others to call him Sharif. That man rode his camel now, rode it like a throne. The height made him look down on the street, to notice R. He sneered at seeing R. Twisted his reins to thrust the camel over to R.

R tried to move deeper into the stall, his foot caught on a basket, sending him tumbling into a tray of oranges.

Shouts from the marching workers rose. Some of the marchers started to move around the armed men.

Sharif Aziz. You should be with us. We fight for the people. The voice came from R’s left, from one of the organizers he had seen with Uncle. 

The Sharif snarled, taking a fabric from his satchel. He flung the white shirt at the worker. "You are not the people if you buy this chain."

The organizer’s back straightened. We buy from the American so we don’t have to pay the Prussian.

The camel bucked, fearful of the encroaching crowd. The Sharif leaned over to face the worker. You can tell which is American? Which is Prussian? From what? Their money chains they have around your neck with their shirts?

A pull from the rear grabbed R. He fell backwards into stiff arms of cousin Nyanath. The feeling struck him as gentle but defiant. Your seat was empty at home. Your uncle bellows like a wounded rhino. Something important. Do you know why?

He shrugged, felt his tongue go dry. He searched her eyes for that briskness Uncle Sharpy always liked about her. No. She was always kind. She seemed more of a sister than a cousin. The words fell out. I did it. I failed him.

She turned him to face her narrow set eyes, high cheeks, and glare. Her head dipped with piercing eyes. Is that why you fled, when Dad saw you at the beach?

She held her breath. Must have noticed his fear. What tree bark have you hacked this time? 

Trees bring shade...they hide the light though...keep us away from seeing. The voice came from a jutting head of Hassan, darting one way, then another.

R had a sudden, intense wish to be Hassan, their household helper.

To be so innocent. Not aware of the world. Held back by the world around him, Hassan only thought of simple things in life. One nice thing from Uncle was his desire to protect Hassan from people who would look down on him.

Hassan’s face twitched one way, then another, eyes glued to the path where the camels snorted. Camels snort, camels walk. We talk but do not snort.

Brushing past Nyan, R walked over to the shade of the cedar tree. Maybe it would hide his fears.

She wrinkled her nose. All right...you’ve spilt some water. This is me...remember? The cousin you can’t hide a stalk of wheat from.

He swallowed, then saw that upturned smile, widened eyes, acceptance. He closed his eyes. "Truth...what’s the value? Is it Shapry’s chains to make the Moroccan tied to American shirts?"

She shook her head, grabbed him and started walking away from the the market square, past the stalls of dried fruit, past the hand carvings, and the new stalls with those American shirts brought by other people who had landed on the beach. Now the giant cedar hid them from others.

Hassan ran ahead, waving his arm. The camels come so soon, you be very happy to leave this place, and find that home with the spilt water. What be a little water when your life be helped by little Hassan.

R turned past a part of the tree to look at the shirt-seller in a nearby stall. He’ll make some money because the Americans will sell a fairer price than the European. But isn’t the struggle the same? Pay the one above you...the one with the chains on your neck?

The shade of the cedar dipped branches with leaves around them. She bent to pick up a fallen leaf. Brushed it against his cotton shirt. Feel that? That shirt you wear is not the chain from the American. That’s no gun barrel from the Prussian.

He heard screams from the entrance to the pier as the Sharif’s men started to attack the marchers.

Do those benefits of wearing the shirts include fixing broken hands? From the Sharif’s camels? 

He turned to look at the dust from the sand kicked up from the turmoil. People broke and ran from the homes at the pier’s entrance. Do those benefits mean the marching helps the Black man?

She dipped her head and looked worried. What did you do?

They hurried away from the shouts behind them. Through the sandy streets, past the whitewashed buildings. Past the square with open balconies on second floors where hushed whispers filtered through the air.

R ripped off his shirt, throwing it into a passing alley. What could they hope to get...those marchers?

A firm hand held his chest. He looked up to see sadness in Nyanath. She wrinkled her nose. Your shirt — why?

Looked at the ground. Wondered if that hard earth was all those slaves in America saw. Watched sun shine bright, glistening a sheen on his black chest. Why cover the color with cloth — I’m not Berber. Why cover with the textile company when it just hides our slavery today?

What about less hours slaving in the field and owning the land instead of working for a plantation? She twisted her clothing. My top — came from those former slaves in America.

R raised his hands to cover his ears, the sounds rushed in, rocking his head. He could imagine sounds from a factory that replaced the plantation.

She knelt with him as he slid to the ground. Easy...slow your heart drum. Take a deep feel of the wind.

Hassan stopped motioning his arms. His head held steady as his eyes blinked off and on. "No...no master Malc. Not to worry here in this place. Not a good place with camels to worry your aching head. Better to worry once you lie in your walls at home where Uncle helps."

The touch from Nyanath gave a strength. Energy entered him. He looked into her. Those workers bring the Europeans. They see the new workers having money — they want to take it away.

She smiled that knowing face. Lifted his chin. You wear the cloth...you don’t chain the workers. That is why your Uncle Sharpy fights for the workers.

Clouds covered her as he cringed. Fights for the Berber. What about the Blacks?

Showing a sad face like a mother disappointed with a child, Nyanath sighed. You plant the field with wheat and millet. When the governor barks that you should buy his wheat, you protest. That doesn’t mean you have forgotten your millet.

He sighed. Stomach churned. No — it means your millet has become invisible to you...like the Blacks.

She rose, stretching her arm back to the pier. Those workers now have added coins because of the coop Uncle has built. Is that the water the Europeans thirst for? The Europeans are making problems. Is that the fault of our struggle for workers’ rights?

R stood up, knowing she was right. Again. He looked at Hassan and knew those Europeans would have little time to consider the good-hearted but slow Hassan. To Sharpy, Hassan was another member of the community and deserved rights.

He heard more screaming from the pier area.

Felt a pull from her. We have empty seats at home where we should be...we have to move.

His hand held her back, his eyes still on the street behind him. I lied to Sharpy at the beach when he called me...I didn’t warn them.

Her hand grabbed his, her breath sped.

I was delayed...I reached them after Aziz’s men found them on the beach.

He spotted the people in the march and saw their Berber skin. "The Fes people killed the ones on the beach. Killed Black men. Uncle only cares about the Arab."

Nyanath closed her eyes. She held his chin in her palm. "He set up those companies...open your silly eyes."

Her face changed to a worry. Oh no.

What?

Then Aziz knows...some poison from a letter...an arrow from the past comes to hurt Dad. If you did not warn those men, Aziz has a new weapon.

R twisted his head to the road that took them to the walled sanctuary by the sea that Uncle called home. Then R looked again at Nyanath. He ran his fingers through her black hair. I sometimes wonder if we’re really connected deeper. You and me...you are so much like my mother...Kassa the root healer.

Her eyes wrinkled. Why question where you are connected?

I sometimes feel between...between two worlds. Sometimes Aunt Jessie seems more real than...my mom."

He heard her intake of breath, saw a blink and then felt the tug to go. Time to find the truth about how Uncle would treat him.

AZIZ SAW THE RIDER approach, dust filling the streets by the pier. His teeth gritted, as his white camel stomped uneasily.

A man stumbled off his horse, his wrists caught in the reins as he was brought by two guards to the feet of Aziz on his camel. The man was weak, a minor annoyance. But he was a snake in the sand for Aziz. Called himself organizer for the gifted merchants of Allah. And a snake in the shadows to watch that intruder — Sharpy.

One look at Aziz and the man sneered. You traded your black camel for a white?

A slap from one guard slammed the man to the ground. No disrespect...master Aziz is the anointed one.

Aziz leaned over the man. "Tist...tist. Dima...you know these followers of yours...the rabble, the lower Berbers...they become violent when you abuse your own people for profit."

Ah...the followers see my strength. The merciful one is pleased with me. Glanced around to see who watched. "Take him