Entheos

By Clarke Williams

Narrated by the Enthusiast, the novel explores the dubious world of international aid, celebrity humanitarianism and the mind of the zeitgeist darling, who speaks on behalf of the oppressed, whether they want him/her/them to or not. After taking part in a failed migrant aid mission to Tripoli, the Enthusiast ‘accidentally’ becomes a totem for the shady NGO, Sea of Hope. She speaks at parliaments and the UN. TV interviews, social media ‘likes’ and celebrity parasites ensue. However, when it comes to the struggling migrants in Libya - nothing changes.

On the crest of a fame wave, she is tricked into returning to Tripoli. Saviour becomes victim and after her ordeal there is only one person who can make sense of it all. Enter thrill-seeking Celia Davies, our anti-heroine from ‘This is The Future and This is Now’. Young, South African, and carnal Celia is dedicating her life to human rights investigations and alcohol-consumption. The Enthusiast and Celia join forces with a British cop and an ex-Belarusian paratrooper and so begins a high-stakes investigation into an international establishment conspiracy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clarke Williams
• Release date: Dec 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005843496

Clarke Williams

Clarke Williams is the black diamond in the brown rough that is Ridgewood Productions (@rjwdprods). He may be a university lecturer or former employee of the British State. He may even be a member of Sleep Token. His interests include good music and fine beers. He has a few wives and some kids. He lives in a house in a pretty nice part of town. He believes art should challenge the audience and when it comes to literature; it must contain swear words. His influences include The Beats, Hunter S Thompson, Bill Hicks, Lionel Shriver, Martin Amis and Sylvia Plath. #rjwd #celia3 #entheos2022

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Enthusiasm, the utilisation of inner power combined with action, solves many problems. It does not require noise or speed. It can be as still and silent as morning in the desert. It is how you harness enthusiasm to deliver justice, transcendence and love. In these times of great confusion and personal disclosure as a way of life, it is a constant challenge to maintain focus on what really matters.

I recall the first few days, then time became gelatinous and opaque. There were two of them. They drank a lot of homemade alcohol and smoked a significant amount of cannabis, which, combined with their body odours, linger now at the back of my throat and mind.

They called themselves soldiers, a profoundly generous title. My father was a military cleric; providing spiritual support to real soldiers. Nearly everything about enthusiasm I absorbed from him.

Chapter 1

My mother left us. You could argue it was abandonment. My father went on stoically, as one would hope, into retirement and premature death. My brother, heavily influenced by my mother’s atheism, rejected all notions of spirituality. He was looking in the wrong place. I was called, a gentle call, like a proper mother announcing the imminence of dinner. To truly know enthusiasm requires no signs or material proof. You know it like you know the beating of your heart, your breath – as immutable as the colour of your eyes. To walk that path, your inner engine gently propelling you forward, an invisible hand easing aside the distracting foliage, requires nothing more than the awareness of potential.

I learned from my father. I learned from books, from observing others, and I learned from the world around us. Enthusiasm’s majesty is real. It is found both in beauty and in violence. I truly believe we all know how to live correctly. Deep within our conflicted and over-nourished souls, we are aware of what we should be doing. Everyone can find their way to what is needed by others and themselves. So why do so few of you reach that destination?

Via the power of technology, that worldly device, it appears more than half of humanity is a critic or a judge. Some like to aim their condemnation at people such as I, the shaming outlier, the unpleasant truth. So I decided to stay quiet and do the one thing that most humans cannot quarrel with. I serve.

I went to Africa to help people. There is so much suffering in the world, but Africa, Libya in particular, demanded I go there and provide relief, despite the portents from our so-called leaders. The thousands of migrants, trapped and exploited, often forced to risk their lives to reach my Continent. Their tragic humanity compelled me to assist.

Conflict makes all sorts of humans richer. Interventionist policies have ironically created fantastic markets for humanitarian aid. Politicians send in young people to violently enforce their will and, from the resulting malaise, deploy another wave possibly to make good the chaos caused by their less privileged brethren.

One of my friends, Erica from the UK and working for the UN, was kidnapped. They released her a few days later unharmed and received $100,000 for their mercy. Her Dad is a millionaire and one of those very relaxed men who do not mind paying ransoms. He didn’t even ask her to come home. He probably should have, she was killed by a landmine near Sabratha, a few weeks later.

And for me. I had to go. It crept up on me slowly, prayer and (regular) donations may make you a good person, but they do not render you useful.

From virtually every corner of the globe, our small group convened in Tripoli. Flying into the airport, it looked the same as any other Mediterranean coastal city; it could have been Marseille, Corsica, Sardinia or the Costa del Sol. The Mediterranean Sea has a particular summer glint that leaves me childishly excited. As we waited within the patched-up arrivals lounge, not one of us over the age of thirty, some away from home for the first time, I became aware of something that eventually became a phantom fifth limb. Disquiet.

Our mission was based in the Qerqarish district in the west of the city. An area of golf courses, beaches and foreign embassies. Somewhere less dangerous. It was also known to be an embarkation point for migrants. Over the first week, the group coalesced until there was around forty of us. The compound was roughly a 40m x 40m space, a white wall enveloped it like cake icing; razor wire, cameras and fencing, the decorations. There were fifteen or so sleeping quarters, small off-white cabins with moderately well tended gardens and overhanging palm trees.

The living quarters were centralised in the layout: shower blocks, a kitchen (with cooks), a common room/leisure area (regularly punctuated by news broadcasts and the clack of pool balls), an outdoor seating zone where laundry dried in what felt like seconds, a meeting room, a garage and a watch-tower-come-control room. We could see virtually nothing of the outside world and, as far as we knew, it could see very little of us.

The first few evening meals were raucous, agitated and good-natured chat, regarding previous deployments and what was in store for us in Libya. And how we were going to assist the poor migrants who had been left so vulnerable, following the fall of the Colonel. Hundreds more arrived each week from Sudan, Eritrea, Somalia, West Africa and even Bangladesh – sometimes taking months to complete their journeys. Souls prepared to risk everything because where they came from seemed less palatable than the chaos of Libya and the perilous Mediterranean crossing that often followed. People of faith, being led by God’s intelligence to a new life in Europe. Our agency was neutral as to their choices. Our role was to bring relief to their plight, not condemn or condone.

My best friend in the compound was Sam, a slightly overweight French guy with an old man’s smile and beard. Every evening, chores complete and at least two hours until curfew, we would drag two plastic chairs to the garage area and talk relatively unbothered, other than perhaps by one of the security detail who would saunter past to check the vehicles. Sam was attracted to me; it wasn’t mutual. I find sexual attraction hard and confess I do not understand my own other than to say it is infrequent and random. He was an educated and well-raised French atheist, with impeccable manners, thus I always felt comfortable in his company. Sometimes, mid-ramble, he would pause and survey me for a few seconds. This would be followed by an awkward tug of his T-shirt and a shift in his position. We talked about a number of topics, some trivial, others profound. What we always returned to was family, and surviving it.

So how old were you when your Mum left? tug of shirt, concerned smile.

Eleven. But you know there are some things we know for a long time before they come to be a thing, do you know what I mean?

Sam smiled again, glanced briefly at the ground and returned his gaze to me, of course, my Mother and Father divorced two years ago and it should have happened way sooner. My sisters had probably worked it out before me, but I certainly knew from my late teens they should not be together.

I am pretty sure my Mum still loved Dad, but I was never sure how she felt about me. Do you have that recollection of not being clear about how your parents’ feelings towards you?

No I don’t. But I can relate. Why should children be certain of their parents’ love? Most of us know what love is but few can describe it. As far as I can tell, it is chemical, physical and neurological. That is a recipe for things to be misconstrued and, eventually, go wrong. Why should those factors guarantee stable and eternal love?

They can’t, I watched a small bird land on the razor wire, it pecked hurriedly at its chest and flew off into the Mediterranean dusk, thank you for confirming that my Mum didn’t, doesn’t, love me!

We both laughed and a few tears escaped my eyes.

I continued, it is all the more sad because she loves my brother a lot, which is easy to see.

Ah, Mums and their sons.

Are you a Maman’s boy?

Probably. She at least supports me in what I do with the NGOs. My Dad thinks I should grow up and get a real job. He also has a slightly bleak outlook. For him conflict and suffering is a normal part of human existence and what we do has such a minimal impact, we are effectively wasting a lot of time and money. Possibly making things worse.

He should meet my Mum, she is very cynical, although I don’t think she has a clue about what I do and what I want to do in the future.

What do you want to do in the future?

I definitely want to be a Mum, but professionally I would like to teach.

Your Dad would approve.

Correct. He was an amazing man, always available for others, never noticeably tired or angry. But I think his benignity was what drove my Mum away in the end.

Sam lit a cigarette and blew a huge gust of smoke over my head, both flamboyant and moderately considerate. He gesticulated, using the cigarette like a tiny baton.

I cannot understand why so many societies put such an emphasis on having a life partner. By that, I am not advocating polygamy or infidelity, I just think it is almost a little childish to think you are going to feel the same about each other, aged fifty-seven as you did when you were twenty-nine. You know I hate those shows that have talking heads of les personnes real, usually involving health or hospitals, where they make some bold statement about the love of their life and how they still make them feel like they did when they met back in 1897 or something. Utter bullshit.

Now who is being cynical? I smiled my encouragement.

He took another drag and changed the subject.

Remind me, why are you out here?

A calling, a compulsion, a duty.

You really believe that nonsense don’t you?

Yes, why shouldn’t I? Do you think you have all the answers to the mysteries of the universe and your motivations?

Of course not, but I am sorry I have taken us on another diversion. What I mean is why specifically here? What is so special about the irregular migrants of Africa? There are people you could be helping anywhere.

I could ask that question of you.

He shrugged, blew more smoke, as if to say ‘but we are talking about you’.

I think it is the media coverage partly; I just felt I didn’t know what the true picture was. Then there are the drownings. A poor life in North Africa is surely preferable to dying at sea? To you and I, yes, but some of these people they are so desperate, so driven to attain a better life; they will risk everything. Including their children. There is something about their plight that was akin to an exodus or a pilgrimage. I came here to preserve life and to help – even if it is only a handful of them. If I can reduce suffering and assist some of them to reach their destinations safely, then I will have done good.

Some might say if we help migrants enter the European Union we are aiding a humanitarian disaster and illegal migration, which damages the fabric of western society.

But the calling goes way beyond the law of men. And as you have explained before, one of the pull factors for this is the EU’s desire to have cheap labour in its service industries.

You are right. There are some very real double standards.

Not least the media.

And what do you know of Libya?

I shrugged, blushed slightly, not an awful lot to be honest. I have read the briefing notes, but I don’t feel I can really understand the place unless we are able to interact with the people.

Sam laughed and scratched his beard, then I doubt you will learn much. I give us no more than a 20% chance of getting outside of the walls of this pleasant compound, other than to be escorted back to the airport.

Oh please don’t say that Sam. There must be a better chance than that. And, out of interest, what do you know about this country?

Nix, nada, rien. Other than, we are only here because of the efforts of our leaders and the top class western arms industry. If the Colonel were still in power then you and I would be in south America now or another part of this continent.

***

...a few months later we flew in at dusk: camera crew, Sara, Alex and I. Three days of final preparation in Malta, endless press conferences and security briefings. Meetings with major donors and even a few EU politicians. Over the previous half a year, I had grown used to it...

Chapter 2

After four weeks we were confined to our compound; the situation outside too precarious to start our work. Despite the fundraising videos and lobbying, it became clear rather quickly that our managers and executive board did not really have a strategy. It felt almost as if the forty or so workers, a dozen support staff, six guards and escorts, had been deployed on a whim. The Arabic speakers amongst us did all they could to engage with any local that appeared at the gates to deliver food and other supplies. No one knew how to access the migrants and no amount of daily briefings and team-building exercises could assuage that.

Without the acquiescence of the quasi-state, a militia commander or religious leader, we were paralysed. Rather like prison, there has to be organisation to allow people to access benefits as per their utility and standing within the system. The militias in particular knew it. They could only mistreat the aid agencies to a certain extent, because without them they would have little food to sell at the markets or access to funds or the internet.

Motivation had started to drift away. Cross-cultural interactions were now infrequent as the various nationalities and religions began to polarise into factions where group dynamics were less fraught.

(I assume after days of surveillance) the local authorities finally made contact. Our intelligence briefings, samey and uninspiring, had given up trying to contextualise the greater Tripoli militia and security forces. We knew who controlled which district, but whom they were affiliated with had become little more than a partially educated guess. Ours was overseen by Abu Salim (an unfortunate moniker), a moderate Islamist with recent revolutionary credentials and probable links to the former regime. Moderate meant he was an ambitious man, with interests weighted more in the direction of business and economic gain than religious persecution and the all-judging Caliphate. Utilising the religious banner gave him some kudos with the local populace. The Colonel had vaguely embraced Islam and it helped extend his rule for another decade. I wondered if how it ended for him (humiliated and violated) had made false piety seem worth it.

Abu Salim arrived unannounced on a Sunday lunchtime with around six of his men. Although armed, they projected more wariness than threat. We had become a management problem. A western charity, staffed by young people, was a target for standard street criminals through to ‘real’ Islamists. And it would not be good for his ongoing tenure if something particularly bad happened to us. Despite our barely respected roles, one dead Swede or raped American and a drone could cease Abu’s existence and his family’s.

Prior to our arrival, there had been lengthy negotiations to enable the invocation of our operation. Apparently, we needed his acquiescence as a minimum. After a few trips to Tunis, which it is rumoured, included him being presented with a CD signed by Tom Sinclair, Abu Salim was convinced.

He visited at a very hot time of the day. The aircon in our meeting room was being temperamental. Of additional political challenge, our permanent head of mission was, as yet, unidentified and in situ. It was decided, through a combination of quasi-democracy and indifference that our head of security/site manager (Alex from Belarus), Sam and I would meet with the Abu and his escorts.

Alex was an unassuming man, fitting no clichéd description of a former soldier who had spent most of his working life as a mercenary. He looked more like a slightly tired public official; glasses, thinning but styled hair and a smile so gentle I felt sleepy when looking at him. Sam regularly reminded me that he watched Alex complete three hundred chin-ups every morning before thirty minutes of dexterous butterfly knife practise.

He is a trained killer who I imagine has actually killed, stop being so girlish about him.

But I couldn’t help it. He was also a good person to have in the meeting with Abu Salim. Alex brought poise rather than antagonism. And Sam was not remotely aggressive. Alex, with the help of the two permanent kitchen staff, prepared the meeting room; even managing to install a portable aircon unit. Abu Salim prevented his men from joining our discussion. Unaccompanied, he was a humorous and urbane man. His expertly managed beard confirming his moderate credentials. He had large hands and a small head, the latter dominated by his hazel eyes. Dressed in traditional robes he surveyed us with a faint smile. As we talked, he made the most eye contact with Sam; afterwards Alex joked that it was probably because Abu Salim was impressed with the Frenchman’s beard.

Thank you for seeing me. How are you finding Libya?

Sam and I shrugged. Alex proffered something of an answer: hot and we like the food.

Abu Salim placed his hands on the table and continued, we are here to ensure you are safe and provided for by the people of this district. There is a war on, as you know, so I cannot promise you the Earth; but I want to provide you with proper Libyan hospitality. And, of course, if you are having any problems with importing equipment, visas and such-like, let me know and I am sure I can assist. For a fee.

Emboldened by his brazenness, I spoke.

Abu Salim, do you think you will be able to assist us in gaining access to the hundreds, possibly thousands, of migrants who are detained in this area?

The smile dissolved, the hands became fists.

My dear, there are no migrants in this area; as I have told your bosses, numerous times.

Alex, straightened slightly in his seat, and fixed Abu Salim with a low-grade stare.

Abu Salim, we know there are many thousands of migrants in Tripoli alone and many hundreds in this area. We know of at least two detention centres that are run by your men.

You are mistaken, as far as I am aware, but maybe we can find some way for you to accompany my men to where you think these centres are. If there are migrants and they are being mistreated, I shall put a stop to it.

Sam interposed, Abu Salim we have not come here to cast aspersions on your leadership or people. Our mission is humanitarian and we just want to make sure that the people who are, in particular, attempting to make the crossing to Europe are given the requisite information and care.

I am not aware of any foreign people in my district who wish to climb on to a dangerous wooden boat and cross the Mediterranean. In fact I think a lot of these stories and films are made up by the media to discredit us as we try to rebuild our country.

But when you kindly agreed to us coming to your area, you knew it was because we wanted to help the migrants who have been left in a vulnerable state since the war began, Sam fanned himself as he spoke, the aircon beginning to struggle.

Yes that is true...but they are nothing to do with me.

Abu Salim, I wonder is there something we could give you, a gesture of our gratitude? Alex suggested whilst doodling on a pad of paper.

Therein lay the difference between naive aid workers and a mercenary; Alex understood the bottom-line. Abu Salim grinned and lowered his voice. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, trying to sense if one of his men was listening.

Well, sir, as you know things are unsettled in this part of Africa. There are occasional miscreants who infiltrate this area and I want to make sure they do not bother you. In addition, if I am able to give you access to these so-called migrants that would cause me some security and financial concern. I would suggest $1,000 per day and occasional access to your comms equipment.

I bristled and felt compelled to voice my concern, we are an aid agency, we are not here to provide support to an ongoing conflict...

Alex ceased doodling and wrote down the commander’s commands, Abu Salim, that will be fine. Give us a few days to secure access to the funds. Would you like us to pay weekly?

That should be fine. Cash. Thank you, now please call my men.

Chapter 3

After Salim and his men departed, Alex set to wrestling with the aircon. Sam returned to the communal area but I followed Alex in a bid to comprehend what had happened. The aircon source and controls were in a large cupboard in one of the central hallways. I followed Alex inside, feeling somewhat in awe as he unfurled his apron of tools and gadgets. It was becoming unbearably hot but as he worked, Alex barely broke sweat. Despite my origins, I feel the heat and beads of chilly liquid began to dribble down my back.

Alex, why have we agreed to his demands? Doesn’t that sound like he will just continue to increase them? Do you think he will actually give us access to the migrants?

Alex paused, removing a cover from what I assumed was an integral part of the system, and juggled the screwdriver with one hand.

You ask a lot of questions. It is OK, I have experienced it a few times before – the new ones are the most earnest. He has come in fairly low with the demands for a man in his position, which suggests a few things. Firstly, and this is important to know, any agency like this one – with extraordinary amounts of financial backing – can afford ten times that. And his demands will never get there, because he came in too low.

But don’t we make ourselves vulnerable to other groups and criminals?

Alex turned his back and continued to loosen the cover.

Unlikely. In fact, it is the main reason I made the offer, your job is to deliver aid, mine is to make sure you don’t die doing it. Also he may not have much power beyond this suburb but he is the boss man here and planning to stay that way.

Why is that?

He is, in the Libya of now, more a businessman than anything else. I think my theory is supported by his request to utilise our comms kit. That tells me his reach is limited. Could you pass me that torch please? You look upset. What is wrong?

Not upset as such, just bemused. Is it always like this?

In combat situations, in unstable countries, absolutely yes.

You said Abu Salim was a businessman. How do you know that?

Well I have read the intel reports but also a politician would have used that visit as some sort of promotional opportunity. He is a man who wants to keep it fairly low key, hence the reason he is concerned about us being here.

So what is his business?

I am surprised you haven’t worked it out, he winked playfully, shining a brief light on the fact that I was attracted to him, the red-handled pliers please.

No I haven’t. So I guess drugs or guns?

Probably a bit of that, just to keep some diversification. But his day job is pretty obvious – people trafficking.

Alex managed to coerce the aircon into something like three-quarters effectiveness, but I did not sleep well that night. The very man who was supposed to be enabling us to help these poor wretches was probably detaining, exploiting and trafficking them. It did not take a huge intellectual leap to realise we being an aid agency (and therefore impartial) meant that Abu Salim probably had planned to exploit us from the moment he agreed to our mission.

As I lay in my small cell-like room, a film of sweat covering me like an extra unwanted bed-sheet, I became increasingly agitated. And I know myself pretty well. I could not stop thinking about the migrants. They were out there, possibly no more than a mile or two away. Scared, confused and desperate. Many of them would be ill, dozens of them (especially women) victims of sexual assault. I allowed enthusiasm to quieten me, to elevate me. My soul drifted out into the night and fell like a drizzle of love upon them – wherever they were. I managed to sleep for nearly two hours.

Chapter 4

Our HQ was in Malta. Our alleged ‘supervision’ involved regular emails, texts and sitreps; the latter being the product of a private company based in Croatia and staffed by ex-Israeli intelligence analysts (when briefing us early in our deployment, it was the only time I saw Alex betray subjectivity or disdain; he clearly felt Sea of Hope was being ripped-off).

Their job, utilising hi-tech systems and ‘on-the-ground’ sources, involved the provision of thrice-daily briefing. The point? Supposedly to assist us in targeting the migrants who needed our help, and to keep us reasonably safe. It looked very impressive – multi-coloured maps, militia insignias, bar charts, key news items etc. And was of dubious accuracy and minimal utility. Any half-informed person can have a decent guess about what may happen next. And usually they will be wrong. The mysteries of the world and the universe, despite all our advancement, remain very much intact. That is why billions of us continue to have faith in something higher and more powerful. Despite all that has happened and all I have done, my precarious health and memory, the serious harms, I maintain my inner belief.

Sam liked to ponder all the uninhabited planets in our solar system. His theory, one I had never considered, no sign of humanoid life for millions of square miles suggested extinction. War, economic collapse, disease, force majeure, starvation and so on had put paid to whatever life there had been. We would soon follow.

***

"...our arrival, low key and moderately disappointing, saw us greeted by a handful of al-Megrahi’s men. Nobody at the airport recognised me. Our escorts were enthusiastic and amused at our very existence. One of them found it especially hilarious when Victoria declined his offer to carry her (heavy) camera equipment. No passport control or difficult encounters with border police; out through a side door to three SUVs gleaming in the moonlight. A jet ploughed its escape and I observed Alex’s body language as they took us to the cars. He approved (of the vehicles) but not of the ambience. Sara on edge and probably wrestling with her desire to shout at me for being so indulgent. Our situation now precarious, no matter how many guns and well-paid militiamen. They accelerated away. Alex addressed our driver in Arabic – a brief exchange on the radio and the procession eased to a less obtrusive pace...

***

The Colonel, who had invited so many of our intended ‘clients’ into the country, had seemed almost immortal. Admittedly, a handsome young army officer had transformed into a surgically molested old man, but his grip on power and the national psyche appeared strong and unyielding. Then the Americans, the British and the French began to help the rebels. Their aerial bombings forced the fleeing Colonel to hide in a drainage system, from which he was dragged, tortured, murdered and mutilated. The victim of a war crime, the very sort of atrocity from which the West was supposedly protecting the people. The humanitarian mission’s outcome - a head of state unlawfully killed by his people. I do not recall a single prime or foreign minister condemning the act.

The nation of Libya, as far as I and the Israeli intelligence officers in Split could tell, sentenced to a gruelling unravelling that would conclude in violent stasis. The migrant workers almost instantaneously lost that nebulous, but crucial, notion of state protection. The Colonel being something of a practical joker deliberately facilitated the transfer of thousands of young non-Libyans from his shores to those of the European Union. A perverse revenge mission for the bombing of his mansions and tanks. Most of those crammed onto the flaking boats were there of free will. The victims came after the Colonel’s departure.

My calling to Libya was not precipitated by the media, the exhortations of celebrities or a vision. It came from a conversation I had with a