Free Death and the Dervish (Writings From An Unbound Europe) by Mesa Selimovic

friends, or acquaintances, that he was condemned to be alone in his distress. An empty space had been left around him and his pursuers.
    “You must think I’m a bad man.”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “I’m not. But I can’t help you.”
    “Everyone knows himself.”
    That was not a reproach, or reconciliation to his misfortune. It was merely an acceptance of what is, an ancient, bitter recognition of the refusal of people, all people, to help a condemned man. He counted me among them, and was not surprised at all. That realization did not break him or take away his strength; he did not look around desperately, but very calmly and purposefully, determined to fight alone.
    I asked why they were pursuing him. He did not give an answer.
    “How did you escape?”
    “I jumped from the cliff.”
    “Did you kill anyone?”
    “No.”
    “Did you steal anything, did you rob anyone, did you do anything shameful?”
    “No.”
    He did not hurry to justify himself, he did not try to convince me, he answered my questions as if they were superfluous and bothersome. He no longer judged me according to good or evil, no longer regarded me either as something dangerous or as a source of hope: I had not given him away, but I was not going to help him. Surprisingly, that neglect, as if I were a tree, a bush, or a child, wounded my vanity; it somehow depersonalized and belittled me, deprived me of value not only in his, but in my own eyes as well. I did not care about him, I knew nothing about him, I would never see him again, but his opinion had become important to me, and I was offended because he was acting as if I did not exist. I would have been pleased if he were angry.
    I was deserting him, but his independence upset me.
    I stood there, and kept standing, in the stifling scent of the oleaster, on Saint George’s Eve, which had a life of its own, in the garden, which had become a world of its own. We stood there, face to face, joyless that we had met, incapable of going our separate ways as if we had not. I tormented myself trying to decide what to do with this man who had turned into branches, without doing anything evil or sanctioning his sin when I did not know what it was. I did not want to sin against my conscience, but I could not find a solution.
    That was a strange night, not only because of what happened, but also because of how I perceived it. My reason told me not to get involved in something that did not concern me, but I had already gotten involved so much that I could not see any way out. My old practice of self-controlhad led me into my room, but I returned, driven by a new need. The discipline of a dervish and of the tekke had taught me to be firm, but I stood in front of the fugitive not knowing what to do, which meant that I was already doing something I should not. I had every reason to leave the man to his fate, but I was following him down his slippery and dangerous path, a path not meant for me.
    And while I was still thinking about this, searching for the right word to pull myself from this dilemma, I said suddenly:
    “I can’t bring you in the tekke. It would be dangerous for both of us.”
    He did not respond; he did not even look at me. I had not told him anything new. There was still time for me to go back, but I was already starting to slip, and it was difficult to stop.
    “At the far end of the garden there’s a shed,” I whispered. “No one ever goes there. We keep old junk in it.”
    Then he looked at me. His eyes were lively and distrustful, but they showed no fear at all.
    “Hide there until they go away. If they catch you, don’t tell them I helped you.”
    “They won’t catch me.”
    The certitude with which he said that sickened me. I again felt that unease at his self-confidence, and regretted having offered him a place to hide. He was utterly self-sufficient; he thrust all others aside: I felt as if he had struck me, pushed away the hand that I offered him, disgustingly sure of himself.