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

which was no position at all, since it solved nothing and only prolonged the suffering. I would have to take a side.
    There were countless reasons to do both, to destroy him and to save him. I was a dervish, a defender of the faith and of my order, and to help him meant to betray my convictions, to betray what had been an unblemished part of my life for so many years. If they caught him it would be bad for the tekke as well, and it would be even worse if it became known that I had helped him. No one would forgive me, and it was almost certain that someone would find out; he would tell them, either out of spite or fear. It would also be bad for my brother. Both for my brother and for me. I would have worsened both of our positions; some connection, some consistency would be found in such an act. It would look as if I were avenging my brother, or helping another man since I could not help him. There were also enough reasons to hand him over to the authorities—let him settle his dispute with justice the best he could.
    And yet, I was human, I did not know what he had done, and it was not for me to judge him. Even justice can err; why should I have taken responsibility for him and burdened myself with possible remorse? There were also enough reasons to help him. But they were somehow pale, not convincing enough; I devised them and gave them importance only so that they would serve to protect me from the real reason, the only reason that mattered: that I had tried to absolve myself through him. He appeared at the very moment when he could have tipped the scales of my indecisiveness. If I condemned him, if I gave him over to the authorities, I would circumvent the dilemma and remain what I had been, in spite of everything that had happened, as if nothing had happened, in spite of my imprisoned brother and the sorrow I felt for him. I would sacrifice the fugitive as an unfortunate victim, forget about my wounded self, and continue on the trodden path of obedience,unfaithful to my own suffering. But if I saved him, that would be my final decision: I would be crossing over to the other side and rising up against someone, against my former self, unfaithful to the peace within me. But I could do neither, my shattered confidence kept me from one, and the power of habit and my fear of returning into the unknown kept me from the other. Ten days before, when my brother had not yet been imprisoned, it would have been all the same to me. I would have been calm regardless of what I did. Now I knew that I was taking a side, and thus stopped halfway, undecided. Everything was possible, but nothing happened.
    And he was in the garden, in the old shed in the bushes. I kept looking over there, but nothing moved, nothing could be heard. I was sorry that he had not gone, in that way he would have solved everything himself. He could not escape anymore, he would stay there all day, and all day long I would think about him and wait for the night to save him, or me.
    I knew how the tekke woke up. Mustafa got up first, if he had not slept at home. His heavy shoes knocking on the stone tiles of the ground floor, slamming doors, he would go out into the garden and perform the abdest.* He blew his nose loudly, cleared his throat, rubbed his broad chest, bowed and prayed hastily, then lit a fire, and took dishes out and put them back, all with such a racket that he woke even those who were not used to rising early. He was deaf, and in his empty world devoid of sounds and echoes noise was but a desire, and when we occasionally succeeded in telling him about his excessive knocking, slamming, crashing, and banging, he was surprised that it could even disturb anyone.
    Almost at the same time one could hear Hafiz-Muham-med’s quiet coughing. Sometimes he coughed all night long, and in the spring and fall his cough would become heavy and choking. We knew that he spat blood, but he got rid of the red flecks himself and came out with a smile, with faintred stains