A King in Hiding
Authors: Fahim
A KING IN HIDING
Originally published in French in 2014
by Ãditions des Arènes
under the title
Un roi clandestin
A KING IN HIDING
HOW A CHILD REFUGEE BECAME A WORLD CHESS CHAMPION
FAHIM MOHAMMAD
WITH SOPHIE LE CALLENNEC AND XAVIER PARMENTIER
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY BARBARA MELLOR
Published in the UK in 2015 by
Icon Books Ltd, Omnibus Business Centre,
39â41 North Road, London N7 9DP
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[email protected]
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ISBN: 978-184831-828-1
Original text copyright © Ãditions des Arènes, 2014
This translation copyright © Barbara Mellor, 2015
The authors have asserted their moral rights
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher
Typeset in Adobe Text Pro by Marie Doherty
Printed and bound in the UK by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
CONTENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Fahim Mohammad
was born in Bangladesh. At the age of eight, he had to flee with his father to escape a threat of abduction. They journeyed across Asia and Europe and eventually settled in France. While they struggled to make a life for themselves as illegal immigrants, Fahim, already a keen chess player, was talent-spotted by Xavier Parmentier, who took him under his wing and trained him for competition. In 2012, Fahim won the French national Junior Chess Championship. In 2013, he won the World School Chess Championship Under-13 title.
Sophie Le Callennec
is an anthropologist and expert in East African geography, and has written numerous school textbooks. She taught French to Fahim's father, and lent her pen to their story.
Xavier Parmentier
is a Master of the International Chess Federation (FIDE) and a renowned professional coach in France. He has coached the national junior chess team for twenty years. He is currently Director of Training for professional coaches within the French Chess Federation. He is personally involved as a volunteer coach for young talent in chess clubs in the Paris suburbs.
Barbara Mellor
has 30 years' experience as a translator and editor, specialising in art, architecture, history, fashion and design; her translation of Agnès Humbert's wartime journal,
Résistance: Memoirs of Occupied France
(Bloomsbury, 2008) received widespread praise.
PROLOGUE
On 4 May 2012, two days before the second round of the French presidential elections, prime minister François Fillon was the guest on the phone-in segment of the
France Inter
morning radio show. A caller rang in to raise the case of a young boy of eleven who had just been crowned French national chess champion. The boy was a homeless asylum seeker whose appeal had been refused, who was living in hiding with his father in the Paris suburb of Créteil, in constant fear of deportation. The affair had attracted media attention over recent days, and it had caused a considerable stir. In response, François Fillon promised live on air that he would look into the boy's case. Within a few days it had been settled.
The boy's name was Fahim. At the point when his story started to attract attention, I was living in Créteil. I knew his father, as I had been part of the support network that had grown up around them. I had known Xavier, his chess master, for ever. When it came to writing their story, it seemed natural for them to turn to me: to listen to Fahim, to express his thoughts, interpret his silences and be at his side throughout the writing process.
I could not have imagined how close we would become over those months spent together. How often Fahim would come to my house, where I live with my children. How in addition to telling the story of his past, he would also ask for my help in building his future.
This is the story of a small boy who used to live in a distant land, a good little boy who was loved, and who â like all children of his age â spent his days playing and daydreaming. Until the world of grown-ups decided otherwise.
This is the heartbreaking story of how, at the age of just eight, he was forced to leave all this and to flee his country, to seek refuge far away from his home and his loved ones. Of how his world damaged and destroyed him until he managed to snatch the right to live a normal life. It is also the story of how he encountered a remarkable man. It is a tale of modern life from which â largely thanks to this man â hope and solidarity emerge triumphant.
I have written this book with Fahim. The words and feelings are his. I give them to you. And I give them back to him.
Sophie Le Callennec
For my father
For everyone who has helped me and everyone who continues to help me
Fahim
Chapter 1
THE CHESS PLAYER
M
y father was good. Very good. He was always playing chess and he always won. At home he played for hours. Several times a week he went to the chess club and stayed there late into the night.
There were chess sets everywhere in our house. Boards of all sizes, pieces in all shapes, and books on chess. A world in black and white. When my father played chess with his friends, I would sit and watch: I said nothing, understood nothing. Afterwards, I would race outside to play with my friends.
One day when I was five, my father said:
âWould you like to come to the club with me?'
He'd never taken me with him before. I was a bit worried that it would be boring, but I said yes. I was proud. We crossed Dhaka to reach an impressive building in the banking district. At the end of a long passage lined by men smoking and talking, we came to a big room full of people. Everyone knew my father and said hello to him, then they asked my name or if I would like a drink.
When they started to play, the atmosphere became serious and the heat pressed down. The players made their moves at top speed. They tapped on the clocks beside them and made all sorts of other clicking and rapping noises. I could hear little yelps, sometimes of surprise, sometimes of joy or despair. It was all very different from the quiet way my father played at home. To begin with it was fun to watch, but soon I got bored. I didn't dare to disturb my father, so I sat on a chair, swinging my legs, and waited.
A man came up to me:
âWould you like me to teach you?'
I didn't dare disappoint him.
âYes â¦', I whispered.
He went off to fetch a large wooden board, put pieces on it one by one, according to some mysterious rule, and started to explain. I listened, but it was complicated. So I said nothing and stifled my yawns so as not to be rude.
Back at home, I thought about chess. The thoughts went round and round in my head and got all muddled up, but I wanted to understand it. I asked my father about it, and he was surprised: it was obvious to him that the game didn't interest me. But I wouldn't give up, so he set up a chessboard on the low table in the living room and I tried to memorise where the pieces went. He introduced them to me:
âThis one with the cross, is the “king”, and this one with the crown is the “queen”. These are the “rooks”, “knights” and “bishops”.'
âWhy do they have English names?'
âBecause the British colonised Bangladesh and taught us how to play in their language.'
They looked funny and made me laugh.
The next day I tackled him again:
â
Abba
[Dad in Bengali], what do the rooks do?'
My father explained, showing me how the pieces move and teaching me how you capture your opponent's. Between the king who moves one square at a time, the queen who can cross the board in one go and the pawns who move forward one or sometimes two squares but take other pieces diagonally, it was really complicated. But exciting. So I asked more questions, the next day and the day after. More and more, over and over.
â
Abba
, how do the knights move?'
â
Abba
, how does the king capture other pieces?'
â
Abba
, which is stronger, a rook or a bishop?'
Patiently, my father would explain it all to me, putting me right and encouraging me. Then after a while he would stop with a sigh and promise me:
âTomorrow we'll see if you've got it clearer in your head.'
The next day we would start again. My father would teach me how to defend my pieces, show me how to scare my opponent. I loved chess, but inside my head it was all a muddle. I made stupid moves. I was no good. My father knew it. He must have done. Because every time he ended up heaving a sigh and stopping:
âOK, Fahim, we'll carry on tomorrow.'
Maybe chess was just too difficult for me. Maybe I was the worst chess player in the world. Too bad! I carried on. I wanted to understand. I was determined to get better, however long it took.
One day, my father showed me a trick for surprising my opponent and trapping his king. All of a sudden, the chessboard came to life: the pieces jumped up and stood in rows, the rooks headed straight for the enemy camp, the bishops zoomed to and fro, the knights leaped about all over the place, the pawns obeyed unquestioningly, even when their orders meant risking their own lives in order to free a senior officer who'd been taken prisoner by the enemy; the king, weak, slow and almost insignificant, was as docile as a baby, and begged me to save him from death; and the queen, my queen, strong, quick and clever, pirouetted around the board, dominating the fight.
It wasn't a chess match any more, it was a battle. It wasn't a game, it was war. I mustered my troops, sent out messengers, set traps, decided who to keep and who to sacrifice, protected them and led them to victory.
It was a week since I'd started to learn, and now I understood: I could play!