An investigative journalist covers violent political conflicts in South Asia in his new book

Unadulterated truth is rare in the shadowy and deceptive world of intelligence and counterintelligence. It’s a realm dominated by liars and charlatans, each playing their own game of deceit and manipulation. As a reporter in this murky field, I’ve encountered many of these deceivers.

Most of my interactions with these individuals have been civil, albeit superficial. I sit through these conversations, listening intently but sceptically, sifting through their words for fragments of truth amidst the overwhelming tide of falsehoods. Yet, there are those whose blatant lies have deeply irked me. Their overt and unapologetic dishonesty shows a blatant disregard for both my intelligence and time.

However, it’s a complicated dance of discernment, as these fabricators often weave a delicate tapestry of lies and truths. Over the years, I’ve honed my ability to extract the few strands of verifiable information hidden within their complex labyrinths of deception.

But among all the storytellers I’ve encountered, an Iraqi man named Junaid Alawash stands out as the most blatant and unashamed liar of them all.

“So, are you going to meet him again?” Diya enquired. She leaned back languidly in her wrought iron chair, the smoke from her cigarette curling up into the air like a lazy serpent in the damp cold night air. She was referring to Junaid, a man we had encountered over lunch at a restaurant in Neukölln in Berlin earlier in the day.

Diya had been conducting an interview for The Taz in the area, and we had decided to grab lunch together.

Carrying our trays from the counter, we had settled ourselves at a table for four on the sidewalk where a stocky man, perhaps in his late fifties, was eating bread and curried meat.

Barely a spoon or two into our lunch, the man interjected, “Not like that.”

He was addressing me, and unsolicited advice was about to pour forth.

“You take this,” he said, pointing to the tabbouleh, “and that,” he gestured towards the hummus, “Mix! Mix! And then eat.”

It wasn’t my first encounter with tabbouleh or hummus. Far from it. Besides, I was already combining them before eating – just not on my plate as my fellow diner instructed, but on my spoon.

“Really?” I asked, more out of politeness than interest. The man, Junaid Alawash, seemed to have taken it upon himself to enlighten what he assumed were two naive Indian tourists.

Diya, a seasoned food writer, paid him no heed, focusing solely on her meat stew and bread. She was someone who often ended up educating others about the culinary traditions of their own countries. And Junaid wasn’t the first overzealous “educator” we had encountered in our travels.

“Yes!” Junaid exclaimed, oblivious to my sarcasm and Diya’s silent disapproval. “This is the Iraqi way. This restaurant serves the best Iraqi food in Germany!”

I responded with a non-committal smile, not bothering to mix the tabbouleh and hummus as he suggested. Tabbouleh and hummus aren’t exclusive to Iraqi culinary traditions, and I wasn’t particularly interested in adhering to traditional methods.

Junaid, however, was undeterred. “Eating correctly shows respect for one’s family and culture,” he continued, his pride in Iraqi culinary traditions evident. “This place used to have those who knew good food. But now, it’s not the same.”

Intrigued, I asked, “Why? Has the quality of the food declined?”

He shook his head, his spoon leaving a gravy trail on the table, as he pointed behind me.

“No, the food is still good. The problem lies with them…” he said, nodding his head to point behind my back, his tone taking on a note of disdain.

Turning around, I saw a group of young college boys dressed in casual shorts and tees gathered around the takeaway counter. They were engaged in a lively debate over their orders, pooling together notes and coins.

“The crowding, you mean?” I ventured.

Junaid’s expression hardened. “No, not just the crowding. It’s these men,” he said, his forehead furrowed in disappointment and voice laced with contempt.

Confused, I pondered over what he meant. What was so significant about these men?

“Roma,” he proffered, without me asking, and shrugged as if that one word explained everything. “They’re everywhere, ruining everything.”

Ah…now I understood. Junaid’s problem wasn’t the dilution of culinary purity but of racial ones. It was the age-old Roma hate that’s been around for centuries now, stretching from Europe to the Levant, uniting Semites, anti-semites, and everyone in between.

I had no interest in engaging in a conversation laced with casual bigotry. So I shifted focus, turned to Diya, and asked about her plans for the rest of the day. In fact, I switched to Bangla to indicate our disinterest in further conversation with Junaid.

Her replies were short, her attention seemingly elsewhere as we finished our meal. Meanwhile, Junaid, who had been served mint tea, lit a cigarette.

“You are tourists? First time in Germany?” Junaid asked yet again, not registering our disinterest.

“Journalists,” I replied.

“Both journalists?”

“Yes.”

“Oh…interesting. So what kind of journalist?”

“Political.”

I was done with this man and my meal and began wiping my hands and mouth on the second tissue paper. But Diya had lit her cigarette, so I would have to wait a while.

“You are Indian, no?” Junaid asked. “Then what political news for you in Berlin?”

“Global politics.”

“Global politics, eh? Then you must interview me!”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I was Saddam Hussein’s bodyguard.”

The man held my shocked gaze and, with a grin on his face, savoured the moment as much as he did his mint tea.