Chapter 157: Strength in Unity

"He's called Jia Bil, originally a falconer," Zhao Dashan said, "Good eyes, steady hands. After three months of training he became the best machine gunner in the whole division."

"Where is Division Commander Amir?"

"Over there." Liu Yongfu pointed to the other side of the firing range.

There a officers' pistol shooting test was underway. A Arab officer in his forties with a thick beard stood at the firing position, both hands on the gun, firing rapidly. On the target paper fifteen meters away, all bullet holes were concentrated in the chest area.

"Division Commander Amir was originally the guard captain of the Hashim family, playing with guns since childhood," Zhao Dashan introduced, "After he took over the Fifth Division, he personally drafted the training syllabus, demanding that every officer's shooting score must exceed that of the soldiers. He himself was the first to meet the standard."

Chen Feng looked at the Arab officer changing his magazine and suddenly said, "Call him over."

Five minutes later, Amir jogged up to the observation tower. He was not tall, but solid, like a compacted muscle. Sand‑blown wrinkles marked his face, yet his eyes were bright.

"Mr. President," Amir said in accented Mandarin, rendering a standard military salute.

"Relax." Chen Feng stepped down from the observation tower, "Division Commander Amir, how is the troop preparation?"

"Report, President: the Fifth Division has twelve thousand troops, fully equipped and at full strength, ready for combat at any moment," Amir straightened his back, "Light machine guns are assigned to squads, heavy machine guns to companies, mortars to battalions. Ammunition reserves are sufficient for a month of high‑intensity fighting."

"What about morale?"

"Very high." Amir paused, then added, "Of course, some soldiers know little about the destination. But we have done ideological work, telling them this is for Lanfang—our country."

When he said "our country," his tone was very natural.

Chen Feng looked at him: "What do you think yourself? Leading Arab soldiers to the distant South Ocean, fighting a war that seems unrelated to you."

Amir was silent for a few seconds. The wind swept across the range, raising dust.

"Mr. President, I am forty‑three years old," he began slowly, "For the first thirty years I lived in a tribe. We fought neighboring tribes over wells, dealt with Ottoman tax collectors, bargained with English exploration teams. Back then I thought the world worked like that—you take from me, I take from you; whoever has the stronger fist decides."

He lifted his head: "Later I came to Lanfang for officer training. I studied geography and learned how vast the world is; history, and learned how glorious the Arab civilization once was; politics, and learned that a nation is not merely the sum of tribes, but a… contract."

"Contract?"

"Yes, a contract." Amir said earnestly, "We—all people living on Lanfang's soil—have signed an invisible contract. We obey the same laws, enjoy the same rights, bear the same duties. We pay taxes, and the state builds schools and hospitals; we serve, and the state protects our safety; we work hard, and the state gives us fair opportunities."

He pointed at the soldiers training on the range:

"These youngsters, their fathers may have never seen a car in their lives, yet now they can drive trucks, repair radios, read maps. Their sisters once could not attend school, now they study at Dubai University. All of this is brought by the contract."

"So…" Chen Feng understood.

"So this is not a 'seemingly unrelated war'." Amir said word for word, "If today we allow the Dutch to suppress Chinese in Borneo, then tomorrow someone may come to suppress our families. The core of the contract is mutual protection; if one side suffers while others stand by, the contract collapses."

He took a deep breath:

"All officers and soldiers of the Fifth Division understand this principle. We go to Borneo not to fight for the Chinese, but to fight for Lanfang—fighting for the contract we all signed together."

Chen Feng looked at the Arab officer, suddenly reached out and patted his shoulder.

"Good." He said only one word, but it carried great weight.

On the road back to the city from the range, the vehicle was very quiet.

After a while, Liu Yongfu suddenly said, "President, Amir's words… do you really believe them?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Chen Feng retorted.

"He is Arab, we are Han. Blood is thicker than water; this kind of divide cannot be erased by a few words."

Chen Feng looked out the window. Along the highway, a newly built residential area was under construction. Arab workers wearing headscarves were laying bricks, Chinese in work clothes were directing, women wrapped in headscarves carried water jugs to supply the workers.

"Chief Engineer Liu, do you remember when we first came to Dubai?" he said slowly, "Back then Arab eyes looked at us with curiosity, caution, hostility. How about now?"

Now, children play football together on the streets, merchants haggle in the market, students attend the same classroom.

"Ethnic integration takes time," Chen Feng continued, "but more important are shared interests and shared destiny. When a group builds a city together, resists foreign foes together, shares development gains together—they gradually become 'us'."

He turned his head:

"Amir is right, a nation is a contract. The foundation of the contract is not blood, but promise. We promise to protect all who obey the law, they promise loyalty to this nation. This promise is stronger than blood ties."

Liu Yongfu nodded thoughtfully.

The vehicle entered the city, passing the newly completed "Ethnic Square". In the center stood a sculpture: a Chinese hand and an Arab hand clasped together, jointly supporting a bronze globe. The pedestal bore the inscription: "United we are strong, divided we are weak."

"Stop the car," Chen Feng suddenly said.

The car stopped at the edge of the square. Chen Feng got out, walked to the sculpture. The evening sun turned the bronze statue golden, and many citizens strolled and rested there.

A seven‑ or eight‑year‑old Arab boy ran over, looking at Chen Feng with curiosity. The boy wore a modern primary school uniform and carried a backpack.

"Little friend, are you in school?" Chen Feng asked in Arabic.

"Yes! First grade!" the boy shouted, "I can write Chinese characters and do arithmetic!"

"Great. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

The boy thought for a moment: "I want to pilot a plane! Like Uncle Zhou Afu!"

Chen Feng smiled. Zhou Afu, one of the first pilots, is now a squadron commander in the air force. His deeds have been turned into stories in school textbooks.

"Why do you want to pilot a plane?"

"Because a plane can fly high and see far," the boy spread his arms, "The teacher says we should have lofty ambitions!"

Chen Feng patted the boy's head, pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and gave it to him: "Study hard; when you grow up, Lanfang will have even better aircraft, and then you can fly them."

The boy ran off, jubilant.