A lady with a Cleopatra bob and a string of pearls trotted down the metal ramp to greet us.
‘Glad you could make it,’ she chirruped. ‘They’re really looking forward to meeting you.’
As we walked into the centre, the old people looked up, and conversations were aborted. I felt my cheeks burn. Did they see us as ‘undesirables’?
‘Good morning, respected elders,’ said a mosque representative in a bright red hijab with an unwavering smile. ‘We’re volunteers from Ginsby Mosque. Lunch is on us.’
‘Yeah, hope you like Indian food,’ said a tall man with a crocheted skullcap and a blue Berghaus jacket.
‘Oooh, I like a good curry!’ said an old man, rubbing his hands together. ‘Spicier the better, I sez.’
Lunch was served, and we were asked to go mingle. I foisted myself on a frail lady with powdery skin and deep-set eyes. The silver pendant round her neck told me her name was Doris. I watched her cutting her Bhuna chicken into thin little strips.
‘How is it?’ I asked, filling Doris’s glass. I was shaking so much, the tablecloth took a good soaking.
‘Hang on!’ she snapped, stabbing her food with a fork. ‘Haven’t had a bite to eat yet, have I?’
I blushed, sopping up the spill with a napkin.
‘Delicious, dear,’ she finally announced, her eyes growing misty. ‘You could win wars with food like this.’
I smiled. ‘Make curry, not war. If only.’
‘Dreams beget ideas,’ Doris said. ‘Ideas beget solutions. Not every time, mind. But if you don’t dream, then what’s the whole flipping point, eh?’
I smiled. I was doing so much of it, my poor cheeks felt like concrete.
‘You studying for O Levels, are you?’ she asked, taking a sip from her glass.
‘GCSEs, yes. I want to be a writer.’
Her rheumy eyes lit up. ‘Will you be writing whodunnits like Agatha Christie? She’s my favourite.’
‘Mine too!’ I said, bouncing in my seat. ‘But she was on another level. The plots, the characters. Man, there’s only one Agatha Christie.’
‘Saw her once, I did,’ Doris said importantly, wiping her chin with a serviette.
‘No way!’
She frowned, transporting herself back to the moment. ‘I was a young thing then. Ms Christie had written a play for the West End. Come down to make sure it was done proper. You couldn’t afford to buy a ticket, not with prices like that. But we queued for hours, hoping for a glimpse of our Queen of Crime. Was murder on me legs, though, I can tell you! Probably why I’ve ended up with rheum-ee-tism.’ Doris made a clucking sound, then rested her jaw between fanned fingers. ‘Worth it, though. I can see her now. Ms Christie in her brown fur coat, stood before me, dripping with diamonds!’
‘Wow. I can’t believe you actually saw her,’ I said, imagining the moment slightly speeded up and in sepia.
‘You’re different,’ she said, frowning at me.
‘Am I?’ I stiffened, suddenly conscious of every one of my flaws.
‘Yes. Most girls your age are into their X Factor and boys and all this dressing up. When I first saw you people, I was a little frightened, I’ll admit. You know, with everything that’s on the telly nowadays. But having a good ol’ chinwag has warmed me heart. God bless you, dearie.’
‘Can I get a hug?’ I asked foolishly, getting emotional.
‘Go on then!’ she said. ‘But careful with me bones, mind. Haven’t had a hug in years.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘Don’t your family visit you?’
‘My husband passed away ten years ago. It was the cancer that got him in the end, though his drinking couldn’t’ve helped. Never had any children.’
I hugged her with everything I had. ‘But you’ve got your books,’ I said. Books had been my lifeline when I was too scared to live in the real world.
She nodded, eyes flickering like she was watching archive footage of everything that might have been. ‘Ye-es . . . Got my books, I have.’
Her eyes suddenly darted to mine, as her hand formed a claw round my wrist. ‘Don’t you go spending your whole life writing, dear! Books can’t give you a hug or tell you how much they love you. You find someone, you hear? Someone to share your life with. That’s what it’s all about.’
Later that afternoon, we distributed gift bags. Each plastic bag contained useful items for the summer: sunglasses, a puzzle book, a stay-cool thermos, a digital thermometer, and a book about who to call in an emergency. Meeting the old people had really touched me. They were white and they were old, but nothing like I’d feared. If there’d been any prejudice in their hearts, I honestly hadn’t seen it.
I realized with shame that some of Dad’s suspicions about white people had rubbed off on me. Dad grew up in Pakistan, had made Britain his home, but for some reason wanted to keep it out of his house. He’d been a great social worker. I’d seen the cards and messages clients had given him to know this was true. But maybe he secretly believed his history was better than theirs. Maybe that was behind his need for me to turn out to be this ‘perfect Pakistani girl’?
I couldn’t be someone’s symbol. Not even for Dad.
‘You all right?’ Khadijah asked, handing me a tissue.
‘Yes. No. It’s just . . . What you guys did for these people today was really sweet.’
‘It’s what being a Muslim is about. Not the crazy stuff that gets reported.’ She kissed my cheeks. ‘Thanks for helping out, sis.’
CHAPTER 35
I sat mesmerized, barely aware of the tears streaming down my cheeks as the video clip came to an end.
‘Your nafs is pure,’ Jameel concluded.
It was the last day of the Easter break, and Jameel had invited me and two other girls round to a Sisters’ Circle. After having spent nearly every day of the holidays either studying or hanging out with Arif, I kind of felt obliged to go. Besides, saying no to Jameel was impossible. The guy made you feel like you were saying no to Allah.
He’d just shown us a video about the situation in Syria. How Assad’s westernized government had murdered his own people for protesting against his evil dictatorship. No method of execution was off limits. Even children weren’t spared. The graphic footage made my stomach turn. Blistered skin, melted flesh, burst eyeballs. Like something out of a torture-porn movie.
The girl next to me was having a full-on panic attack. I rubbed her back, trying to calm her down. Jameel quickly fetched a glass of water. In the end, I had to hold it to her lips, as her hands wouldn’t quit shaking.
‘It is indeed disturbing, my sisters,’ Jameel said. ‘And each and every Muslim, male and female, has a responsibility to try to change it. The messenger of Allah, peace be upon him, said, “Whosoever of you sees an evil, let him change it with his hand; and if he is not able to do so, then let him change it with his tongue; and if he is not able to do so, then with his heart – and that is the weakest of faith.”’
It made me so angry at the West for arming Assad’s regime. Bombs were dropped mercilessly on Syria, pounding it to useless rubble. Survivors fled for their lives, crossing deserts and seas to escape, only to have doors slammed in their faces and tabloids calling them ‘cockroaches’ and ‘criminals’. Muslim refugees were not welcome.
‘It’s genocide,’ Jameel said, catching my eye. ‘The West want to obliterate the Believers from the face of the earth.’
I shuddered. It was a scary idea, but I didn’t see how it could be true.
‘The video I showed you is not permitted to exist on the web,’ Jameel went on, strutting about like a rooster. ‘Only through special software was I able to gain access to the unpoliced Dark Web.’
‘What’s that?’ asked the Moroccan girl on my left.
‘An intelligent question,’ he replied, tipping his head to her. ‘Did you know that normally we only have access to seventeen per cent of the internet? The rest is not indexed by standard search engines. The unbelievers use the Dark Web to sell drugs, c
hild pornography, weapons, and for cheating husbands and wives to hire hitmen to murder one another. Imagine: we are being forced to put our spiritual education among the depraved filth of the dregs of society!’
‘May Allah destroy their faces!’ the girl shouted.
Jameel nodded. ‘But, my sisters, the situation is far worse than you can imagine. As you increase in deen, your unbelieving teachers will start to notice. Their hearts are ruled by Satan, and your spiritual commitment to Allah will cause them to beat their breasts and throw dust on their heads. Why is it that you should see Heaven, when it is certainly Hell that awaits them?’
I broke out in goose bumps.
Jameel shook a finger above his head. ‘You may find yourselves reported under a draconian initiative called the “Prevent Duty”. Channel officers – the government’s counter-terrorism police – may bother you. Do not worry if this should happen. Yes, they will try to label you as a “radical” or an “extremist”, but nothing will stick if you follow my three golden rules.
‘One: act as if you have no idea what they are talking about. Two: remind them it is a basic Human Right to practise any faith according to UN convention. Three: do not mention anyone as having inspired you. The kuffar do not mind us acting alone, but the idea of us working together aggrieves them. It reminds them of a time when the glorious caliphate – the Muslim superpower – ruled the world, and smote evil wherever it existed.’
My insides shrivelled. I didn’t want to get reported. I’d never been in trouble at school for anything. My parents would hit the roof.
Jameel turned back to his laptop. ‘Now, let us listen to this beautiful nasheed and be inspired by our great brothers and sisters who refuse to practise a watered-down version of their faith. Truly Heaven is their final abode!’
He played another video, this one in crystal-clear HD. It looked just like a Hollywood production. A man sang over the images in Arabic. Though I didn’t understand the words, it sounded beautiful and sad. There was a montage of different wars and the suffering they brought. Interwoven were scenes of American and British troops shooting guns and firing rockets, knocking down houses with rampaging tanks, and dropping bombs on a civilian population. There were scenes of injured children screaming for their mothers as an aerial bombardment ripped their world apart. There were images of animals being maimed, clutching on to life even as it was torn from their broken bodies.
Just when the violence became unbearable, the camera panned, revealing five men in black turbans riding heroically towards the camera. Beneath them, glossy stallions charged, raising plumes of desert dust. The singer’s voice rose, soaring and defiant. The five Muslim warriors unsheathed glittering swords that hummed as they were pointed to the sky. A startling close-up showed verses of the Qur’an engraved into the mirrored surface of a blade.
We heard their war cry before the scene faded to black.
The final shot, accompanied by the haunting echo of the nasheed singer, was of a small child pointing at an American soldier lying on a mound of tiny skeletons. The soldier was begging for mercy as he bled out through multiple wounds. The solemn child shook his head then walked away, vanishing like a ghost. The soldier’s body spontaneously erupted into flames.
There wasn’t a dry eye left in the room.
As I glided towards the front door clutching my school bag, dazed by what I’d seen, Jameel called after me. I turned round.
‘What’s this?’ He plucked my novel out of my bag.
The image on the jacket was of a couple caught in a clinch on the stern of a ship. I flushed.
‘We have to read it for Book Club,’ I said quickly. ‘We’re doing crime fiction.’
Jameel glared disapprovingly at the couple. ‘This is nothing but lies,’ he said, tossing the book back into my bag. ‘Writers of fiction are among the worst of people.’
The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
‘But reading broadens your mind, right? It’s a good thing,’ I countered, getting annoyed.
‘When the Author of all Knowledge has already provided you with superior reading material, you choose to read this?’ The expression on his face said it all. The book was porn.
‘I told you, it’s for Book Clu—’
‘Have you learned the Qur’an off by heart?’ His eyes skewered me.
‘N-no . . .’
‘Study one page every night before going to bed. That will be better for you.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah, but I know how you teenagers are – always looking for short cuts and what not. Very well.’ He marched over to a side table and picked up a booklet. ‘Powerful and moving quotes – read carefully. There will be a quiz.’
I stared at the words before me. Four sheets of printed A4, stapled together – extracts from the Qur’an, as selected by Jameel.
O Prophet! Fight the kuffar and be unyielding to them; and their abode is Hell, and evil is the destination.
I swallowed. Suddenly my throat felt studded with drawing pins. The words seemed kind of harsh and unforgiving. I supposed life had never been a walk in the park, either. Was this just how life was supposed to be? Had growing up in the West made me into a wimp?
I glanced at the book Mr Dunthorpe had given us to read before next week. Jameel had banned fiction. And if stories were haram, a holy spear had just been driven straight through the middle of my lifelong ambition.
‘Stoppit!’ I hissed quietly to myself. Arif loved my writing. So did Khadijah. And they were both Muslim.
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the window. Two builders covered in dust and blobs of white paint swaggered up the street, waving cans of beer, sharing a joke. Someone’s granny crept along, pausing every now and then to lean on her walking stick and blink at the world in surprise. And a super-mum babbled into her mobile while pushing a buggy loaded with shopping bags up the street.
Were each of these people nothing more than logs-on-legs heading for the fires of Hell? And what about people I knew, like Malachy, Amie, Dr Agyemang, Mr Dunthorpe and sweet old Doris? The ones who’d helped me or inspired me or made me believe I was more than a quiet little mouse who had nothing to offer the world.
Did Allah hate them? My parents too?
I tugged my hair, breath whistling between my teeth like a hurricane through a graveyard.
Slamming myself down in front of my laptop, I opened up a browser. If I was going to become a good Muslim, the rules had got to make sense in my head. Arif never questioned anything Jameel told him. But I couldn’t be like that. I was confused and I needed answers. So I punched keys, hit ENTER, and dived in.
A page loaded with a complete translation of Surah at-Tawbah, and the differences leaped out at me. The verse I was looking at spoke of ‘unbelievers and hypocrites’. But Jameel’s booklet bunged them altogether under the term ‘kuffar’. I frowned. Did it matter? The notes that went with the translation reckoned it did. The verse was about a specific time in history when a peace treaty had been violated in Makkah: a time of war, not everyday life. The online translation also used the phrase ‘strive hard against’, while the printout said ‘fight’. One sounded like a battle of minds; the other, a call to arms.
Still not convinced, I scrolled down to the comments section, and found the usual mix of praise and hate. But then I spotted a flame war happening between a Christian and a Muslim, each accusing the other’s holy book of being the more violent. As evidence, someone had quoted from the Old Testament, 1 Samuel 15:3.
Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.
My brain was a knob of butter scudding across the surface of a hot frying pan. Alex, from my tutor group, materialized in my mind as I recalled her words in PSCHE: Let’s ban all religions; then we can have world peace.
Did God – the Most Merciful – want us all to kill each other?
‘And don’t forget your final version will be due nex
t Friday!’ Mr Dunthorpe said.
He’d got us packed away before the end of the lesson. He was one of the few teachers who actually bothered. Most just made us late, getting us into trouble with our next teacher.
‘Muzna, do you have a minute?’ he asked, as the pips rang out.
‘Yes, sir?’ I said, adjusting my hijab. Next up was maths with Mr Evans, who was going through a messy divorce. Somewhere along the line, he’d discovered we made good punch bags. ‘You have poor emotional intelligence!’ he’d rant, or ‘Let’s see how cocky you are when you’re back next year doing resits!’ Needless to say, dodging a verbal battering was fine by me.
‘How come we don’t see you at Book Club any more?’ Dunthorpe folded his arms, pouting comically. ‘Thought I was your favourite teacher.’
I managed a small smile. ‘I’ve been busy with . . . stuff.’
‘With Arif,’ he filled in.
‘I’m sorry, and that’s your business how?’
My tone surprised us both.
He held my glare with his placid green eyes. ‘It becomes my business when your hitherto perfect academic record starts to slide. Your friends are worried about you. I’m worried about you.’
I saw red. ‘Yeah? Well you can tell Sarabi, from me, that I don’t need friends who stab me in the back and are jealous because I have a boyfriend!’
‘Whoa!’ he said, raising his hands. ‘No one is jealous, OK? We’re just a bit concerned, that’s all.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘You used to be the perfect student, open-minded and inquisitive. Now it’s like the shutters are down and you’ve made up your mind about all there is to know.’
‘Guess I finally realized how the world works,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to be breaking through the glass ceiling any time soon, am I?’ I counted on my fingers. ‘Muslim. Female. Pakistani. Too many crimes for any employer, don’t you think?’
‘Then challenge them,’ he said. ‘Make them see beyond the superficial. When I said you have talent, I meant it. A talent that demands to be noticed.’
I swallowed. Jameel had warned me about the tricks of the kuffar. But this was Mr Dunthorpe. All you had to do was look him in the eye to see sincerity.
I Am Thunder Page 17
