‘Why is no one mentioning the people?’ I ask. ‘Surely people must have died,’ I say, as if what is happening is already in the past, concluded, finished. An end, not a beginning.
‘We have to go to my uncle’s,’ Rafiq urges.
He orders a minicab. I put on my hijab. In the taxi the radio plays, a miniature Quran dangles from the rear-view mirror. I hold the basket with the omelette and the half-finished salad on my knees. The Twin Towers are collapsing. ‘They are jumping,’ screams a voice. ‘Jeez, they are jumping.’ The cab stops, I open the door, get out. From the corner of my eye I watch Rafiq bending forward to hand the driver a banknote. He refuses.
‘Allahu akbar, my brother. Allah is the Greatest. Today is a glorious day. America is being attacked. Today I don’t take money from brothers.’
I am now standing on the pavement. I turn around and see Rafiq’s face from the side, his mouth a thin, tense line.
‘Take the money,’ he hisses.
‘Allahu akbar,’ the driver repeats.
Rafiq opens his hand, the note drops down on to the passenger seat. Without another word he leaves the car, walks around it, towards me, touches my arm.
‘Let’s go.’
Later, I watch the images of the towers that collapse as if made of cardboard and people falling out of them – little figures drawn by children playing hangman. The name – Osama bin Laden – at some point someone mentions him. I’ve heard the name before, perhaps two or three times.
‘Do you think the driver knew more than he let on?’ I ask Rafiq as we are lying in bed in the dark next to each other, my left hand in Rafiq’s right.
‘No. He simply enjoyed the idea that America has been hit.’
‘And you? Do you enjoy the idea?’ I ask.
‘No. Of course not. Murder doesn’t solve anything.’
‘But American soldiers stood by and watched Saddam Hussein’s soldiers slaughtering thousands of innocent Shiites, among them some of your family,’ I say, my heart reaching out to those slaughtered in the south of Iraq by Hussein’s men as they withdrew from Kuwait after the Gulf War.
‘America has done a lot of damage in Iraq. Saddam Hussein too. And also the Iraqi people themselves,’ Rafiq replies. Then he places a kiss on my forehead. ‘Let’s sleep. Goodnight, habibi.’
I lie awake for a long time. I see the planes, the towers, the people, and hear the screaming desperation, the dumb-founded panic, because suddenly a game is being played with rules that no one understands. In my mind I see men and women who a few hours ago were heading to work. And then with no warning war breaks out and the innocent masses are dying. The innocent masses who just wanted to earn their daily bread. It’s always the innocents who die, little figures drawn by children playing hangman. And these little figures are jumping to their death on our TV screens.
But we never witness them hitting the ground.
Rafiq breathes calmly and steadily. I pull my hand from underneath the blanket and stroke the back of his head gently. I am crying. I wish the world could be a better place. Then Rafiq wouldn’t need to escape into sleep. Then no one would need to try to escape without any chance of succeeding.
The early-morning prayer eases the weight on my heart. I concentrate on the words, the movements, my rhythm, Allah’s rhythm. As my forehead rests on the prayer stone, I once again know that God will hold me. Rafiq goes back to bed after the prayer. He is on a late shift. I am standing at the window in the kitchen, holding a mug of coffee between my hands. I gaze across the open expanse that slants southwards down into the valley of London. The day is dawning, but the darkness of night is still hanging in the air. It will be a bright and clear day. Autumn is still being held at bay. I could go for a walk on the Heath. I could hope that Rafiq follows me, to comfort me, protect me. To lead me away to somewhere else. Because here things have changed, and they will never be the same again.
On the Tube everyone is hiding behind newspapers. Me too. At work I hear myself say a few times, ‘They weren’t Muslims. Not true Muslims. They call themselves Muslims, like bin Laden calls himself a Muslim. But terrorism is not part of Islam. What happened in America is terrorism, not jihad. Jihad describes the personal struggle to lead a godly life. You have to fight the devil within you. Muhammad, peace be upon Him, said that the inner jihad is the greater jihad.’
My colleagues are listening to me. They want to learn, they want to understand; they know I am a good Muslim. But they also pity me. After all, hasn’t the world suspected for quite a while now – at least since Khomeini – that Islam is an aggressive religion? And this is the final proof. They are attacking innocent people in America. They, the Muslims, with their jihad, their holy war, they are attacking the West. And they justify their aggression with their religion. And you, Kauthar, still deny everything, say, No, that’s not true, Islam is a religion of the middle path. As a Muslim you are allowed to defend yourself if you are being attacked. You do not need to turn the other cheek. But the right to self-defence does not lead to terrorism.
I suddenly have to justify myself, as if I have committed an atrocity. My colleagues nod their heads in sympathy, while their eyes betray doubt. Well, there must be something that this woman simply doesn’t understand in her naivety. Perhaps she doesn’t want to understand. And I shake my head and make for home. I leave the train, take the escalator up, pass the ticket barrier, exit straight ahead as usual. I climb the stairs to street level. I pass the newspaper kiosk and McDonald’s. Outside the pub a group of drunken men linger. I keep my head lowered, my eyes fixed on the pavement in front of my feet.
‘Fucking cunt,’ I hear, but don’t think they are addressing me.
‘We’ll fuckin’ show ya.’
Something wet hits my left cheek. I don’t stop, continue walking. My hand on my cheek. When I finally take it away spit is stuck between my fingers. I climb the hill, pass the hospital. I could go in and ask for Rafiq. But he might be – in fact, he will be – busy. If he is busy I would need to wait, I’d stand there and I would start to cry. I can’t do that. I want to get home to clean myself. To be alone, to hold myself in a pose that is worthy of Him, so that He will hold me, so that I don’t fall apart. I wipe my cheek with the sleeve of my cardigan. I rub my face as I walk, my glance fixed to the grey asphalt. I pull the hijab further over my forehead and across my cheeks. It was only a bit of spit, it can be washed away. As soon as the door falls into its lock behind me, I tear the hijab off my head and my cardigan off my body. I let both items drop to the floor. Perhaps I should throw them away immediately. They can’t be used again. Perhaps it’s enough to wash them. Why not? It’s only someone else’s saliva. I don’t know what to do with the clothes. Can’t think straight at the moment. I scrub my hands and wash my face with ice-cold water, rubbing until they turn bright red. I close the curtains. I don’t want anyone to see me, anyone to know that I am here. I have washed my hands and face but haven’t yet performed the ritual cleansing obligatory before addressing God in prayer. Nevertheless I take the prayer stone and put it on the floor. I kneel down and bow and put my forehead on the cold stone. And hope that Allah will forgive me for not cleaning myself properly and not performing the prayer correctly. Not yet. I will fulfil my duties later. I want to lie here and feel God’s breath inside me.
Eventually everything around me becomes quiet. I thank God that He has let me lie here, that He isn’t angry with me. I get up and prepare myself for prayer, performing wudu’, the ritual cleansing. Then I pray maghrib and ‘isha’ – the end-of-day and night-time prayer – together. I pray for a long time. I pray four additional units. I let Allah’s name resound inside me, until He fills me and pain and sorrow disappear from my heart. Rafiq won’t come home before ten or ten thirty. I prepare a soup that we will eat later. I am infinitely rich and lucky because I have Allah, who shows me the right path. And I pity the poor drunken men, who are lost in the darkness
and spit in my face out of fear.
When the phone rings I contemplate not answering for a moment. But then I lift the receiver just before the answer machine switches itself on.
‘Lydia?’
‘Mum.’
‘My God, have you seen the news from America? Isn’t it awful? How can anyone do this? I am so shocked. I’ve been glued to the telly all day. Innocent people . . . you know they are innocent people.’
‘Yes, it is awful,’ I say calmly.
My voice comes from far away. I sit down on the sofa – sit next to myself, next to the woman who is holding the receiver. She is only an empty shell, hollow from the inside. My mother’s words fall into this hollowness, where they vanish without trace.
‘How is such hatred possible? How can anyone hate someone else so much?’ she says.
I am waiting, not sure yet where she is heading with her lamentation. Will she, too, hold me responsible for what is happening in America? I hear her sobbing.
‘I am totally at the end of my tether. Life is so cruel. People are so cruel. This hatred, this violence nowadays.’
Then suddenly she stops. Only to ask in the next second in a sharp, high-pitched voice, ‘Are you still wearing the scarf around your head?’
‘Of course. It’s part of my faith.’
‘Lydia, that’s not religion. That’s some barbaric ritual. Distorted. Deluded. Religious belief is connected to the desire for peace. What these Muslims are doing is prehistoric, barbaric. When will you finally come to your senses? Are you proud of what’s happening in America?’
‘No, I am not proud. What’s happening in America is a criminal act, it’s terrorism. And terrorism is not part of Islam. They abuse Islam, misinterpret it—’
I want to continue speaking but my mother interrupts me. ‘I didn’t even dare to go out on to the street today. I was so frightened.’
‘Why?’
‘I am frightened that neighbours and people I know might stop me in the street and ask about you. If you approve of what is happening in America. What should I reply?’
‘That I don’t approve, of course. You surely can’t doubt that.’
‘Not doubt? Are you surprised? Running around with a scarf over your head? Everyone knows it. You announced it to the entire world. Luckily, I haven’t told a soul that you got married to one of these Muslims, these Arabs. I can’t deal with their faces. And can anyone blame me?’
Anger starts welling up inside me. I don’t want it to reach my mouth. I don’t want to shout at my mother. It wouldn’t change anything. I need to finish this conversation.
Dear Dad,
I am writing this letter to you. Mum, however, can read it too. In fact I want her to read it. But I’d like you to be there with her and explain to her things she might not understand. I love and honour you both and never wanted to hurt you in any way. I know how difficult it is for you to accept that I am a Muslim. But this is my path and there is no other path for me. Only now, in retrospect, do I understand that my experiences as a child, teenager and young adult have always pointed in this direction. I am grateful that you gave me a home and offered me shelter while I was small and helpless. My gratefulness is immense and God knows it. Now I am walking along my path and I realize that by doing so I am hurting Mum. I don’t want to hurt her, or you. All I want is for you to accept the path I have chosen, for you to accept me as a Muslim.
Over the last few years, I have tried to explain my beliefs to you. I will now try again.
The attacks in America have shocked the world, the East as much as the West, Muslims as much as Christians, me as much as you. The men who committed these crimes call themselves Muslims, just like Osama bin Laden and his al-Qaeda consider themselves to be Muslims. But, as I’ve already said to Mum on the phone, they are not Muslims. They are terrorists who don’t know their own religion and they turn and twist the words until it suits their own purpose.
You are to devour all the nations which the LORD your God is giving over to you. Show none of them mercy, so that you do not serve their gods; that is the snare which awaits you.
When you advance on a town to attack it, make an offer of peace. If the offer is accepted and the town opens its gates to you, then all the people who live there are to be put to forced labour and work for you. If the town does not make peace with you but gives battle, you are to lay siege to it and, when the LORD your God delivers it into your hands, put every male in it to the sword; but you may take the women, the dependants, and the livestock for yourselves, and plunder everything else in town. You may enjoy the use of the spoil from your enemies which the LORD your God gives you.
These quotes are from the Bible, Deuteronomy.
Why do I quote the Bible, if we actually want to talk about Islam? To show you from the start that neither the Bible nor the Holy Quran deals exclusively with love and compassion. Both books are filled with descriptions of violence.
However, do these biblical commands, as I quoted them, mean that Jews and Christians are supposed to act upon them in our times? No. Most Jews and Christians – those by name and those who actively follow their religion – would argue that such texts need to be seen in a historical context. Six days shall work be done, but on the seventh day there shall be to you an holy day, a sabbath of rest to the LORD: whoso-ever doeth work therein shall be put to death. No one would any longer take this quote out of context and argue for slavery or the death penalty for someone who has worked on the Sabbath. But of course, let’s be clear, there might be some who do.
Islam commands jihad. But jihad should not be translated as ‘holy war’. Holy war is a concept rooted in Western Christian civilization that probably stems from the time of the Crusades. To translate ‘jihad’ as holy war or religious war is wrong and misleading. But this misinterpretation is deeply engrained in our culture. Even in my Arabic–English dictionary it states: ‘fight, battle; jihad, holy war (against the infidels, as a religious duty)’. These words are a scandal – and reveal the ignorance of our culture and language towards Islam.
The root of jihad is ja-ha-da, which means ‘to endeavour, strive, labour, take pains, put oneself out; to overwork, overtax, fatigue, exhaust’. The Holy Quran says: jahada fi sabil Allah. Fi translated by itself means ‘in’ and sabil means ‘path, way’. So jahada fi sabil Allah translated literally is ‘to strive/labour/take pains in the way/in the path of God’. In other words, to make a big effort in order to follow the path of God. Jahada and its noun jihad carry no implication of violence. Both words refer to the inner struggle to be closer to God. And in the Holy Quran there are frequent exhortations to exert ourselves for God and not cling to worldly possessions. This, however, does not imply killing oneself or others. We are commanded to work on ourselves, to be selfless, less selfish, to do good, to help people in need.
But I will not lie to you, there is another expression in the Quran, very similar, that differs in one significant word: qatala fi sabil Allah. And qatala means ‘to kill’, even though often this word is translated as ‘to fight’. To kill in the way of God, for the sake of God. ‘And kill/fight in the way of Allah those who kill/fight you.’ ‘And kill/fight them wherever you meet them.’ ‘And the one who fights (qatala – kills) in the way of Allah, may he be killed or win, we will give him an immense price.’ So are we Muslims commanded to kill? No. Because the Quran also says: ‘Fight (qatala – kill) in the way of Allah those who fight (qatala – kill) you but do not transgress. Indeed Allah does not love transgressors.’
‘But do not transgress!’ In other words, only if someone is attacking you and is about to kill you, are you then allowed to defend yourself.
God’s love is a precondition for our human love for Him. He loves them and they love Him. A famous verse in the fifth Sura. He has to love us; only then can we love Him. If, however, we transgress His laws, He will banish us and the way to Him will be closed.
Faithful Muslims do everything within their power to keep this path open. We are not allowed to commit crimes.
With love,
Your daughter Kauthar
Dear Lydia,
When your letter dropped through our letter box, we couldn’t wait to open it. It is so rare to receive letters from you. I have not much to say, except that you know our door is always open to you.
Mum
PS I too send you much love. Dad
I see her! I see Rabia as I push open the door. She is standing at the sink and has removed her headscarf. Her feet are bare inside her sandals. She usually wears black socks. Her long, thick, grey hair is in a plait at the back. She pulls the wedding ring off her finger and places it on the side of the sink. I hesitate for a moment. Should I say hello or would I be disturbing her preparation for prayer? Our eyes meet in the large mirror above the sink. I greet her with a nod. She was born in the same year and town as my mother. I logged her registration into the computer when she first joined the library. She comes twice a week to work on her PhD thesis. I don’t sneak after her but when I pass her desk or meet her among the bookshelves, I glance at her surreptitiously. She always wears dark colours – dark brown, dark blue, dark grey or black. Long, coat-like dresses down to her ankles – sometimes they touch the ground; long sleeves, which even now in the summer she never pushes up. She wears her headscarf pulled over her forehead, folded inwards at the sides by her temples, then down underneath her chin and fastened with a pin on the right side at the height of her cheekbone. The scarf falls in a triangle halfway down her back and covers her chest completely. Her skin is beautifully clear and clean, like that of a young woman, and her face is always calm. Whatever she does – searching for books on the shelves, typing on her laptop or washing in preparation for prayer, she seems to focus and concentrate on the task at hand.
Kauthar Page 7
