I worry about our stay in Divinity Road. Every so often I bring up my awkwardness about abusing her hospitality but Nuala tells me not to worry. Recently I am offered a flat by a Sudanese couple I met at the mosque. They are moving to Coventry and have spoken to their landlord about me. When I mention this to Nuala, she offers to drive me over to the place to check it out. The flat is in Wood Farm. It is cold and cramped and gloomy, the second bedroom little more than a cupboard, the kitchen hardly bigger. We look around and I make positive noises, though I am silently dreading the prospect of a move to this place. Outside, back in the car, Nuala is emphatic. The property is just not suitable, she says. It is dingy and damp, a health hazard for the children. Something better will come up soon, she adds. We just need to be patient.
Nuala’s insistence sets me thinking. I begin to wonder whether my presence in her life is in fact more of a benefit than a burden. Perhaps that is the definition of friendship.
We continue to probe each other’s minds. She tells me about her childhood, growing up on a farm in Ireland. She describes how her brother used to milk the cows straight into her cupped hands, the warm creamy velvet slipping down her throat. In exchange I tell her about my dream of teaching and sketch out my career path from classroom learning assistant to fully-fledged teacher via a teacher training course.
One evening we are sitting together in the lounge.
The children are in bed, the evening battle with baths and bedtime stories eventually won, and Nuala has collapsed on the sofa with her newspaper. She is grappling with a sudoku, a passion of hers, but has made a mistake and is cursing, about to surrender. Finally she throws down the paper and looks up at me. I am reading the Qur’an. Yanit and Abebe have been told by their Qur’anic class teacher to learn a passage and I am trying to locate the right Surah. She breaks the silence.
Tell me about your faith, she begins. How did it change when you converted?
I consider the question carefully.
I don’t think it changed much, you know. God remained God. Just the details were dissimilar. Not just the obvious rule changes, but the different character, the colour and texture, the taste of the religion. It is difficult to explain.
Was it a big change? A big shock?
Not really. You know, if you study theological history, how religions began, how they developed in their early days, how they relate to each other, you see that Ethiopia holds a special place in the heart of the matter.
What do you mean?
History, of course, is my passion, and I soon warm to the task. Yes, Kassa, I can picture you now, rolling your eyes and groaning! Anyway, I tell her about the birth of Ethiopia, the reign of Menelik I in 1000 BC. I tell her that one of the Egyptian pharaohs, Taharga, was Ethiopian, that at the time that Christianity began, there were four great global powers – Rome, Persia, China and Aksum. I tell her that the Aksumite Kingdom was centred in what is now Ethiopia but its control spread to parts of Yemen, Somalia, Sudan, Egypt, Eritrea, Djibouti, even Saudi Arabia. I point out that emperors right up to the modern era have traced their lineage to that kingdom, to Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.
I look carefully at Nuala, try to assess her reaction. She does not appear too bored so I plough on.
I tell her that Christianity came to Aksum in 316 AD when a Christian theologian called Meropius was shipwrecked off the Ethiopian coast. He was taken to the royal court, along with two Syro-Greek brothers, Frumentius and Aedesius, both also Christians. Frumentius converted the queen, went back to Alexandria, and, when he later returned as Bishop of Aksum, he baptised her son, King Ezana. I inform her that after that, Christianity became the official state religion. That after Armenia, Ethiopia is the second-oldest nation to adopt Christianity. That references to Ethiopian Christianity go back as far as the New Testament. I instruct her to read Acts 8:26 to 39, tell her they refer to an Ethiopian baptised by Philip the Evangelist.
Nuala laughs, a gesture of surprise, I think, and tells me she never knew that Ethiopia was such a Christian heartland. I shake my head and tell her no, it is not just Christianity, that traditionally Ethiopia has always opened its doors to any religion. That is what makes it so special. I tell her that in 615 AD Muslims fleeing from persecution by the Quraysh tribe in Mecca found refuge in the court of the Christian king, a man named Ashama ibn Abjar. He offered them a settlement in Negash which became one of the first Muslim communities in Africa. Did you know, I ask her, that the very first muezzin, one of Muhammad’s key followers, was an Ethiopian, a man named Bilal?
I have warmed to my theme now, so I move onto the Ethiopian Jewish community, I mention the Beta Israel, though point out that most of them were taken to Israel during the 1980s to escape the famine. I tell her that some Jewish scholars believe they were the Biblical ‘Lost Tribe of Israel’.
Nuala nods and tells me she remembers reading about that, so I soldier on. I say that even though Christianity is supposed to be the majority religion in Ethiopia, we have got our own version, the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church. I tell her that it shares some characteristics with the other religions and their doctrines.
Nuala frowns, asks me what I mean, so I explain that our Bible is more like the Jewish Torah. Our Old Testament includes some of the original Jewish books. Enoch and Jubilees, for instance, which have survived in our ancient Ge’ez script. Then I talk about our religious architecture, too, and how it differs from other Christian buildings, that our churches are monolithic, constructed from a single block of stone. I ask her if she has seen a picture of the Church of Saint George in Lalibela, tell her that we believe the original Ark of the Covenant is kept concealed in the Church of Our Lady Mary of Zion. I tell her that a new church cannot be consecrated unless a replica of the tablets of the Ark is placed in it by a bishop. It is a bit like the Jews and their Aron Kodesh, the special place in each synagogue where they keep the Torah.
Nuala stirs and asks me if I would like some tea. I am thinking that she must be growing bored but when she comes back she says it is fascinating, asks me to tell her more, so I explain that like Muslims and Jews, the Ethiopian Christians have set rituals that cover the way they slaughter animals. They cannot eat pork. Women cannot enter a church if they are menstruating. When they enter the church, they must cover their hair with a scarf. Even the way they sit is like in a mosque or synagogue – men to one side, women to the other.
And that, in a way, brings us back to the beginning of our discussion, the nature of my own personal faith.
So you see, in my mind, there was no great contradiction in my conversion, I tell her. It is difficult to explain, but it was just like swapping one blanket for another. They are both warm, comforting, fulfil their function. So converting was no big deal.
And now you still consider yourself a Muslim?
Of course. Not just out of loyalty to my husband. Like I said, Islam gives me what I want from a faith. What I want for my children, too.
What about all those accusations of Islam oppressing women?
Well, part of the problem is that outside the Qur’an itself there is what we call the Hadith. Those are the secondary, oral traditions relating to Muhammad’s words and deeds. They are sometimes contradictory and vague and can obscure the Qur’an’s original message. Also, this message can be corrupted by cultural influences. All this burkha business, for example.
There is nothing in the Qur’an that says women have to cover up completely. There are one or two parts dealing with how women dress, Surah 24:31, I believe, and 33:59. They say that women should behave with modesty and cover their bosoms in public, nothing more. Well, I don’t have a problem with that.
Wow, you really know your Qur’an, eh?
Bible, too. I spent my childhood learning it by heart to please my parents. Then I had to do the same with the Qur’an to satisfy my in-laws.
One thing people are always talking about is how harsh I
slam is to Muslims who leave the faith. Isn’t the punishment death, or amputation or something equally gruesome according to Shariah?
For apostasy? Well, it depends who you listen to. Me, I always go back to the Qur’an. Let me see, it is Al Nisa, 4:115:
If anyone contends with
The Messenger even after
Guidance has been plainly
Conveyed to him, and follows
A path other than that
Becoming to men of Faith,
We shall leave him
In the path he has chosen,
And land him in Hell –
What an evil refuge! Now to me that doesn’t sound like Allah telling us to go out and punish an apostate ourselves. Sounds to me like He is just telling us to leave him to his fate. That call to violence is down to the interpretations of individual scholars fuelled on poison, urged on by a lust for power. But my faith is between me and God, so to hell with whatever anyone else says!
What about that stuff about the different values put on men and women? Someone once told me that there’s something in the Qur’an about how in a law court, one male witness is worth two women.
Surah 2:282. Yes, it is true. Just like Peter 3:7 describes a woman as the ‘weaker vessel’ in relation to her husband. And of course I can’t agree that women are inferior. Both books are old, they were written at times in the past when people saw some things a little differently, so maybe we have to see them in some kind of context. I believe that any healthy religion must be open to a certain amount of adaptation, that any religion whose every facet is a hundred percent prescribed must be unhealthy, insecure, and can only survive through blind adherence, or brainwashing, or force. A mature, secure religion must allow for some dissent, for discussion. And that is what Islam means to me.
But there must be some key differences between Christianity and Islam? Nuala asks.
I consider the question.
Look, I am not a theologian. All I can do is read the books and make my judgment. I certainly think there are more similarities than differences. For both it is basically the carrot and-stick approach. What do you mean?
Both of them start off with the promise that if you adhere to them, if you behave well, treat others with mercy and care and respect, then you will be rewarded. On the other hand, if you don’t do what is prescribed, then you will be punished. Both books have their positive messages of peace and tolerance and harmony. And their negative ones of hell and damnation, of war against the enemy. But at the end of the day both are about mercy and love. Surah 7:199 goes:
Hold to forgiveness; Command what is right; But turn away from the ignorant
Micah 6:8 says:
What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and
to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God. Two books, one message, eh?
Nuala is looking at me oddly and I feel a little embarrassed at my discourse. To cover my feelings I put her on the back foot.
What about you? I ask. Where do you stand on religion?
She laughs a little awkwardly.
Well, it’d break my mother’s heart to say it, but I suppose I’m against any organised religion, whatever that’s called. I don’t know if there’s a name for it. I was brought up a strict Catholic, mass every Sunday, Easter like a permanent camp-out in church. That’s what put me off first. Later I suppose it was seeing the effects of religion around the world that made me so negative. Not just the Christian versus Muslim thing that seems to have been going on since the Crusades, but all the other conflicts, the Protestants and Catholics in northern Ireland, Singhalese Buddhists against Tamil Hindus in Sri Lanka, Hindu fascists persecuting Muslims in India, the violence in northern Nigeria, Sunnis and Shiites in Iraq. All that brutality committed in the name of one doctrine or another.
Yes, but that is not the religion. That is the people interpreting the message, twisting it, using it for their own pursuit of power or wealth, or because their minds are poisoned and weak. That is human nature. You cannot blame the religion.
Maybe. I mean, if the religion leads you to be kind to others, to do unto them as you’d have them do unto you as it were, then I haven’t got a problem with it. If your Qur’an or Bible or Torah or whatever leads you to behave in the right way, then good for you. In that sense, when it’s just a means to an end, I have no problem with it. It’s just that I don’t believe you need to sign up to a set organised faith to get that. I mean to me it’s common sense. Personally I’m just cutting out the middle man.
We both laugh.
What about your mother? I ask. What does she say?
Well, I’m sure she disapproves of the way the kids have been brought up. They’ve been baptised all right, but I don’t manage to get them to church more than twice a year, I suppose. And that’s really just to appease their grandma. Of course, I still feel the guilt. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic...
The conversation peters out, we reflect on each other’s words. Then Nuala breaks the silence.
I’ve never heard the Qur’an read, she says. But I like the sound of Arabic. It’s kind of soothing but powerful. Read me something from the book.
Really, I say, caught off guard by her unexpected request. What do you want to hear? I don’t know. Anything. You choose.
I consider this, flick through the Surahs, finally pick on 41:34 and 35. I begin to read the Ayat off the page, but I know them well and soon I close my eyes and let the words flow from my heart:
Nor can Goodness and Evil Be equal. Repel Evil With what is better: Then will be between whom And thee was hatred Become as it were Thy friend and intimate! And no one will be Granted such goodness Except those who exercise Patience and self-restraint – None but persons of The greatest good fortune.
When I finish she smiles and sighs. It sounds nice, she says. Like a song. And then, Fancy another cup of tea? And with that, our theological debate comes to an end. It is late now, my love, and I must get up early to revise for a classroom test.
My purest love to you, to Gadissa. You are my food, my drink, the air that I breathe. You are my waking and my sleep, my dreams and my prayers. You are inside and out. You are everywhere. And you are nowhere.
Nuala 3
When she invites Semira to stay it is almost in spite of herself. She’s already told herself that it wouldn’t be a good idea. She treasures her own privacy too much. When she reveals to her friend Mary what she has done, the older woman shakes her head in amazement.
You must be mad, Nuala. You spend your working day dealing with all those problems. Surely you need that time at home to protect your own sanity.
What could I do? She had nowhere else to go.
Yeah, but you’ve got enough on your plate. You’re your own worst enemy.
Enough on her plate? She knew Mary would say something like that. It isn’t the first time she’s come across the idea that her loss is some kind of time-consuming burden, an activity to prioritise, as if she needs to set aside a certain number of hours for it each day. And yet nothing could be further from the truth. What she fears most since After is an enforced idleness that gives her time to dwell. On the contrary, her coping mechanism is based solely on the creation of activity, of bustle and commotion. The children’s needs provide a great deal of distraction, of course. But there are still gaps to be plugged, especially after bedtime, when reality comes hurtling down on her. There’s a part of her, then, that sees Semira’s arrival as an opportunity. She’s not sure whether this is a sign of weakness, though, so she says nothing of it to Mary.
And anyway, her decision to invite Semira is not taken blindly. After all, she’s been her tutor for some months, certainly enough time to gauge her personality and conclude that she has a good heart.
And of course there are other benefits. Like an end to the organisational headache and financial burden of babysitter
s. Semira rarely goes out in the evening, and makes it clear she considers it perfectly acceptable to take responsibility for Sammy and Beth when Nuala is bullied into a trip to the cinema with Mary or Linda, an after-work drink with colleagues on the Cowley Road, or an evening at the monthly book club get-togethers she has now resumed.
A further advantage, less easily measurable, is the positive effect of Semira’s children on her own. Helpful and obedient, no fights, no stroppiness, no sibling combat. Nuala watches and marvels and prays that just a tiny bit of that magic might rub off on her own two.
Semira’s arrival also allows Nuala to get to grips with her overprotective neurosis, to come to terms with her Doomsday Theory. Watching Yanit and Abebe’s independence – Semira now permits them to walk to and from school and often sends them to the shops on errands – gives Nuala the strength to hand some back to her own children. She returns to full-time teaching and gives up her role as voluntary classroom assistant for Sammy and Beth. She forces herself to take a step back from their lives.
Her job is fine. It provides all the escape she needs. From the moment she arrives at college she’s thrown into a frantic cycle of administrative and bureaucratic activity as well as the classroom teaching itself. There are termly schemes of work to complete, weekly class records, syllabus design and materials development, registers and student files, lesson plans and photocopying.
But it is her interaction with the students that inspires Nuala and prevents her jumping ship when the bureaucracy seems too oppressive. When people ask her where her students come from typically, she always tells them to pick up a newspaper and identify where there has been recent conflict. Today they are Afghans and Kurds, Somalis, Sudanese and Congolese, East Timorese and Burundians, Chinese, Palestinians, Rwandans and Kosovars. Tomorrow, of course, it might be different. At any given time she has, within a single classroom, a snapshot of global upheaval, whether social, economic or environmental. Contemporary politics in a nutshell.
Divinity Road Page 26
