East of Hounslow

by Khurrum Rahman

  He was interrupted by a piece of chalk bouncing off his shoulder.

  ‘If you have something to say‚ please join me at the front and share it with the class‚’ Mr Hamza said‚ looking pleased with his aim.

  ‘I was just telling our Brother here about jihad.’

  ‘Ah‚ yes‚ Brother Kevin. A noble and worthy subject. Please‚’ he said‚ waving Kevin forward. ‘Join me. Share with the rest of the group.’

  Kevin joined Mr Hamza at the front and stood facing the class. Mr Hamza nodded for him to proceed. ‘Aslamalykum‚ young Brothers. For those of you that do not know me‚ my name is Kevin.’

  ‘Aslamalykum‚ Brother Kevin‚’ was the enthusiastic joint reply.

  ‘I know what you are all thinking. What kind of terrible name that is for a Muslim? You would be right. It’s awful.’ Some of the kids giggled. ‘The Quran states that a convert is not obliged to change his name. It’s a personal choice. If I am honest‚ I just cannot be bothered having to change my name on every piece of documentation.’ Cue more laughs‚ some elders joined in. Mr Hamza smiled broadly. Kevin continued. ‘So‚ where was I? Yes. Jihad. I was just starting to explain to Brother Jay the true meaning of the word. Does anybody here know what jihad means?’ He looked at the kids.

  The children all looked to each other daring the other to answer. One skinny little boy‚ probably about seven‚ spoke up.

  ‘Fighting‚’ he said. ‘It means fighting.’

  ‘Fighting you say?’ Kevin said‚ nodding‚ stroking his chin. ‘Fighting against who?’

  ‘Against the Kafirs.’

  ‘What’s your name‚ young Brother?’

  ‘My name is Sami.’ He grinned around at his friends‚ happy to be the centre of attention.

  ‘Well Sami. If I was to Google jihad.’ Kevin said‚ with air quotes. ‘It would define it just as you have told me. A war or struggle among Muslims against unbelievers.’ Kevin‚ looked around the room at all the young faces‚ adding a touch of theatre to the proceedings. ‘In fact that definition is identical to the one that can also be found in the Oxford Dictionary. And we all know that the Oxford Dictionary cannot be wrong.’ Again more air quotes. ‘Well‚ I am here to tell you‚ kids‚ and excuse my language‚ but it’s all poo-poo.’

  The younger kids exploded into laughter.

  Kevin was enjoying his moment up on centre stage. He motioned for everyone to calm down and continued. ‘I’m sorry‚ Sami‚ but that is not the correct meaning of jihad‚ that is what the newspapers and television want you to believe.’ Sami’s face fell. ‘But it’s not your fault‚ it’s a very common mistake‚ even for Muslims to make. Would you all like to hear the real meaning‚ the true meaning?’

  The kids all chorused a big fat ‘Yes’.

  ‘Jihad does indeed mean to fight‚ but it is the fight that Muslims have internally. Within themselves. Striving to become a good Muslim‚ not giving into temptation‚ leading a clean life‚ as is written in the words of the Quran.’

  ‘Mashallah‚ Brother Kevin‚’ Mr Hamza said‚ patting Kevin on the back and pushing him back to his place. The kids clapped him off and Kevin plonked himself down next to me as Mr Hamza took questions from the floor.

  ‘Well said‚ Kevin. I did not know that.’

  Kevin turned to me‚ his demeanour a little darker. ‘That was for the benefit of the class. That boy‚ Sami… He was right.’

  ‘What?’ I said‚ somewhat confused.

  Kevin stood up‚ but before reaching full height‚ with his mouth close to my ear‚ he whispered‚ ‘Come and find me in the car park after class finishes. It’s time we talked.’

  36

  It was the second time Kevin had said something peculiar and walked away without giving me a chance to counter. I had a feeling that he was the one watching me. Or at least he was one of them. I had told him about my life and I was sure he saw me as one who required direction.

  I hurried through the mosque towards the car park. He was waiting for me just outside the shoe rack.

  ‘Let’s go.’ He said. ‘We’ll take my car. There’s somebody I want you to meet.’

  *

  En route‚ Kevin seemed fidgety‚ which was out of character. He was normally calm‚ subdued.

  ‘What did you mean by saying Sami was right?’ I said‚ looking out of the window‚ mentally trying to remember the route we were taking. ‘Right about what?’

  ‘He was right‚ Brother. Do you not see? He was spot on. The definition of jihad has‚ over the years‚ become convoluted. Yes‚ it is a struggle within one’s self‚ in a way that Kafirs will never understand. They take each day with selfish attitudes. Damaging their bodies with alcohol and drugs and polluting their mind with filth. We have been given this gift of life by the highest of powers and it is our duty to live as clean and pure as possible. That’s the fight‚ that is the jihad.’ He stopped to take a breath. ‘But like the boy said‚ jihad is also a fight against non-believers.

  He pulled up outside a small shisha bar called the Purple Rain.

  ‘Go inside‚’ he said.

  ‘Are you not coming?’

  ‘No‚ Brother‚ I am not.’

  ‘Hang on. Where are you going? Who’s in there? I thought we were going to talk‚’ I babbled.

  ‘Do you trust me‚ Brother?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah‚ I trust you‚’ I said. ‘But—’

  ‘Then walk inside with Allah in your heart. It’s going to be okay. It’s just a meeting.’

  37

  Predictably the walls were painted purple‚ but that’s not what I noticed first. There were no chairs‚ just big comfortable velvet cushions on the floor‚ placed around low tables. But again‚ that’s not what I noticed first. A waiter approached me and asked me something but I ignored him. My eyes were transfixed on what lay straight ahead of me.

  Through the cloud of lazily swirling shisha smoke there was a figure sitting eyeing me curiously. I was hypnotised as I walked in the straightest of lines‚ ignoring my surroundings‚ tunnel vision in full effect‚ and sat down opposite Amirah.

  ‘Um… Hi.’ It was the best I could come up with. She put the pipe to her lips and inhaled generously before expelling it through her nose. It smelt of apple and tobacco.

  ‘What would sir like?’ asked the waiter who was suddenly looming over me.

  ‘Same as the lady… Apple and tobacco‚’ I said‚ smoothly and confidently‚ eyes attached to hers‚ giving her what I hoped was a winning smile.

  ‘The lady is having double menthol and vanilla extracts‚ sir.’

  ‘Right‚’ I said‚ my smile frozen in place. ‘I’ll have that then.’

  ‘So‚’ I said‚ to Amirah. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

  ‘Surprise? Tell me about it. It came as a big surprise when I found out it was you.’

  ‘Not sure I know what you mean.’

  The waiter came back with a shisha and placed it in front of me. Never had I hit one of these things before but it couldn’t be that hard. I’d been puffing on joints for years‚ so what’s the difference? She pulled the pipe to her lips‚ took a long pull and I followed suit. She removed the pipe‚ tightened her jaw and expertly let out cute little smoke rings. I removed the pipe from my mouth and tried to emulate her. I coughed and spluttered and the waiter rushed over and rubbed my back like a mother would a child.

  I still got it!

  I poured myself a glass of water‚ sipped greedily‚ and recovered quickly. ‘You were saying‚’ I said‚ my voice a little hoarse.

  ‘I’ve been hearing some good things about you.’

  ‘Yeah? From who? Parvez? I wouldn’t take much notice of him.’

  ‘No‚ not Parvez. And no‚ I don’t take much notice of him.’

  ‘So‚ who has been saying these so-called good things about me? I’d like to buy them a drink.’

  ‘That’s not important right now. What is important is that your work has been acknowledge
d... And appreciated.’

  That threw me a bit. What work? I didn’t know how to respond‚ so I took another hit of the shisha and waited for her to continue.

  ‘The spirit you showed after Sutton Masjid was vandalised.’

  ‘Oh right‚ I see. With the clean up and restoration? That wasn’t no big deal‚ I was one of many. It was my Farz. My duty!’

  ‘Yeah‚ I know what Farz means‚’ she said‚ dropping the warmth before quickly recovering. ‘But not only the clean up‚ but the way you handled yourself afterwards. You didn’t sit on your hands; you were proactive in your actions. You took the fight directly to the Kafirs. You sent out a message.’

  I looked around the room‚ trying to buy time. I had to respond carefully. I finally took in the purple garish décor‚ the sumptuous oversized velvet cushions‚ and the beautiful girl sitting in front of me‚ who was eyeing me up‚ taking my measure‚ establishing if I was the right kind of person.

  ‘I did what I thought was just‚’ I said‚ in a low measured tone. I wasn’t about to tell her that I was only there to keep Parvez out of trouble.

  Amirah nodded and then‚ with a smile playing on her face‚ she said‚ ‘Well‚ you fucking rocked it.’

  The mouth on her! Could she be the perfect girl?

  ‘Um‚ yeah. I guess I did.’

  She tapped a perfectly manicured finger on her lips. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who needed to think carefully about what came out of my mouth. She obviously did not want to give too much away but she needed to know if I was willing. She chose her words carefully.

  ‘Remember where you first met me?’ she asked.

  ‘How could I forget?’ I replied‚ smiling.

  ‘There are a few of us—’

  ‘Us?’

  Her eyes told me not to interrupt her again.

  ‘There are a few of us who attend classes‚ twice a week at that house in Osterley. I would like to see you there.’

  ‘You would?’ I said‚ giving her a knowing smile.

  ‘Will you fucking grow up?’

  ‘Alright‚ God! Alright.’ I threw my hands up in the air. ‘I’m only playing. What are these classes‚ anyway? And what time? I don’t want to miss prayers.’

  ‘You can pray at the house. The classes are designed to further your knowledge.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On Islam.’

  ‘I’m already taking weekly classes at the mosque. In fact I was just there today. Is this something similar?’

  ‘No. What you’re taking is basic education designed for five-year-olds.’

  ‘There are elders present too‚’ I said.

  ‘Those lazy old farts are just killing time in between prayers and they can’t be arsed to go back home to their nagging wives. Trust me‚ those classes are for children. Are you a child?’

  ‘No‚’ I said‚ childishly.

  ‘Well that’s settled then. Okay?’

  ‘No. Not okay.’ I sat back. I didn’t want to make myself look like an easy target‚ jumping in with both feet and my tongue hanging out.

  ‘Do you not care?’ she said.

  ‘About what exactly?’

  ‘You‚ your people‚ those close to you and those around the world. What they are going through. Surely you must feel something‚’ she said‚ a pinched‚ pained expression on her face.

  ‘Yes. Of course I care. You know I do. But I’ve got too much on my plate right now. And besides‚ no white man has ever stepped to me. The cops leave me alone and nobody be calling me a Paki. Look I’m going to tell you how I see it‚ Muslims in this country‚ they’re not getting a hard time. Not really. Not unless you’re spouting off or inciting violence. You think the average Joe gives a crap about how you dress? Nobody cares if you’re covered from head to toe or wearing a shalwar and kameez. Yeah‚ you get the odd idiot shouting the odds‚ but it’s a rarity. It’s certainly not enough to start a fucking war.’

  Amirah sat back against her cushion‚ her eyes burning into mine‚ arms crossed over her chest. I stood up.

  ‘I’m going out for a cigarette‚’ I said‚ quietly. Leaving her to mull things over whilst I did a bit of mulling of my own.

  I stepped out of the Shisha Bar and lit up‚ smoking it like it was the last fag on earth.

  What the fuck had I just done? There she was‚ handing me an in‚ and I gave her reason to doubt me. I don’t know why I did that. Well‚ maybe I do. I was scared‚ alright? I was scared that if I showed eagerness it would look too obvious. If I had said to Amirah‚ Yeah‚ sure sweetheart‚ lead the way‚ let me just tape a wire to my chest! then questions would be considered and asked. I had to be clever. Start taking things slowly. The last thing I needed was to be at the back end of a waterboarding.

  I finished my smoke and peeked inside. Amirah was on the phone. I had a feeling that the topic of conversation was yours truly. I gave her some time and sparked up another. Half way through my smoke she came out and joined me. Without asking she took the cigarette from my hands and put it to her lips. I thought it was an intimate gesture. But maybe she just wanted a smoke.

  ‘You’ve been in Hounslow most of your life‚ right?’ Her voice was softer‚ more appeasing than before.

  ‘All my life‚’ I said‚ as though it was something to be proud of.

  ‘And you’ve never suffered any form of racism or attack against you?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘You live in a heavily populated Asian area with a high percentage of Muslims. You have mainly Muslim friends and you hardly ever set foot out of Hounslow.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I don’t‚’ she smiled. ‘I just guessed. It wasn’t difficult. See‚ Jay‚ do not take this the wrong way‚ but you live a sheltered life‚ protected by your environment‚ and as a result you have become blind to what is happening under your nose.’ She threw the cigarette down. ‘These classes will help you see things that you have never considered.’

  I shrugged a whatever at her.

  ‘I can see in you what you cannot yet. I want to help open your eyes.’

  ‘Open my eyes?’ I snorted. ‘How?’

  ‘Outside of your cosy little community‚ Muslims are being attacked without reason‚’ she said‚ and I felt a lecture coming. ‘Forget what is happening around the world. Here‚ right here‚ in jolly old England‚ we are being attacked. I don’t necessarily mean physically attacked in the streets‚ spat at or beaten. I mean the small things that have a big impact. A look‚ or a whispered insult. Making us feel like we don’t deserve to tread the same path as them‚ because of our beliefs‚ or the way we carry out our lives in the way that we see fit. Pick up a newspaper or read a fucking Twitter feed. It’s filth‚ how they see us and what they say about us. It’s easy to ignore once‚ twice‚ three times. But it never stops. It’s relentless. And just because you haven’t seen it yourself‚ it doesn’t mean it is not happening.’

  She was beautiful.

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’ I asked‚ allowing her to see that I was slightly interested. She pulled on her bottom lip for a moment‚ knowing that a little more push was required.

  ‘I want you to visit a café and after that you can decide.’

  ‘That’s it? What’s that going to prove?’

  ‘Just do it. Sit there for about half an hour‚ treat yourself to a cup of tea and a sandwich.’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘And observe.’

  38

  It was a rundown café in a rundown part of South London. From where I had sat‚ at the back‚ right next to the stinking toilets‚ it looked as if the customers were also rundown by whatever life chose to throw at them. All white‚ of the trashy variety. The type that whined about lack of employment‚ thanks to all the foreigners taking all their jobs.

  You know the tune.

  As soon as I set foot into the joint people’s eyes flickered over me‚ glances which did not seem to relent
throughout my stay. Telling looks that implied a sense of xenophobia. Maybe the attacks in Canada still fresh in their minds.

  A family of three in particular‚ seemed to be paying me the most attention. The Dad‚ or whoever the fuck he was‚ with his black eye and cut just under it‚ kept his eyes locked on me‚ as he was being whispered to or egged on by his wife‚ or whoever the fuck she was. The snotty young child‚ who couldn’t have been more than ten‚ and looked like he hadn’t showered since his last birthday‚ also stared at me as if he had wanted to ram his Power Ranger figure down my throat.

  I took a sip of my tea and looked elsewhere‚ not looking for trouble. My eyes landed on a leaflet on the table. I picked it up.

  SAVE BRITAIN. VOTE UKIP.

  I turned it over and read the back.

  KEEP CALM AND VOTE UKIP.

  I looked around the other tables and there were similar leaflets planted on all of them.

  It was obvious why Amirah had chosen this location. Even someone like me‚ who liked to think of himself as immune to the anti-Islamic brigade‚ could be a possible target. Well played Amirah. She was well on the way to proving her point. I knocked back my cuppa and started to make tracks‚ before I got my head kicked in by a ten year old and a Power Ranger. I pushed my chair back and got to my feet‚ ready to walk out with my eyes firmly fixed to the ground‚ then the door chimed and somebody walked in.

  I couldn’t leave‚ not anymore. I couldn’t leave her alone. Not here.

  I sat back down‚ knowing that whatever potential grievances they had with me were about to be transferred to a new target. And they were about to be multiplied... And then fucking squared!

  She must have been lost or ill advised‚ or just looking for a place to sit down with her baby. I watched as with difficultly she pushed open the door with her elbow‚ and then twisted her body so that she could reverse herself and the pushchair in. Nobody got up to help. By the time I was on my feet and approaching her she had made it in. I sat back down at my table and waited for the inevitable to unfold.

  She was covered head to toe in a Burka. Head covered‚ face covered‚ everything covered. Even the baby in the pushchair was hidden behind a muslin cloth. She approached the counter‚ seemingly casual‚ as if she was regular. Her head lifted towards the menu board and she took her time selecting what to order. The grubby looking woman behind the counter‚ with a grubby looking apron‚ which appeared to have the contents of the menu splattered all over it‚ and a name tag that read Jo‚ watched her.