East of Hounslow

by Khurrum Rahman

  ‘What does that mean?’ It took all my might not to kneel down in front of her and wipe away her tears. She wiped her own tears and found some resolve.

  ‘I lied to you about him.’

  Lost for words‚ I waited for her to continue.

  ‘I could have raised you as a good Muslim. But I let you be free of it. I never encouraged you to go the mosque‚ even though you did on Fridays‚ of your own accord‚ and it scared the life out of me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want you to be like him.’ She spat‚ full of venom and spite like I had never seen from her before. I let it sink in‚ and tried to establish what the common factor between my dad and me could have been. I drew a blank. She continued. ‘I despised him for what he did to me‚ for what he did to us. I married him blindly‚ as was the way back then. I didn’t know what he was or how he would turn out.’

  ‘What was he?’ I asked. ‘How did he turn out?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what he wasn’t. He wasn’t a husband and he sure as hell wasn’t a father. He… He was a fighter. A jihadi.’

  The living room seemed to close in around me‚ squeezing the breath from me. My chest tightened and for a second I thought I was going to have a panic attack. I couldn’t stand without aid‚ so I moved unstably to the nearest wall and leaned my back against it and slowly slid down to the floor.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I said‚ weakly.

  ‘Because it is my job to protect you‚ Jay. The only way he protected us was financially.’

  ‘Three grand‚’ I filled in. ‘I saw the pay-in book in the loft.’

  ‘Yes‚ well that was him. Father of the bloody year!’

  ‘So‚ what? What are trying to tell me‚ he isn’t dead?’ I said‚ with hope.

  ‘Oh no‚ Jay. He’s dead alright. But not when you think. He died twenty years ago.’ She let that sink in before continuing‚ her tone now softer. ‘He was involved in things that I… I couldn’t get my head around. Things that I don’t even know about. We had no contact for years. Just the cheques‚ that was our only communication. I didn’t know where they came from‚ there was no stamp or postmark to indicate.’

  ‘So how do you know that he’s dead if there was no communication?’

  ‘Adeel-Al-Bhukara.’

  My eyes widened and in that very instant everything fell perfectly and without question into place. The insistence that I attend classes‚ treating me like a member of his family. The way that he afforded me a certain respect that was not apparent to the other students. The reason why‚ after three short months‚ he was ready to send me to Islamabad and prepare me for battle.

  He treated me like the son of a jihadist.

  I didn’t realise that I was viciously scratching my forearm until Mum kneeled down in front of me and gently removed my hand. I looked down at my arm and the skin was red raw. I looked up at her.

  ‘Did he love me?’

  I think she had decided that it wasn’t time to be pacifying me. She wanted me to know the truth‚ the whole truth and nothing but the fucking truth. She answered my question with silence and it near enough broke me. I forced myself to stand up‚ and I walked out of the room. I could hear her calling my name as I moved heavily up the stairs. I shut the door to my room and locked it and slid down against the door‚ determined not to cry. But the tears had found a way through and were flowing freely down my face.

  It had been due for as long as I could remember.

  A few seconds or a few minutes later I heard her slowly come up the stairs‚ and I could tell by her movement that she was sitting with her back against my door. She didn’t say anything but she made it clear that she was there. For me.

  It took a while for me to find some strength in my voice. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘I don’t know‚ Jay. Adeel‚ that leech‚ phoned me one day‚ telling me that he died for the cause. He refused to give me details‚ said he didn’t know. But I could hear the lies in his voice. I received a cheque shortly after‚ raised from your father’s estate.’ She snorted. ‘Estate! I didn’t even know my own husband had a bloody estate. You know something. I didn’t shed a tear‚ not one tear. Me and you‚ we had got this far without him. We didn’t need him.’

  ‘I needed him‚’ I whispered. She didn’t hear me‚ she wasn’t meant to.

  ‘Jay… I’m sorry‚ Beta. I wish there was another way‚ I wish I didn’t have to tell you.’

  I wiped my tears and fired at her. ‘So‚ why did you? Why did you tell me?’

  ‘Because I’m afraid… All right… I’m afraid that you have your father’s blood running through you‚ and Al-Bhukara will move heaven and earth to take advantage of you.’

  I opened my door and Mum got to her feet. We stood looking at each other‚ only the threshold between us. Her face mirrored mine in every way‚ the hurt‚ the anguish and the pain‚ so evident.

  ‘I promise‚ Mum. I swear. I won’t follow in Dad’s footsteps.’

  ‘Can I come in?’ she asked.

  I nodded.

  She stepped into my room and I into her arms and we stayed like that forever.

  54

  I had around fifteen missed calls from Parker. I called him back.

  ‘Sorry‚ I didn’t call‚’ I apologised before he had the opportunity to get all high and mighty. ‘Mum came back yesterday. Things got a little heavy.’

  ‘Okay‚’ he said‚ accepting my apology. ‘Are you in a position to confirm whether Parvez Ahmed will be travelling?’

  ‘Yes‚’ I said. ‘He will be.’

  ‘And you‚ Jay?’ he asked‚ hesitantly.

  I promise‚ Mum. I swear. I won’t follow in Dad’s footsteps.

  ‘Yeah.’ I said. ‘I’m in.’

  Part Three

  Islam is a way of life‚ not death.

  – Anonymous

  55

  We landed at Benazir Bhutto International Airport‚ named after the Pakistani Prime Minister who served for two non-consecutive terms in the late eighties and mid-nineties. Oh‚ and by the way‚ she was female. For those who think that Muslim women are oppressed second-class citizens‚ this one was put in charge of a country widely regarded as backwards. Twice! We collected our luggage in near silence. I could tell that the others were a little off with me for not making the effort to socialise during the flight. I should have‚ but the way things had escalated so quickly had made my head spin and I had trouble adjusting my mindset.

  We walked out of the airport and stepped out into the burn. Sweat coated us like a second skin. I slid on my sunglasses‚ looking for all the world like a holiday maker. Amid car horns‚ a mud-encrusted Toyota jeep jumped two lanes and pulled up in front of us.

  ‘This is us‚’ Kevin said.

  The driver jumped out‚ smirked at us by way of introduction‚ before literally flinging our bags into the back compartment.

  ‘Is that our trainer?’ I asked Kevin.

  ‘That is Aslam. He’s just the driver‚ amongst other things. He will prepare our meals‚ fetch our stuff‚ that kind of thing. But he is definitely not our trainer.’

  Once Aslam finished destroying our luggage‚ he handed us unsealed bottles of water from an ice box. I smelt a whiff of cannabis coming from him; it was just a hint but it was unmistakeable. So‚ old Aslam was a puffer. I found that quite interesting. He had the beard but not the faith.

  Kevin jumped into the front‚ before changing his mind and letting Amirah have that seat. It would have been too tight and awkward for her to be bundled in the back with four guys. Aslam’s eyes lit up and his smile widened as she took her place in the front.

  Amirah smiled back sweetly. ‘You so much as look at me and I’ll take your fucking eyes out.’

  He didn’t quite seem to understand her words‚ but he definitely got the message and didn’t even attempt to glance at her once during the five-hour drive to the training camp.

  *

  Surrou
nded by intimidating rocky mountains‚ peaking high into the night sky‚ we stepped out of the jeep and stretched out the kinks in our necks and backs. I took in my surroundings. It was a large area of wilderness‚ with tall skeletal trees dotted sparsely around. Large‚ bright-eyed foxes watched us curiously as we followed Aslam into the camp. There were two medium-sized thatched huts‚ low and wide‚ next to each other. They were separated only by huge grey rock. Attached to the front of the rock was a gun rack filled with assault rifles.

  We arrived just in time to see an episode unfolding. A young guy‚ probably in his late teens‚ stormed out of one of the thatched huts‚ a leather holdall gripped tightly in his hand. A mask of sheer determination on his face. He seemed very fucked-off about something.

  Three guys followed him out and circled him as though trying to block his path. There were raised voices aimed at him. Credit to the kid‚ he was giving it back‚ spit and venom flying out his mouth.

  ‘Brother Iqbal‚ gather your thoughts‚’ one said. ‘We have only been here for two days.’

  ‘No‚’ this Iqbal kid cried. ‘This fucking place…’

  ‘Why don’t you sleep on it and‚ Inshallah‚ tomorrow morning you will feel different.’

  ‘I told you how I feel‚ now get out of my way. I’m going home‚ and if any of you had any sense you would join me.’ Iqbal bustled himself past the three‚ and when he noticed us he started to spout some more. ‘Listen to me‚ Brothers‚ turn back. Go back home. This place‚ it’s… it’s evil. Go back home to your loved ones. They will forgive you of anything. You don’t belong here.’

  I checked him out. He was a good-looking lad. White adidas boots covered in reddish dirt‚ his jeans fashionably ripped at the knees and a Metallica T-shirt. He dressed similar to me‚ and from some of the things he was saying‚ I decided he thought like me. I wondered how he had fallen prey to the cause.

  I wondered how I had fallen prey.

  Kevin put his arm around Iqbal in an attempt to pacify him with words of Kevin-like wisdom. ‘Man‚ get the fuck away from me‚’ Iqbal snapped‚ pushing him away.

  ‘That’s enough.’ From a distance a deep‚ grizzly‚ authoritative voice cut him off.

  Further down‚ away from the thatched huts‚ was a larger‚ wood-built hut. Attached front and centre above the entrance was a huge round clock that illustrated prayer times. A figure wearing army fatigues‚ right down to the boots‚ was standing at the door. Even from a distance it was clear that he was a hulk‚ easily clearing six-five and almost half as wide. He ducked his head low‚ stepped through the door and strode towards us.

  Silence fell. All that could be heard was the heavy breathing coming from Iqbal. His eyes widened with fear and he took a step back.

  The man approached and towered over Iqbal.

  ‘That’s the trainer‚’ Kevin whispered‚ with a touch of awe. ‘Mustafa.’

  ‘Iqbal‚’ Mustafa said‚ in an accent. ‘Nobody is forcing you here‚ boy.’ An American accent. ‘We do not cater for cowards. This is a place to better yourself with belief‚ hard work and commitment. But don’t you dare try and poison my students with what you think is right or wrong.’

  He was talking directly to Iqbal but he was relaying the message loud and clear to us all.

  Iqbal kept his head down. I wanted to put my arm around him and walk him away. From behind the large rock‚ Aslam staggered back into the mix. During the melee‚ nobody had noticed him disappear. Judging by his eyes and the dopey smile fixed on his face‚ he had evidently been smoking the good shit.

  ‘Ah‚ Aslam‚’ Mustafa said. ‘There you are. Will you run young Iqbal back to the city? Give him some money for a hotel and from there onwards he is on his own.’

  Aslam nodded‚ not seeming to mind the five-hour trek back to Islamabad‚ just a few minutes after driving for five hours the other way. As Iqbal and Aslam walked to the jeep‚ Mustafa boomed‚ ‘If there is anybody else here who has any doubts‚ I urge you to join Iqbal right now. Because I warn you now‚ you will experience Jahannam before Jaanat.’

  Hell before Heaven…

  56

  I’ve met some tough looking guys in my time. Parker‚ Staples and Khan to a certain extent. They all carried that look of menace‚ able to win a fight before a punch had been thrown. But this guy? Mustafa was a fucking man-mountain‚ built from the hardest of rocks. His body shaped in a way that disobeyed nature.

  Mustafa had gathered us all after Iqbal and Aslam had departed. We were all exhausted from the trip and wanted to get our heads down – at least I did – but he obviously had something to say. He stood in front of us and tried to clasp his hands behind his back‚ but the shape and size of his body would not allow it‚ so he just let his arms drop by his side.

  ‘For those of you that do not know me‚’ he said‚ looking at me before addressing the whole group. ‘My name is Mustafa Mirza. Welcome to Ghurfat-al-Mudarris. For those who require translation – welcome to The Teacher’s Quarters.’

  Jackpot.

  ‘I will be your trainer for the coming weeks. I was born and raised in Atlanta‚ USA. I joined the US Marines when I was nineteen so I could fight for my country‚ my people. I carried out two tours of Afghanistan and one tour of Iraq in five short years. And in that time I realised that I was not fighting for my people but fighting against them. I witnessed atrocities and attacks carried out by the US with very little justified intel. Families torn apart‚ villages devastated. Men and women tortured for a game. And I was part of that. Like a robot being programmed to carry out every instruction without question. It was in Iraq that you could say that this robot malfunctioned. One night I woke and‚ without thought‚ I made my way to the Squadron Leader’s bed. I was possessed. My body moving on its own. It was with the strength of Allah that I placed my hands around his neck and strangled that murderous Kafir into a coma. It took seven Marines to wrestle me away from him.’ Mustafa took a long swig from a bottle of water and eyed us all in turn. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and continued. ‘I was taken away and detained in military prison‚ but they could not break me‚ they could not break my faith. Even though I had been born a Muslim‚ it was on that day that I became one. I do not regret for one solitary second my time in the US Marines. Because to their detriment‚ they trained me extensively to be a killer. And with that knowledge and power‚ it is my humble duty to pass that on to you.’

  We spent the night getting to know each other. Salman was the eldest of the other group and he instantly gelled with Kevin who was the eldest in our group. They both had that sanctimonious bone in them which made them naturally gravitate towards one another. Then we had Kamran‚ a family man who took great pleasure in passing around photos of his wife and twin girls and annoyingly gushing about them. It was truly frightening to me that somebody could feel more towards the cause than towards the family that he was evidently crazy about. Finally‚ there was Akhtar. Now‚ I may not be the brightest but this guy did not have a clue. He didn’t quite seem to know why he was here or what his purpose was. I mean‚ he had some idea‚ obviously‚ but behind his big eyes and blank expression something was amiss. He was just happy to tag along. I could see how somebody like that would have been coerced and groomed without much effort. Like a sheep‚ trying to fit in with the flock. All three of them were Luton-based and had attended classes exactly as we had done with Al-Bhukara. Now here we all were‚ ready to give our all in the name of Islam.

  As for the other guy‚ Iqbal‚ the one who saw sense‚ he was London-based but was studying at Luton University. Previously a straight-A student and good Muslim‚ who one day walked into the wrong room and spoke to the wrong person and ended up here. Like myself‚ this was his first training camp‚ but he had been attending hard-line Islamic classes for the best part of three years‚ whilst his academic grades gradually slipped. Apparently‚ he showed great aptitude‚ especially in theoretical scenarios‚ and their Imam was more tha
n impressed – enough to nominate and send him here. Iqbal quickly discovered the difference between theory and reality.

  *

  Amirah‚ being the only girl‚ had the run of her own hut. She said her goodnights and left. Exhausted‚ we all turned in.

  I‚ somewhat predictably‚ couldn’t sleep. I had learned to stop trying ages ago; if it came‚ it came. Instead I looked at the training schedule that Salman had handed out to us. It was printed on an A5‚ laminated card.

  SCHEDULE

  04.30 - 05.00 FAJR PRAYERS

  05.00 - 06.00 ISLAMIC STUDIES

  06.00 - 08.00 PHYSICAL/COMBAT TRAINING

  08.00 - 09.00 FREE TIME/SOCIAL MEDIA UPDATES

  09.00 - 10.00 BREAKFAST/CLEANSING

  10.00 - 12.00 MILITARY TRAINING

  12.00 - 14.00 ZOHAR PRAYERS/LUNCH/FREE TIME

  14.00 - 18.00 MILITARY TRAINING

  18.00 - 19.00 ASAR PRAYERS/FREE TIME

  19.00 - 21.00 ISLAMIC STUDIES

  21.00 - 22.30 MAGHRIB PRAYERS/DINNER

  22.30 – 23.30 BONDING/GROUP DISCUSSION

  23.30 ISHA PRAYERS/LIGHTS OUT

  Man‚ it was heavy.

  I switched my phone on for the first time since we had arrived and noticed with relief that I had decent network coverage. Lawrence had been right‚ they had no intention of taking our phones away from us.

  Mustafa had explained to us that extensive background checks had been carried out on us all before the Imam even entertained the idea of sending us to camp. We were trusted implicitly otherwise we would not have been here. Phones were a big part of our time here‚ we had been encouraged to take group photos‚ videos and selfies within the confines of the camp and post them onto social network sites‚ raising awareness amongst young Muslims and inspiring them join the Cause.

  I checked the time on my phone. It had just gone two which meant that we had to be up in a couple of hours to start our day.