by Ayisha Malik
You should mind your language and geography. The people in question are originally from Pakistan.
There. Her duty was done. Except within minutes she received a reply:
Fuck you, you raghead loving bitch.
Shelley’s heart thudded as she quickly clicked the cross button on the window. What was a raghead? Her hand shook as she sipped her tea. She knew that the world wasn’t always a civilised place, but such barbarity! There was little point in visiting this scene on YouTube over and over. It had taken place and there was nothing to be done about that now.
Shelley just really wished it hadn’t gone viral.
The front door slammed shut as Auntie Shagufta stormed back into the living room with rollers in her hair, her face ghostly without her usual layers of make-up.
‘When will these chavval journalists leave us alone? Who is your MP here? Let me write to them.’
She’d only stepped out to check if she’d dropped her lipstick in Vaseem’s van.
Mariam turned the television’s volume up as the newscaster’s face filled the screen. Shagufta came and squeezed herself between Auntie Gulfashan and Bilal, Haaris perched on the arm of the sofa, Khala Rukhsana in her sofa chair, rosary beads in hand, Vaseem and family on the floor.
‘A recording of a Nativity play has gone viral, but Muslims, rather than Jesus, were at the centre of it …’
Mariam looked at Haaris, whose head was bowed.
‘I honestly don’t know what you were thinking.’
‘I told you,’ he said. ‘Sam was all in my face, showing off his new iPhone. Then Mrs Hawking, you know, went mental, and you can’t let opportunities like that pass, can you? Do you think I should go into film?’
Mariam shook her head. ‘I think you should be sorry for what you’ve done.’
‘I didn’t mean to!’ exclaimed Haaris. ‘And Sam started it.’
‘Yes, and then you both put your heads together and did that,’ she said, pointing to the television.
‘The unfolding events have opened up a great debate around the nation: What exactly does it mean to be English? Here’s a clip of the video that was uploaded on to YouTube …’
‘Just look at the venom the woman is spewing,’ said Mariam, observing YouTube Shelley.
‘Ki?’ asked Khala.
Mariam repeated herself in Punjabi. Khala looked like she was about to respond but Auntie Gulfashan spoke.
‘See how calm Bilal looks. Well done, beta.’
‘As if that’ll matter. Though your propensity to go silent in the face of argument worked in our favour,’ added Mariam, looking at Bilal and unable to resist a small smile. ‘At least you’re not brandishing a hedge-cutter.’
‘Reporting from Babbel’s End is Henry Miller. Henry, tell us, what has been the local reaction?’
‘Well, Harriet, you saw from the video how many people are worried about what converting a church to a mosque would do to the village’s cultural heritage …’
‘But not everyone is against it, are they? One member had actually donated a significant sum of money …?’
Mariam had tried to give the money back. Tom had swept out of the barn and she had rushed out after him.
‘We can’t take it,’ she’d called out.
‘Why the hell not?’
Anne had come out too and Mariam told her to make her dad see sense. It was too much. They couldn’t possibly afford it – though she kept this thought to herself.
Then Anne took Mariam’s cold hands into hers. ‘It’s yours.’
‘But I don’t—’
Anne lowered her voice. ‘Let him do this. Please.’
God, she missed her friend. Before Mariam could say anything else Anne had taken Tom’s arm, sat him in the car and driven off into the dark, foggy night. Then, of course, the hedge incident happened. Mariam and Bilal’s conversation about happiness had to be put on hold, floating around their heads like bits of tissue in water as they darted between the insanity of what transpired in the barn, why Tom would do such a thing and how they could accept it. Then news of the YouTube clip erupted.
Mariam took out her mobile and looked at her Twitter account:
@TiradeTyrant
WTF ‘types of people’?? Well done @C8News on spewing racist shit #Babbelsend #Teamhasham #Buildthemosque
@SaimaShaaaargh
A mosque in a village! Yes! We are here to stay #Babbelsend #ProudBritishMuslim
@AbbeyFielding
Jus another exanple of Muslims takin over n white libtards cozying up to em #Babbelsend #EnglandFirst #withusoragainstus
@John_Adams
Why can’t they do a vote? This is a democracy. If the village doesn’t want a mosque, shouldn’t their opinion matter? #Babbelsend
@Em_Hurst
@John_Adams Yeah, John. Three Muslims Vs entire white village. Real fair democracy #Babbelsend #Givemeabreak
Em and John went on in this vein for a while. Never had Mariam felt so exhausted at people’s capacity to argue. She wasn’t going to take to Twitter like some social media warrior when the physical battleground had been laid out. Plus, she had to cook dinner. She just wanted to know what people were saying. Though keeping abreast of hate was a rather arduous thing.
‘Joining us today is renowned anthropologist Fabiola Tocci. Fabiola, can you tell us a little about your thoughts on what’s transpired in this remote village in England?’
‘Certainly, Harriet. As we know, from time immemorial, civilisations have been encroached upon—’
Mariam’s mobile rang.
It was Saif.
‘How representative do you think Babbel’s End is of the rest of the UK’s attitude to Muslims?’
‘Hello?’
‘Mariam,’ he said.
She steeled herself. Every conversation with him was a lesson in steeling herself.
‘What am I seeing on the news? When did Bilal become a mawlvi? A mosque? In your village. Paagal hogaye ho?’
‘No-one’s gone mad,’ replied Mariam.
She was surprised that Haaris hadn’t mentioned it to his dad sooner.
‘This isn’t good for Haaris.’
Mariam crept up the stairs and closed the bedroom door. ‘You said yourself he needed more culture. Well, here it is. And don’t worry, I know what’s good for Haaris.’
‘I wondered why he’s been so quiet and now I know. Yaar, these goray don’t want religion shoved in their face.’
‘What is it you want? Culture or not? Make up your mind.’
He paused. ‘Listen, that place gives me the creeps, but I want him to be safe and happy.’
‘This is none of your business,’ said Mariam.
‘I’m his baba. Of course it’s my business.’
‘Were you his baba when you decided to leave us?’
She had spent years pushing down the bile of that accusation. The legitimacy of it was somehow dampened when said out loud. It almost sounded petty. But things were different now. Never had Mariam needed answers more.
‘Mariam …’
‘Well?’
Pause.
‘I shouldn’t have left you.’
The pace of Mariam’s heart quickened.
‘I always knew it, Mariam. You and Haaris were the best thing that happened to me and God is punishing me now with this regret I have living inside me … Mariam?’
‘Yes.’
‘You heard me?’
‘I heard you.’
She thought of Bilal sitting downstairs, making tea for everyone to distract himself from watching that YouTube clip for the hundredth time.
‘You remember the letters we used to write? I still have yours.’
This can’t be happening.
‘I have to go, Saif.’
‘Is Austen still the master of irony?’ he asked, a smile in his voice.
‘Stop.’
‘You won’t tell me what I want to hear?’
‘No.’
The answer cam
e so fast it surprised Mariam.
‘It’s okay, Mariam. You’ve always needed time to think about things. I’ll give you however long you need.’
And instead of saying that she didn’t need time, that she certainly didn’t need him, she found herself saying: ‘Okay.’
‘No, I understand that,’ said Richard into the phone as he rubbed his forehead.
It wasn’t quite the Christmas Eve he’d imagined.
The archdeacon had been on the phone now for ten minutes. ‘Had you asked me privately, I’d have granted the request.’
Richard had the urge to smash the phone over someone’s head. Unfortunately, this wouldn’t be very Christian.
‘But you can understand the problems it’s causing. Ah, John’s here with the custard creams. Just put them down there, thank you. As I was saying, it’d be different if the purpose of the deconsecration was not widely known but …’
‘Yes,’ said Richard. He took a deep breath. ‘But still—’
The archdeacon interrupted with a sigh that was as long as it was deep. ‘You’re a good and thoughtful man, Richard, but I can’t grant this favour.’
‘Can’t you—’
‘At a time when the church is weak we can’t be seen to give way to the other.’
‘But—’
‘We must look strong.’
‘Isn’t there strength in granting neighbours a holy sanctuary?’
The archdeacon paused. ‘It’s a noble thought, Richard. But strength is also in perception. And the whole country is watching us.’
Everything, it seemed, was perception.
‘Merry Christmas,’ added the archdeacon as Richard put the phone down, his heart heavier than his head. He picked up the Daily Reporter again. Merry Christmas, indeed. He’d never buy such trash but someone had left it at the gym. On the front page was the headline: Babbel’s END … of the English countryside and everything we know. Under it was a picture of a quaint village church being overshadowed by a mosque. Of all the stupid things. He flung the paper across the church office, nearly toppling the Christmas tree. What would he tell Bilal? How could he go back on the hope that he had given? And why was there no longer nuance in an argument? Why did it have to be as simple as Christian vs Muslim; preservation vs change; old vs new? Wasn’t there a happy medium in which something fresh could be created? Richard realised he’d become too comfortable with his life. If he were honest, Anne almost digging a grave had affected him more than he thought possible. There was no miraculous outcome, but at least she was trying to feel something, and as long as she kept trying he knew there was hope.
He picked up his Bible and opened it at random. Deutronomy 21:22 – To not let a man who’s been sentenced to death stay hanging on a tree: ‘You shall not defile your land that the Lord your God is giving you for an inheritance.’
To some that last line might suggest that it was Bilal who was defiling the land with his mosque, but not for Richard. He nodded in understanding.
This is God’s land. Don’t hold on to things that have no life.
Richard closed the Bible and opened it at random again: Jeremiah 1:5 – ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.’
Everything that happens is inevitable.
He did this several times and it didn’t matter which verse he opened, it seemed to tell Richard that he must maintain his ground. It wasn’t because he was superstitious. He believed that religious texts didn’t just reveal things to you, but about you. What you made of them was who you were and Richard would not be a person who balked at the idea of a church becoming a mosque.
He looked out at the darkening sky and noticed a figure approach. Another journalist. The congregation would be arriving for children’s mass at six o’clock. St Paul’s would be brimming with people wrapped in furs and woolly hats, bathed in the warm hues of twinkling lights, framed by mistletoe and holly.
He grabbed his coat and scarf and made his way out of the church.
‘Excuse me, Reverend Rich—’
‘It’s Christmas Eve. Go home to your family,’ said Richard, striding past and getting into his car.
Five minutes later he was knocking on Anne’s door. She looked surprised but Richard strode in without ceremony.
‘It’s all nonsense,’ he exclaimed.
‘Do you want to sit down?’
There was no Christmas tree. The BBC news was on in the background: ‘Will it be the last Christmas for St Swithun’s in Babbel’s End?’
Anne got the remote and switched it off.
‘St Swithun’s doesn’t even hold mass at Christmas,’ said Richard, whipping his scarf off, throwing it on the back of the dining chair.
‘On the plus side,’ said Anne, ‘Babbel’s Life Art gallery has probably never had so much business.’
He stared at her in her woollen grey jumper, jeans and red socks, and he felt a sense of regret: that he wasn’t at liberty to hold and kiss her when he wanted. What was this? Richard knew he suffered from saviour complex. That’s what his feelings must amount to. And of course there was the human flaw of desire; the carnal appetite to which he refused to be a slave.
‘What was Tom thinking?’ He waited for her to answer.
Nothing.
‘You won’t be surprised to hear that the archdeacon won’t allow the damn deconsecration,’ he added.
Anne raised her eyebrows.
‘You know what I mean,’ replied Richard.
‘Right.’
He glanced towards the garden window. ‘Have you done anything with that … hole outside?’
Silence.
‘No,’ she replied.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Though he didn’t know why.
It wasn’t her sadness. He’d seen the kindness and spirit in her before she lost Teddy. He loved the fact that she’d get more icing on her clothes than on the cakes when there’d be a bake sale; that she’d be able to quieten Shelley with a friendly retort that doubled as a rebuke. This felt like a bad state of affairs. But Richard was no stranger to self-denial for the greater good.
‘How’s Tom?’ asked Richard.
‘Furious, of course.’
‘He did a lot of damage,’ replied Richard.
‘I know,’ replied Anne. ‘Dad’s destructive tendencies are just that bit greater around Christmas.’
Anne turned around and stared at the fire. Richard had read many articles on ownership disguised as love – and though he felt sure he had no desire to control anyone, he couldn’t help but feel protective towards Anne. He’d have to give the matter some thought.
‘I do want them to get that mosque of theirs,’ she added.
‘Me too,’ he said, trying to level his voice.
‘Do you?’ she asked, turning around.
He clenched his jaw. ‘Yes. I do.’
Richard stepped towards her then took a deep breath, praying to God that he might collect himself. It had just been a bad day and he needed to untangle these emotions. Richard paused and looked around the room. It was better than staring at Anne.
‘Do you want to sit down?’
Richard hesitated. ‘I have to get back for first mass.’
‘Are the family coming over tonight?’
‘They’ll be here in time for midnight.’
‘Just like every year,’ said Anne.
‘Hmmm.’
‘Hope you manage to hide how frazzled you are. I can’t imagine it’d be very uplifting otherwise.’
Anne saw everything. He must conceal his emotions better.
‘I wish people could realise that sometimes what looks like a problem is just another facet of life to be reconciled with,’ he said.
‘People don’t want to be reconciled. We’re pretty selfish as a race … You wanting me is selfish,’ she added.
Richard felt his face flush. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I said: you visiting me is selfis
h. It is, in the end, isn’t it?’
Richard was hearing things. His mind was clearly beginning to fail. He was at a loss about what to do. So, he prayed. In his head, of course.
‘Yes. I suppose you’re right.’
Anne looked mildly surprised. ‘I thought we’d argue about that for a while before you said you had to go in case you lost your temper.’
‘You know I never lose my temper with you.’
Richard held her gaze for a fraction longer than was appropriate.
He was going too far. What right did he have to burden her with his feelings? On top of all the emotions she was already wrangling with. Anne was right. Humans were selfish, but he’d fight against it.
‘I’d better leave,’ he said.
Anne paused before walking him out. ‘It’s not easy, trying to manage everyone’s emotions. I don’t envy your job. Showing sympathy to everyone, though you know which way your heart goes.’
‘And always falling short, don’t forget,’ Richard replied.
Anne nodded. ‘Yes. Always falling short.’
She turned the doorknob and Richard made it out into the foggy night air. He’d be able to see things more clearly when he got to church.
‘Hello?’
‘Assalam-o-alaikum, Bilal, beta. It’s the imam, Sheikh Mirza. From Birmingham.’
‘Oh. Salamalaikum.’
‘I’ve seen it all, beta.’
Bilal had come to the office for respite, knowing it’d be empty on Christmas Eve. His plan had clearly failed.
‘I see.’
‘May Allah reward you.’
Bilal held back his sigh. ‘Yes.’
‘No-one will give you that church and so we are raising money here for the land. Everyone knows Babbel’s End now it’s in the national news. You, beta, are giving every Muslim in this country hope.’
Bilal gulped. Actually, his Facebook was a virtual heap of hate and hope, death threats, calls to bomb their home, other unsavoury things. Amongst which were messages of support from non-Muslims, but what affected him were the ones from Muslims, hailing Bilal as some kind of saviour, rejuvenating faith within communities across Britain. Gosh. This was not what he’d anticipated.