I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  His brother glared at him. ‘She has passed the age of puberty. She is fit for marriage. And what is more,’ Jameel said, eyes flashing beneath knitted eyebrows, ‘by enjoying one another’s company, you two are displeasing Allah. No wonder you are in this terrible mess. The only way for you to make halal what is haram is to marry each other!’

  Mind. Officially. Blown.

  CHAPTER 33

  ‘But in spite of all the laws and measures taken in Britain today, unfortunately prejudice lives on,’ said Mr Dunthorpe.

  Leaning back against his desk, he continued to flip through presentation slides that looked like they’d been put together by a five-year-old. The teacher in charge of the PSCHE curriculum was super-lazy. Rumour had it she’d only got the job because she was sleeping with Principal Dillinger. That was just wrong – the guy was practically a corpse.

  ‘Examples include racism, sexism, homophobia, Islamophobia, trans—’

  ‘Innit!’ said Arif, snapping his fingers. ‘How come other religions aren’t getting slated, eh? Just Islam. What’s that about?’

  Mr Dunthorpe paused to consider Arif’s question. ‘Well, what do you think the reason might be?’

  Sade reckoned she had the answer. ‘Uh – maybe cos people are fed up with Muslims going round driving cars into crowds or knifin ’em in the name of Allah?’

  ‘Those idiots weren’t even proper Muslims, though.’ Arif said irritably. ‘Probably smackheads and alcoholics too.’

  ‘And?’ Sade retorted. ‘Muslims get up to all sorts too, you know—’

  ‘But not all of us do,’ a quiet girl interrupted.

  Sade stood up. ‘You got something to say, baby girl?’

  ‘OK, OK – you’ve all got points to make,’ Mr Dunthorpe told her. ‘Can anyone else think of a sensible answer?’

  Malachy put his hand up. ‘I think the government wants it to happen. Cos every time, yeah, government be like: this person was known to the po-po.’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘So why didn’t they stop him, then? I’m telling you, it’s well shegged!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mr Dunthorpe said, ‘the authorities didn’t think the attackers posed a credible threat?’

  He saw my hand hovering and invited me to speak.

  I gulped, conscious of being the only hijabi in the classroom. ‘No one hates ISIS more than Muslims do.’

  Sade cackled.

  ‘They kill people, we get blamed,’ I explained, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Then haters feel justified taking it out on us. And the media keeps giving ISIS all the publicity it wants.’

  ‘Good point, Muzna,’ he replied.

  ‘There’s something like a billion Muslims in the UK—’ began Alex, zhushing her blue hair.

  ‘Just under three million, actually,’ Mr Dunthorpe corrected.

  She accepted this with a wave of her hand. ‘So how can the police keep an eye on all of them?’

  ‘But that’s like saying all Muslims are terrorists. Newsflash: we’re not!’ I snapped.

  ‘It’s in the Qur’an though, innit?’ countered Sade. ‘Thou shalt kill all non-believers, or summink.’

  ‘So? It’s in the Bible too,’ retorted Alex. ‘Let’s ban all religions; then we can finally have world peace.’

  ‘Do that, and watch,’ Arif said, anger in his eyes.

  ‘Hey!’ Mr Dunthorpe said. ‘If you want to threaten people, you can get out.’

  ‘How is that threatening, though?’ I said, clamouring to my boyfriend’s defence. ‘Arif means there’ll be riots up and down the country because people won’t be told what they can and can’t believe in!’

  Mr Dunthorpe’s cheeks pinked.

  ‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘If that’s the case, I apologize to Arif. But I do need to steer us back to what this lesson’s about, otherwise we’ll never meet the objectives. Now, let’s talk about generalization.’

  ‘Aw,’ complained Sade, splitting her face with a grin. ‘Just when it was starting to get a bit interesting!’

  Arif gave me a nod, making a solidarity fist. Pride unexpectedly swelled in my chest. I felt like an Islamic Warrior Woman fighting for God.

  At lunchtime, Arif and I headed straight for the school gates.

  ‘Muzna!’ Sarabi called after us.

  No one wants to get busted when they’re trying to sneak off. Unhappily I turned round to face her.

  ‘Did you forget our lunch date?’ she said with a slightly manic smile, casting quizzical looks Arif’s way.

  ‘Meet you at the chippy,’ he said, taking off.

  ‘Muzna!’ Sarabi said, gripping my arms like she thought I might blow away in the wind. ‘You’re going to bunk off with him again, aren’t you? Aren’t you?!’

  ‘Yes!’ I said, pulling her hands off me. ‘You’re not my mother, Sarabi.’

  ‘And if I was?’ Her eyes were glassy, defiant. ‘Would you listen to me then?’

  I gave her a hateful look. Was she threatening to snake me out?

  ‘Look, I’m already late,’ I said, turning away. ‘You don’t understand – I’m just going to a lecture at a uni. Totally educational.’

  ‘Muzna, stop!’ she pleaded, screwing her face up. I could tell she didn’t want to be having this conversation. But like a lemming throwing itself off a cliff, she pushed on. ‘These meetings are changing you. We both know Arif was threatening Alex in class. So why on earth did you turn it around on Mr Dunthorpe? Not cool, Muzna. Not cool!’

  Forced to confront my actions, shame eroded my pride. I’d been rude to the nicest teacher I knew. Me and Arif hadn’t done Islam any favours either.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ I said, gently squeezing her hand. I walked out of the school gates without looking back.

  CHAPTER 34

  Arif was waiting outside Mr Fryer with a large bag of chips. I helped myself.

  ‘Have to walk and eat if we’re gonna make the train,’ he said.

  I broke into a trot as we headed towards the station. Why were my legs so short? Two of my steps equalled one of his.

  ‘What’d that girl want?’ he asked.

  ‘Sarabi? Oh nothing. She was just worried,’ I replied.

  ‘She’s a disbeliever. You can’t trust her,’ he said, almost casually.

  ‘Sarabi’s been, like, my best mate since we moved here!’

  ‘Yeah, but now you know better,’ he said, flinging a burned chip away. ‘Look at me. I used to have kuffar girlfriends and chase after the duniya . . . Won’t catch me doing that crap now. Gotta keep our souls pure for Allah.’

  Duniya – that was Arabic for the ‘material world’.

  ‘Why did you threaten Alex?’ I asked.

  ‘Didn’t you hear her? “Ban all religions.” If those aren’t the words of Satan, I don’t know what are.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not winning any votes by attacking people’s views, are you?’ I said. ‘It’s like with discursive essays: strong arguments; gentle words.’

  ‘Leave it, man!’ he said, irritably. ‘Nobody cares anyway. Alex can clap back like a pro.’

  We walked in silence for a while before he apologized.

  ‘I ain’t like you and Jameel.’

  I frowned. ‘How exactly are me and your brother the same?’

  ‘You both got the gift of the gab. I just get angry and start swearing, me,’ he said, in a quiet voice. ‘Plus I owe you both. You saved me from going crazy at school. Jameel saved me from my uncle.’

  I opened and closed my mouth like a fish. ‘Was your uncle strict?’

  Arif was silent till I thought he wouldn’t answer. He handed me the bag of chips and cleared his throat. ‘Man was violent. Hurt me every opportunity he got. Got worse when Jameel went uni.’

  I touched his arm. He flinched then glanced down at my hand and smiled sadly.

  ‘So when my brother came home one day and said I could live with him instead, it was literally the answer to my prayers.’

  For the first time ever, I understoo
d his mad devotion to his brother. We walked the rest of the way in silence.

  We were in central London by one o’clock. The lecture was being held in the prayer room at a top university. Stashing blazers and ties in our bags, we entered the premises, stealthily camouflaged among a loud group of students. Arif looked like a man anyway, so he totally blended in. Actually a bit too well. One thirsty-looking woman stared at him like he was a juicy steak. Sure, it was annoying, but I could deal with it. After all, I was the one Arif had chosen to share another spiritual experience with.

  As I followed him through the bowels of the historic building, I imagined myself studying English in a place like it. With Arif by my side, anything seemed possible. Maybe we could study together? He had a gift for all things computer; uni would shape that talent. If we both worked hard enough, it would be the ultimate flip-off to those shameful stats about British Pakistanis (and Bengalis) being right at the bottom of the poverty ladder. Uni was still two years away. Plenty of time to bring Arif round to my way of thinking.

  The guest speaker was an old Indian man wearing a red-and-white checked keffiyeh over a skullcap.

  ‘Poor thing, shivering up there on that platform,’ I muttered.

  ‘He’s not cold,’ said the sister next to me, smiling. ‘He’s got Parkinson’s. It’s a disease of the brain that gives you the shakes. Nerve cells in the substantia nigra start dying off, which puts dopamine on the slide.’ She shook my hand. ‘Khadijah. First-year medical student, by the way.’

  ‘Muzna,’ I said, smiling. ‘I have no idea what you just said there, but my parents would love having you as a daughter.’ I frowned. ‘Though they’d probably barbecue your hijab.’

  She laughed. ‘Your parents must be worried by all the attacks on sisters. So, what you studying?’

  I shrank. ‘I’m still at school, really. But if I get the grades, I’d like to read English. I want to be an author.’

  ‘Check you out!’ she said. ‘I love YA books. You working on anything at the minute?’

  I nodded. ‘I’m writing something about a boy who has these suspicions that his best friend is being taken abroad for, you know, FGM. Thing is, he secretly fancies her, but he knows her parents are strict, so it’s never gonna happen. Then one night he does some research and – bombshell! – he finds out FGM isn’t even Islamic. So what does he do next?’

  ‘Raa, man! That is deep. You sure you’re still at school?’

  My heart did a happy dance.

  ‘You, uh, gonna have a doctor character in the mix?’ she asked.

  I nodded. ‘Most definitely. She’ll be a hijabi called Khadijah.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Oh my days! If I saw my name in a book, I would literally die. So naming my first born after you!’

  I flushed. ‘Muzna’s a boring name . . .’

  Khadijah glanced at her phone, thumbing the screen. ‘OK, here we go. Muzna means “the cloud that brings the rain”. Sounds like the perfect name for a writer.’

  I smiled, touching her arm.

  ‘Hey, my mosque is doing this “hot meals for the homeless” thing on Saturday,’ she said. ‘Some proper desi cooking going down. Wanna help?’

  Did she even need to ask? We exchanged numbers.

  ‘Good lecture, weren’t it?’ Arif said, as we waited on the darkened platform in the dusty tube station. I’d read somewhere we were breathing in the same dust as the Victorians. Gross.

  ‘I guess,’ I said, struggling with my conscience. ‘But some of the stuff he came out with, I’m pretty sure it’s not legal.’

  Khadijah had walked out halfway through. Wish I’d had the guts to do the same.

  Arif chuckled. ‘Yeah, some of it was a bit full-on. At one point I thought he was calling for jihad on the Houses of Parliament!’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ I chided, making sure he’d not been heard. ‘It scares me! Being a Muslim in Britain is tough enough without people like him making us look like a pack of terrorists.’

  ‘Hey, one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Just saying.’

  He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair back inside my hijab. His tenderness caught me off guard, made me forget all about the speaker’s ugly ideas. We stared at each other. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice, then he leaned in closer.

  The moment our lips touched, a deep warmth spread through me. For the first time in my life, I felt the earth move, and I held on to him for dear life. Just as I was getting used to the salty taste of his mouth, the softness of his warm lips, he pulled back sharply.

  ‘Sorry!’ he said, wiping his lips like they were covered in poison. ‘Astaghfirullah!’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, stroking his arm. ‘I was totally into it.’

  Saturday rolled around, and I was on board the number 43 to Ginsby Mosque. I’d texted Khadijah, letting her know I was on my way. She’d hit me back with a whole row of happy emojis.

  I’d lied to my parents. They didn’t want me mixing with other Muslims, so I’d said I was going clothes shopping instead. ‘Don’t buy anything that isn’t on sale!’ Ami had warned. ‘And don’t buy me any presents.’

  Ami found fault with everything I ever got her. Even on those rare occasions when she actually liked a gift, she’d ask how much it cost, then order me to take it back. She wasn’t being mean. Ami had grown up in a poor village and believed in saving for a rainy day.

  The dome of Ginsby Mosque rose into view like a great golden sun. I jumped off the bus and skipped along to the gates. Inside the forecourt, two navy blue minibuses were parked. Ginsby Mosque Minibus was stencilled in white letters on their sides, and beneath it: Keeping It Halal Since 1988!

  A man carrying a crate of mangoes tottered towards the minibus. The crate was so large, he could barely see where he was going.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Excuse me, brother . . .’

  ‘Just a sec,’ he said, fishing for his keys while trying to keep the crate steady. He poked blindly at the paintwork.

  ‘Here, let me,’ I said, taking his keys and unlocking the door.

  He grunted, hefting the crate into the back. ‘Gotta be careful with mangoes,’ he said, rosy-cheeked and sweaty. ‘Worse than eggs, and nobody wants mango omelette.’

  I nodded.

  ‘So what can I do you for?’ He took out a hanky and mopped his brow.

  ‘I’m looking for Khadijah,’ I said. ‘She invited me down to help out.’

  But he wasn’t listening any more. Another large man had swallowed him up in a bear hug. I gave them some space, until I reckoned I’d been forgotten.

  ‘Uh, do either of you know where I can find Khadijah?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Check the kitchen,’ the first man said.

  ‘S’what you always do, you big fatty!’ said the bear-hugger.

  ‘Shut up, man! I got big bones, innit? Like Dwayne Johnson.’

  I left them bromancing.

  Inside, the rich smells of curry wafted about as I threaded through the corridors, navigating towards the kitchen by my nose. I pushed open the door and a wave of heat shimmered over me. A woman had lifted the lid off a hissing saucepan, and clouds of steam flocked to the ceiling.

  ‘Oh my days! Someone turn the fan up! Now!’

  I recognized that voice. Twisting the dial on the extractor fan, I headed towards its owner, as steam was sucked out of the air.

  ‘Salaams, Khadijah!’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Muzna. Glad you could make it!’ The first-year med student hugged me, kissing me on both cheeks.

  ‘No worries,’ I said, smiling. ‘So where do you want me?’ There were seven women chopping and mixing and cooking. I was getting that ‘spare wheel’ vibe.

  ‘Bless you – there’s tons of stuff that needs doing. You any good with pakoras?’

  ‘Course,’ I said. ‘It’s in the genes, right?’

  ‘Well, even if it wasn’t,’ said a girl bent over a silicone chopping board, ‘you’ll be one h
undred per cent desi-fied once we’ve spliced you and spiced you.’

  Everyone laughed. Never in my wildest dreams did I figure I’d get to hang out with uni students. Even their jokes were smart.

  Once I’d prepared it, I carried the mustard-coloured pakora mix over to Khadijah, trailing the fresh scents of coriander, cumin and green chilli. She stared intently into a pan, bubbling and brewing with oil.

  ‘Typical,’ I said, glancing round the kitchen. ‘Leave the women to do all the cooking.’

  ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong,’ Khadijah said, surprising me. ‘It’s action stations over in the boys’ kitchen. They’re baking stacks of naans, and roti and paratha. Trust me, we got the better deal. All that baking’s going to chap their faces and frazzle their beards.’

  Experimentally, she dropped a dollop of pakora mix into the pan. A frenzy of bubbles enveloped it, and she reduced the heat.

  ‘You left the talk early,’ I said.

  ‘Little help here,’ she said, ladling scoopfuls of mixture into the oil as fast as she could. It was essential to get this part done quickly if you wanted evenly cooked pakoras. I quickly mucked in.

  Once the pan was full, she wiped her hands on a sheet of kitchen roll and turned to face me. ‘Yeah. Thought it was going to be about Islam. You’d never think to look at him, but that old guy was filled with more misinformation than a Wiki page. A dangerous Wiki page.’

  ‘He was only saying what he believed.’ I wondered why I was defending the dude. I’d been equally shocked by the stuff he’d been spewing.

  ‘The Prophet warned us about people like him. He said, “Those who go to extremes are doomed.” Said it three times! And who was he speaking to? Muslims.’ Her eyes flew wide. ‘No!’ she wailed, yanking the fryer basket out of the pan. ‘Now I’ve gone and cremated the pakoras.’

  ‘Extremist frying,’ I said. ‘Better turn you over to the police.’

  She threw her head back and laughed. ‘You’re funny, sister. I like you.’

  Dumping the burned pakoras in the bin, we started over.

  With supplies loaded into the minibuses, we drove over to Pilchard Head’s Community Centre. It was a single-storey building with large windows, brown bricks and green rails.