by Ed Husain
As time went by, things got worse. Many of my fellow pupils were new arrivals from Bangladesh who spent their entire weekends watching melodramatic Indian films, filling their minds with tales of Bollywood romance and heroism. On Monday mornings they would talk noisily about actors and actresses whose names I had never heard. They would sing love songs in Hindi. Many of the boys spoke about their experiences in Bangladesh before they arrived in Britain. They lived in council flats and many were neighbours. In contrast, I was tucked away with news-watching parents in a Victorian terrace in Limehouse. I could not relate to the boys and they knew I did not fit in.
I tried to do well at school. My mother helped me with my homework and was as supportive as possible. At school, however, chaos soon reigned. Discipline became a real issue both in and out of class.
The new head sacked an African teacher from Kenya, only to see the teacher hold demonstrations in the playground with his tutorial group demanding that he be reinstated. He held after-school protest meetings outside the school gates which led to mounted police patrols designed to keep him and his students out.
In a nasty but unrelated turn of events the school annexe was torched one weekend. All the boys knew who had burnt down our classroom but no one dared speak. The local youth gangs in Stepney would ‘knife us’. Gang warfare between Asian youths in Stepney and those in other areas increased. Stabbings became widespread. Tabloid newspapers, I remember, dubbed Stepney Green the ‘worst school in Britain’. Teachers were embarrassed to say they worked there.
I stopped wearing my glasses, which meant I was useless in class as well as at football and rugby. I developed a loathing for sports. But at least I was no longer ‘Glass Man’ or ‘Boffin’. I moved between different circles of ‘friends’, never quite settling down with any one group. The emerging Asian gangs in the East End had an impact on our school. Many of the boys had an affiliation of sorts to the Brick Lane Mafia or the rival Cannon Street Posse, the Stepney Green Posse or the Bow Massive. I had to choose among these, but how could I?
Gang involvement meant playing truant regularly, meeting up after school, hanging out together at the weekends, wearing leather jackets, smoking cigarettes, growing your hair long, and being on standby to back up a fellow gang member if attacked. None of these things was possible for me: my parents would not have accepted such behaviour. Besides, I lived in Limehouse - what business did I have in Brick Lane? Or Bow? How would I explain such excursions to my father?
Uncommitted, I continued to be a loner at school, occasionally bullied, frequently sworn at, and regularly ignored in most classes. How I yearned to be back at Sir William Burrough.
My parents ran a very tight ship at home. We were an extremely close family, not particularly wealthy, nor especially poor. Like most families in Britain in the 1980s, we could not afford foreign holidays.
I think my parents eventually realized that choosing Stepney Green had been a mistake. And they were keen to compensate. Every summer my father took us to visit family and friends in Birmingham and Manchester. Occasionally he gave us tours of London, explaining the historical significance of the Tower of London, the Palace of Westminster, St Paul’s Cathedral. But a place of pride for my father was the residence of Mahatma Gandhi in Bromley-by-Bow. Whenever we passed Kingsley Hall, about two miles from where we lived, my father would point to the blue plaque which marked Gandhi’s stay in London, where he trained to become a barrister.
My father’s second favourite was Winston Churchill’s statue on the green across from the House of Commons. Although Gandhi and Churchill were bitterly opposed in their vision for India, my father admired both men’s tenacity and leadership skills. In our car the radio was permanently tuned to Radio 4. On the hour, every hour, Dad would listen to the news. His concern with current affairs left an indelible mark on me.
My father’s intellectual preoccupations were not limited to history and politics. A key part of his life, from a very young age, had been religion. He often told me that his family, particularly on his mother’s side, were pious, saintly individuals. His maternal uncle had been a disciple of a famous sage from Badrpur, a district in the Indian province of Assam. Following in his footsteps, my father had met and committed himself to a famous pir, or spiritual master, from the India-Bangladesh border region of Sylhet. This pir, Shaikh Abd al-Latif, was also a theologian and had studied the Koran in Mecca. He was famed in the Indian subcontinent not by his own name, but by the designation of his home village, Fultholy. Out of veneration, his followers did not call him by his name but, in the Indian tradition, Fultholy Saheb.
Once a year since 1976 the shaikh from Fultholy had been visiting Britain. The shaikh was a master of five Muslim mystical orders, as well as the founder of over 400 religious seminaries in India and Bangladesh. My father was a fervent disciple and had learnt much from his spiritual guide.
In many ways he was like a father figure to my parents. He was softly spoken and always looked down when he walked, treading gently on the earth. He had a sturdy frame, light-brown skin, and a grey beard. He was in his seventies when I first met him as a child. He had blessed me by putting food in my mouth while my mother stood by and said, ‘This is your Grandpa.’
I liked Grandpa. Most of all, I used to delight in watching him slowly tie his turban, wrapping his head with a long piece of cloth, as befitted a humble Muslim, though he also seemed like a Mogul monarch. (Muslim scholars and kings both wore the turban in veneration of the Prophet Mohammed.)
Whenever Grandpa visited Britain to teach Muslims about spirituality, my father accompanied him to as many places as he was able. My father believed that spiritual seekers did not gain knowledge from books alone, but learnt from what he called suhbah, or companionship. True mastery of spirituality required being at the service, or at least in the presence, of a noble guide. Grandpa was one such guide. I often asked if I could join my father, but he said no; he wanted me to stay in school.
He had been to see my head of year and returned home, trying to persuade me to concentrate on my studies. I tried, but failed. In morning assemblies we sat in rows while others ran past us out of the school, off for a day’s shoplifting in Oxford Street. Merchandise was on offer the following day at unfeasibly low prices. Our teachers stood and watched, uninterested and unable to do anything. How could I learn? What was I to learn?
During the summer holidays of 1989 I joined Grandpa and his entourage of disciples on a week-long trip to Birmingham. His visits to us at home had been brief, but now I was able to observe him closely during long motorway journeys and on trips between mosques or to visit the sick. Grandpa was a tranquil, sombre, even serious man. He was not given to excessive talk or loud laughter. Ceaselessly he would read books on religion, poetry, history, mysticism, biographies of the Prophet in Urdu and Arabic. Occasionally he would come across a riveting point and then share it with those who were travelling with him.
He often read aloud in Urdu, and explained his points in intricate Bengali, engaging the minds of others while I looked on bewildered. As they compared notes on abstract subjects in impenetrable languages, I buried myself in Inspector Morse or a Judy Blume. I heard names such as ‘Mawdudi’ being severely criticized, an organization named Jamat-e-Islami being refuted and invalidated on theological grounds. All of it was beyond me.
In Birmingham Grandpa gave me his books to carry. Others smiled at me. To carry Grandpa’s books was considered an honour, a blessing. There were more such blessings to come. More than anybody, my parents were proud that I now carried books for their pir.
His days were full. He was invited by Muslims for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner. I carried his books and went with him. Occasionally he would look back, smile, and ask for a book, which I would gladly pass, using both my hands as a mark of respect.
One evening, during a quiet moment, he looked at me and asked me to recite from the Koran. I looked back at him nonplussed. I had attended Koran classes at weekends, and studied with
my mother at home, but not with any particular intention to recite in public. But the Koran is not a mere reading text; it is to be recited, and this requires honing all sorts of verbal skills and an understanding of tajwid, the art of Koranic recital.
I mustered up my energy and read three very short verses. Grandpa listened patiently and smiled.
‘Whenever you visit me,’ he said, ‘please recite to me and I will help you improve.’
Throughout the rest of our trip I often recited the Koran to Grandpa. I sat before him with an Arabic Koran, skullcap on my head, cross-legged on the floor. I would read aloud and he would close his eyes meditatively. Occasionally he would open them and correct my pronunciation, elongation, word stress, or intonation. Then, he would allocate new readings to me by reciting first with perfect tajwid, which he had learnt in Mecca, and I would read after him.
I learnt much from his silence, his focus, respect, and love for the Koran. More than anything else I loved being the centre of this holy man’s attention for even half an hour a day.
I grew to love him, and he me. My mother had told me stories of the Prophet Mohammed and how he loved his two grandsons, Hasan and Husain, and they in turn loved him to the extent that they would climb onto his shoulders, kissing and hugging him while he led the believers in prayer. I experienced something of the Prophet’s love for his grandchildren, as taught me by my mother, in the way Grandpa treated me.
Back in London, I visited Grandpa as often as possible. Now, in addition to undisturbed private Koran classes, I joined him and his large group of disciples on Thursday evenings in what they called dhikr. A group of people would sit on the floor and chant Arabic names of God repeatedly for up to an hour, often with the lights switched off. In the dark they sat and concentrated on God in the presence of their spiritual master. These gatherings were often in the Brick Lane mosque. But though I was there because of Grandpa, I often sneaked away. I was fourteen. I had no understanding of what was going on except that there were echoes of ‘A-l-l-a-h’ ‘A-l-l-a-h’ in a pitch-dark prayer hall in Brick Lane.
In those days the Brick Lane mosque still had pews on the first floor, a remnant of its 1740s construction as a chapel by French Huguenots, an earlier immigrant community. Then it became a synagogue for east European Jews in the nineteenth century and, finally, a mosque for recently arrived Muslims from Southeast Asia.
Grandpa had a large following around Brick Lane. Many of the mosque leaders, imams, and members of the congregation were his murids, or disciples. While he led his students in remembrance of God, I wandered around upstairs scribbling ‘I woz ere’ in the grime on the unused pews. Towards the end of the dhikr, the imam of the mosque, or another one of Grandpa’s students, would recite from memory in Arabic the life of the Prophet Mohammed. This was known as a mawlid, a recalling of the miracles prior to and on the day of the Prophet’s birth in seventh-century Mecca. At the end of the mawlid the entire gathering would stand and sing greetings to the Prophet, hoping to invoke his spiritual presence. This standing and singing in Arabic was something I enjoyed; I would run down and sing to my heart’s content. I relished the tune and melody, although understanding very little. At the mawlid there was always an ambience that made most of us feel as one, united in purpose, standing and singing in praise of the Prophet.
My father would organize an annual mawlid gathering in our home, invite his friends and Koran reciters who would sing songs of praise, chant biographical details, then rise to their feet and to the most melodious, heart-warming tune sing the chorus of:
Ya Nabi Salam ‘Alayka (O Prophet, Peace unto You)
Ya Rasul Salam ‘Alayka (O Apostle, Peace unto You)
Ya Habeeb Salam ‘Alayka (O Beloved, Peace unto You)
Salawathu Allah ‘Alayka (The Prayers of God upon You)
Often frankincense would be burning and the fragrance would fill the air. Many would close their eyes in deep contemplation. I recall peeping at the standing adults and pondering. Their humility and tears of joy were unbounded. I later learnt that the lovers of the Prophet expected, indeed often experienced, the Prophet’s spiritual presence in these gatherings.
The dhikr and mawlid gatherings I attended were organized for Grandpa by his students. Afterwards they served dinner. Grandpa was invited by all sorts of people, rich and poor: imams, businessmen, teachers, doctors, restaurateurs, cab drivers. He always started his meal with a prayer and shared his food with others. He never ate alone, always with a group. I had no inkling that his conduct was based wholly on the lifestyle and teachings of his beloved, the Arabian Apostle of God, Mohammed.
In the summer of 1989, and again in 1990, I joined Grandpa touring cities where he had large groups of devotees. He tirelessly visited people’s homes, helping the sick, comforting the bereaved, praying for the broken-hearted, and writing amulets for those who sought them for blessings. I continued studying with him and my recitation of the Koran improved. My pronunciation of difficult Arabic was perfected by Grandpa. In later life this was to hold me in excellent stead among Arabs in the Middle East.
Grandpa now thrust me into the public realm. In mosques across Britain, before he addressed large crowds of first-generation immigrant Muslims from the Indian subcontinent, mainly Bangladesh, he asked me to recite from the Koran.
The first time he called on me to recite, at a mosque in Cardiff, my legs went weak as I took the microphone. But as Grandpa smiled and patted my back in encouragement I felt an inner strength to continue and conjured up courage - I wanted to show Grandpa that his patience and hard work had yielded results. I recited five verses from memory. To hear my amplified voice booming through the speakers was a most unnerving experience, but with Grandpa beside me, I knew I would be fine.
In mosques from Birmingham to Brighton, St Albans to Swansea, I stood up and warmed the hearts of worshippers to the Koran, melodiously reciting with well-tuned tajwid. In many ways, I suppose I was a sort of Muslim choirboy.
My parents were extremely proud to see their son doing so well in Muslim circles. For me, there was more to my travels with Grandpa than studying Koran recitation. I mingled with first-generation Muslim elders up and down Britain. I carried Grandpa’s books and sometimes his humble, untied turban while he was rushed from house to house, mosque to mosque, teaching, preaching, praying, blessing, and advising. In city after city I witnessed people sit at his feet, men and women, and vow allegiance to God, taking the bai’ah. This was a form of repentance, followed by initiation into Grandpa’s branch of mysticism, and through Grandpa to the Prophet Mohammed, and ultimately to God. Day after day I watched Grandpa gently close his eyes and remove his turban, and with his head humbly covered with a Muslim skullcap, hold out his loose turban to those before him, and, in a mixture of Arabic and Urdu, help them repent and swear faithfully to uphold God’s commands. He would then, almost always, shed tears with his hands raised to heaven.
I still remember the words of advice he always gave to his new initiates, or murids. He would teach them daily Koranic litanies and then advise them to do two things. First, to pray as though they saw God. They were to prostrate themselves and bow during prayer to show peace and humility. This, he explained, brought inner tranquillity to the life of a believer. Second, and key, was to avoid envy and jealousy of others who were doing better in life. ‘Be happy for people when you see them advance,’ he would say. ‘Pray that God gives them more. Do not harbour jealousies for it will cloud your life with darkness.’
Observing Grandpa and his spiritual constancy gave me a better understanding of who God, Allah, was. If Mr Coppin had cornered me now and shouted, ‘Where is Allah now then, eh?’ I would have said, ‘In my heart, accompanying me, strengthening me against the tyranny that is you.’ Based on the teachings of the Prophet Mohammed, Grandpa taught me that ‘God is as His servant perceives him to be. If a servant perceives God to be close, then God is so. If God is seen as remote, then God is so.’ Grandpa’s mission in life was to take God’s cre
ation closer to God.
I thoroughly enjoyed these trips, visiting hundreds of Muslim homes, seeing different mosques in different cities, as well as making detours to English heritage sites. I loved the food that people offered Grandpa and those who accompanied him. I savoured the long journeys, usually in luxurious cars. Most of all, I enjoyed the private lessons.
All of this was teaching me about a mainstream, moderate Muslim ethos rooted not in Britain but in the eastern Muslim tradition of seeking guidance and religious advice from an elderly sage. I was learning to be an erudite Muslim; Grandpa and his disciples instilled in me a certain way of being gentle and God-revering. We prayed five times a day, kept the company of a holy man who healed people’s hearts, and moved among the Muslim masses teaching spirituality and devotional growth. I had not only learnt my religion from books, but seen it in action in a man who took his faith from nineteenth-century Indian sages, who had taken it from those who preceded them, and so on back to the Prophet Mohammed.
In the summer of 1990 my father invited Grandpa to stay with us while he was in London. My parents were overjoyed when he accepted. I was now fifteen and in my final year at school, so could not travel as much as I had done previously. I was to sit my GCSEs, for which I had not prepared in the least. For me there were other, more important developments.
Saddam Hussein, the former Iraqi president, had invaded his small neighbour, Kuwait. Grandpa would return home every night and ask me for the latest news. The first time he asked, I had no idea where Iraq was located on the map, let alone what its leader had done.
Very quickly I sharpened up my geography of the Middle East. But that was not enough. The following day he asked me how the international community had responded. What was going on at the UN? What were other Arab governments saying? Astounded, I wondered how I was supposed to know. But I knew I had to know. Pleading ignorance was not an option.