by Alan Gibbons
‘What do you do for a living, Nabil?’
‘I’m a lawyer.’
Majid nods.
‘You’ve got a piece of wisdom to impart, yeah?’
‘Don’t let them provoke you.’
‘So that’s it, you’re meant to carry on regardless? Keep calm and say salaam?’
Nabil checks the messages on his phone.
‘We make a life. We make a good life.’
The train is pulling into Hitchin. Nabil gets to his feet.
‘This is my stop.’
‘Not carrying on to London?’
‘No. I’m guessing you are. You sound like a Londoner, Usman.’
‘Yes, you tagged me right.’
‘So what’s waiting for you when you get to London? Family, friends?’
Majid looks straight ahead. Once upon a time he had all that: family, friends, a future. Now he has a mission.
‘Come on, sum it up in one word. What do you expect to find?’
Majid shrugs. ‘Closure.’
‘Closure?’
‘Yes. I’ve had things happen in my life. I need to get them sorted. Closure.’
Nabil picks up his phone.
‘I hope you find it.’
‘Me too,’ Majid murmurs.
He doesn’t notice Nabil melt into the crowd on the platform and board the next carriage down. He is lost in thought, drawn to the past.
AUTUMN, 2013
There was a huddle of young men on a London street corner. They were all wearing the same uniform: baseball caps, black North Face jackets, tracksuit bottoms and trainers. All but one was sporting a keffiyeh scarf.
‘Is your dad still on at you over the other night, Majid?’
A shrug. ‘He thinks you guys are a dangerous influence on me.’
There was laughter.
‘He’s got that right.’
‘All he ever talks about is the revision I have to do for my exams. Yes, like university is going to solve everything. All over the world, our brothers and sisters are dying.’
Each had an emptiness inside him, and there was nothing to fill it.
They talked about the crap they got from the police and the suspicion they encountered everywhere. They talked about harassment and insults. They talked about being British and Muslim and the way they were always seen as a threat.
‘They repeated Four Lions last week. My dad was disgusted.’ Majid put on his father’s voice. ‘You think this is funny? It makes Muslims look like a bunch of crazies.’
Yusuf cackled.
‘That sheep, bro? Hysterical. Instant mutton.’
They started to shout lines from the movie.
‘I used different voices.’
‘IRA voices.’
‘She’s got a beard.’
Then they all had their hands over their mouths.
‘I covered it.’
They fell about laughing, then they talked about school and parents and being misunderstood. They talked about exclusion and religion. They talked about the pity of war and the treatment of their brothers and sisters in far-off Syria.
‘Somebody should do something. They’re dropping barrel bombs on civilians. That’s just evil.’
‘What’s a barrel bomb?’
‘Explosives shoved in a barrel and dropped from a plane. Does what it says on the tin.’
Jamil turned serious.
‘If you want to do something about it, I know people. I’ve got contacts.’
The claim was met by mocking laughter.
‘You’ve got nothing. Go on, big man, who are your contacts?’
‘I know a guy.’
‘You know nothing, bro. You need a compass to cross the road.’
The three friends were idealists and their ideals swirled around a conflict two thousand miles away. These conversations belonged to a time less than two years ago, but to Majid they might as well belong to another century. It was then that decisions were taken that would change their lives in ways they could barely imagine.
Majid saw the faces of these boys in the amber glow of the streetlamp and he smiled at their names: Yusuf and Jamil. Their friendship would one day be shattered in a few seconds of shock, fire and debris. Jamil was talking.
‘You can laugh, but you’ve got to meet Bashir. He’s different.’
‘Different how?’
‘Exciting. I mean, he knows where he’s going. He doesn’t take crap from anybody. He knows the guys who matter. Different people, different vibe, a different message.’
‘My dad will go nuts if you’re introducing me to some Salafist group.’
‘So don’t tell him. You’re not a kid any more. Talk to anybody you like. It’s your life.’
And it was true. These three young men weren’t kids. They were waiting for exam results, college and independence. Majid was planning to be a doctor, Yusuf a systems analyst. Only Jamil faced an uncertain future. But they had more on their minds than education.
‘You’ve got to meet him.’
‘Bashir doesn’t ask you to be patient and wait for the white guy to accept you. He doesn’t think you should be grateful because they’ve stopped Paki-bashing. He makes a lot of sense, not like the imam at Central.’
This struck a chord. They were bored of all the pleas for moderation.
‘Him,’ Yusuf grunted, ‘he doesn’t listen to the youth. He just likes getting his picture taken with the MPs and the Commissioner of Police.’ He put on a sermon voice. ‘You don’t need to remind us about your Prevent strategy here. We broadcast every word we say for the whole world to hear. Islam is a religion of peace.’
Jamil laughed and nudged Majid.
‘You haven’t said much.’
‘Nothing to say. I’m listening.’
‘I don’t have the words,’ Jamil said. ‘You’ve got to meet Bashir. This guy, he’s lived. He’s got the scar tissue to prove it. He’s done real bad stuff: crime, drugs, life on the streets.’
Majid pulled a face.
‘You think that’s something to be proud of?’
Jamil stumbled for a moment, then pressed on.
‘Let me finish my story, yeah? He’s done time. The justice system doesn’t know what to do with people like Bashir, but he didn’t need counsellors to find his way. He left all that behind when he became a true Muslim.’
‘So what was he before?’
‘He was lost, that’s what he was. He was on his own.’
And that resonated. For all the joking around, they were all curious about Bashir.
‘Then he returned to Allah. Wait till you meet him. He’s like a magnet. There’s something about him that just draws you. The way he talks! He explains everything so clearly. We can be the generation that changes everything. We can go down in history.’
5
THURSDAY, 30TH JUNE
The Sarwar family is finishing breakfast. The morning news is running in the background. There is an item about two men getting arrested as they returned to the UK from Syria. Mum goes to turn it off.
‘No, I want to hear.’
Nasima and Amir swap glances. Dad still reacts to every mention of the war zone where their elder brother fell.
‘This is the madness that took our son. We can’t pretend nothing happened. I need to understand.’
Dad continues to watch, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he sets his jaw. Presently, the face of a middle-aged Asian man fills the screen. He is bearded and wears a white skullcap. A caption identifies him as Ibrahim Al-Quraishi, imam at a London mosque.
‘We shouldn’t go jumping to conclusions,’ he is saying. ‘We don’t know what these people were doing there.’
The presenter presses him.
‘It is hard to imagine an innocent explanation, Mr Al-Quraishi.’
‘I am sure that many people have gone to Syria for humanitarian reasons. You have to remember, this crisis did not start out as the war it is now. In the beginning, there were peaceful civil rig
hts protests.’
The presenter dismisses the explanation. ‘What if their activities in Syria were related to terrorism?’
‘There is no proof of that. Some of the people who travelled from the UK did so to aid people suffering from Assad’s attacks. Is it not possible that when things got difficult they decided it was time to return home?’
‘So we just pat them on the head and let them carry on as usual?’
‘Of course not. The Danish government has a programme in place to de-radicalise people coming back. Anyone returning should be interviewed rigorously. If they have genuinely made a mistake they should be able to resume their old lives. Who better than a former fighter to warn young people of what they might face out there? Should we not all be afforded a second chance? Can you say in all honesty that you have never made a mistake?’
This seems to enrage the interviewer.
‘So you’re saying they’re all innocents?’
Al-Quraishi is not playing the game. ‘Please do not twist my words.’
‘What if they oppose everything this country stands for? You do know that there have been a number of devastating jihadi plots in recent years.’
‘Then those taking part should face the full force of the law.’ Al-Quraishi steeples his fingers and lodges them under his chin. ‘Look, if the government insists on stiff sentences for everyone coming back, regardless of what they have done, or whether they regret it, these people will just decide it is better to stay where they are and continue to be influenced by groups such as Islamic State. If we have such an inflexible attitude, how will we reintroduce people to British society? Isn’t integration the aim?’
‘This Al-Quraishi seems a good man,’ Dad admits, ‘a pragmatist. I wish Majid had trusted such a man instead of that thug Bashir. Maybe …’ He blinks repeatedly, fighting off a tear, and walks to the door. ‘I must be going. I will be late.’
‘We’d better get off too,’ Nasima says. ‘Coming, Amir?’
‘Give me a minute,’ he says. ‘I’ve got to get my bag. Some busybody told me to put it in my room.’
Mum makes eye contact with Nasima and they both smile. Sixty seconds later, Mum is alone in the flat. She takes a small, crumpled photograph from her purse and draws her thumb across the familiar features.
‘Majid,’ she murmurs.
AUTUMN, 2013
This is how it began, with a group of men on a street corner.
Majid was quiet. Yet another quarrel with his father was booming in his head. Nothing he ever did was right.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Why are you not studying?’
‘Do you think you can become a doctor without hard work?’
Then the words that sent Majid storming into the night.
‘I am ordering you not to go out.’
‘Order,’ Majid snorted. ‘It’s all you ever do.’
That was his father all over. Always shouting the odds, never listening. He was harder on Majid than either Amir or Nasima. He expected more from his elder son.
Bashir was looking straight at Majid. ‘Did you say something?’
‘No, I was thinking … out loud. Sorry.’
Bashir continued to study Majid. His gaze was fixed and unblinking.
‘Your friends tell me you have been doing charity work.’
Majid dug his hands in his pockets self-consciously. It sounded like criticism.
‘Yes, I want to do something to help. The Syrian regime is butchering its people.’
‘Your instincts are sound, Majid, but do you really think you are going to make a difference?’
The others were intrigued.
‘I hope so,’ Majid said, his voice trailing off.
‘You are sending blankets, tents, medicine. That is good.’
It didn’t sound good. A but was on the way.
‘Do you think blankets will stop tanks and planes? Are tents going to stop the massacres?’
‘It will help the victims get through the winter.’
Bashir reached out a strong hand and squeezed Majid’s shoulder. For a moment, Majid flinched. It reminded him of his father.
‘Only God protects the weak, God and those who serve him.’
Majid flicked an awkward glance at his friends.
‘You have a good heart, Majid,’ Bashir continued, ‘but you need to use your head. Charity is good, but it is no more than a sticking plaster. What you have to do is close the wound. There is only one way to do that for good.’
‘And that is—?’
‘Bring down the infidel regime,’ Yusuf said, interrupting. ‘Isn’t that right, Bashir?’
Bashir ignored Yusuf. He was devoting all his attention to Majid.
‘The mujahideen are arming themselves, my brothers. They will destroy the murder machine and establish a caliphate where all will live in peace according to sharia law, but they need recruits. All they have is combat rifles against the most advanced military hardware.’ He dropped his voice. ‘If you want to wipe away the tears of the women and children, you must break the butcher’s power at the source. The Muslim Ummah must not let our Syrian brothers and sisters bleed to death.’
Majid watched the way his friends’ eyes blazed. He didn’t know how to argue with a man like Bashir. There was such certainty in everything he said. He spoke of God’s justice.
‘Inform yourself, Majid.’ Bashir pulled out his phone. ‘Don’t believe everything you see on the BBC or ITV. They are just Zionist mouthpieces. Give me your email and I will send you links to some good sites.’ He took Majid’s phone and typed the address into his own. ‘There is already a civil war. Forget everything you have heard until this moment. Make yourself anew. I am talking about jihad, Majid. The battle lines are drawn. You are either with us or against us.’
6
THURSDAY, 30TH JUNE
‘Looks like you’ve found yourself a new friend, Amir.’
Nasima picks out Nikel with a flick of her head. For a moment, Nikel seems excited that she has acknowledged his existence. Amir leaves Nasima with her friend Lucy.
He puts Nikel straight about his sister.
‘Don’t get your hopes up. She was only telling me you were waiting. There’s no interest there, my friend.’
Nikel doesn’t seem over-concerned. Amir guesses that he has never had much luck with girls. If you’ve got low expectations, you’re never disappointed.
‘Going to English?’
Nikel shakes his head.
‘We’ve got a Year Ten assembly instead. Didn’t you read the newsletter?’
‘I make it my business never to read school newsletters. What’s the assembly about?’
‘It can only be two things,’ Nikel tells him. ‘Either it’s another lecture to tell us to get our act together for our exams or —’
There is an interruption from a blond-haired boy to their left.
‘It’s not that. They’re going to warn us off the England Awakes march.’
He sticks out a hand and Amir shakes it.
‘Tomasz. With a Z at the end.’
‘What’s that, Polish?’
‘Got it in one.’
Nikel looks put out that Tomasz has muscled in on their budding friendship.
Their conversation draws the interest of three passing boys.
‘I wouldn’t hang out with that lot, Tomasz. I hear it’s catching.’
‘What is?’
‘Jihad.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s catching, Jace: stupidity.’
Jace flips him the finger. Tomasz returns the gesture with extra venom. He gives Jace time to drift out of hearing before he says another word.
‘That’s England Awakes, Junior Moron Division.’
There is movement towards the hall. Amir follows the crowd. Tomasz and Nikel follow. The hall is filling up rapidly. Teachers position themselves next to their class or mess with their laptops. The supply teachers shift their feet, wondering what they’re supposed
to do. A shaft of watery sunlight falls on the front rows of the assembly.
Before long, the members of staff signal that the students should be quiet.
‘Hey, it’s Mr Lucas,’ Tomasz notes. ‘We are honoured. I wonder what’s brought Zeus down from Mount Olympus.’ He looks at Mr Lucas’ companions. ‘Who’ve we got here?’
There are three men following Mr Lucas. One is a vicar, complete with dog collar.
‘They’re rolling out the men of God,’ Amir tells him. ‘Vicar. The second guy is Sikh.’
The third man is dressed in a brown kurta and a skull cap.
‘And that’s the imam from the mosque.’
‘The one you go to?’
‘Yes, sometimes.’
Tomasz watches them taking their seats.
‘Looks like they’re covering all bases.’
Nikel grins.
‘They’re missing a Jedi knight.’
Mr Lucas introduces the faith leaders. One by one, they advise the students to stay well away from the area of the mosque on Saturday.
‘These people are being bussed into our community to stir up trouble,’ the imam says. ‘We are appealing to all sections of our community to stay away from the area. We do not want outsiders dividing us.’
He is about to continue when there is a ripple of laughter two rows behind. Somebody snorts into his hand. The whole assembly turns round. Teachers dart to the spot, glaring as they seek out the culprits. Jace has got his head down. His friends’ shoulders are shaking as they try to suppress laughter. The imam glances at Mr Lucas then finishes his speech.
‘The best thing to do, faced with outside agitators and trouble-makers, is to ignore them. A week on Saturday, there will be a faith camp attended by all members of our community. At this event, we will be promoting peace and understanding, not confrontation. It is an eight-mile journey, but I hope some of you will be able to attend.’
Mr Lucas thanks the imam and makes his closing remarks.
‘I know that some of you will have seen the leaflets from England Awakes and its opponents, or come across them on social networking. Maybe you sympathise with one or other of these groups. My advice to you is to steer clear of any trouble. Conflict will get this community nowhere. We have a proud tradition of tolerance and respect in our school. I expect it to continue. Details of the faith camp that was mentioned by Mr Aziz are in this week’s school newsletter. Thank you. Teachers, you may take your classes.’