by Azi Ahmed
‘When’s the funeral?’ I asked.
Becky gave me the details but said she couldn’t attend so I got names of people travelling down from London to Godstone in Surrey, where the funeral would be held.
The next few days were a wipe out. My stomach churned every time I thought of John, which was quite often. How could he be dead? He must be out there somewhere, putting up a tent. A part of me was trying to find excuses not to go to the funeral as I wasn’t looking forward to seeing those faces again from the barracks. I lay awake at night wanting to share the grief with someone but instead closed my eyes and did a special prayer for John.
On the day of the funeral I met a couple of lads at Paddington Station. We grabbed a table on a train heading to Godstone. The lads sat across from me yapping non-stop to each other about leaving the army to make more money. I wondered if John would still be alive if he hadn’t left the army. It’s tough enough for any soldier to adapt to the outside world, having been institutionalised for so many years in the military and not having to think about everyday civilian duties such as bills, travel expenses or food shopping. Add to that the contrast of entering a workplace that is not set up as robustly as the military’s chain of command, management process and funding. The private security firms didn’t have the same backing as the government; if a soldier got shot, the government came down hard on the enemy, but if an ex-soldier got shot, the private security firm had no clout. This was why the enemy would rather kill an ex-soldier than a soldier, given the choice. The figures of soldiers dying did not therefore reflect those ex-soldiers who were killed working privately on assignments on behalf of the government. The MOD had handed out the contracts thick and fast to these firms and new start-ups. As a result, it had led to rapid expansion, jeopardising management infrastructure to support the men who were active in foreign countries on dangerous territory.
The church in Godstone was packed. I wedged myself between two burly men, their wives on either side holding their hands for support.
I spotted John’s mum coming in; a timid-looking lady. Her eyes were lifeless. Her cheeks hollow, skin red and lips cracked. What could anyone say to a woman who’d just lost her child? The confusion and anger she must be going through, I thought, especially knowing that her son was doing a dangerous job, must have been overwhelming.
They say the grieving cycle takes a month to get through, which is about the same as the forty days Muslims are given to formally mourn for the dead. After today, the rest of us would go back to our normal lives, but for John’s parents the death of their son would leave a big hole in their hearts.
A few familiar faces dressed in dark suits and ties were amongst the crowd. My eyes skidded to Briggs. He still scared the hell out of me.
Then I looked over my shoulder and spotted my colonel sat at the back alone. I decided to go over afterwards to tell him what had happened with the training and how angry I was about it.
But then I suddenly realised how wrong I was. It would be easy for me to take this unwelcome news as a downward plunge and allow it to have a negative impact on my life, whereas as a result of all I had experienced and endured, I could successfully rebuild a new life. The army had taught me a lot; discipline, teamwork, connecting with people from all walks of life and, most importantly, I’d learnt a lot about myself.
I stared until I caught the colonel’s eye. We exchanged a smile then I turned back as the service began. Tears streamed down my face. I sniffed loudly. It didn’t matter because the sound of the organ drowned out the noise. Regret kicked in. I should have stayed with Becky after that weapons class, during which we got kicked out, and challenged the decision. I should have asked questions even if I might have been given no answers.
I wanted to know why the training was initiated in the first place, why it had stopped, and where we would be now if the training had continued.
My thoughts raised other poignant points. Would the bar be lowered for women on the frontline? How differently would feminist groups, who perceive the army as an old-fashioned, sexist establishment, react? Would British Muslim communities be curious to know how I was received in the army and why I did the training?
All positive initiatives, such as this had been, demonstrated a big leap forward by the British Army on religion, ethnicity, gender and international liaison. Moulds were broken and mindsets changed.
I stood on my tiptoes and spotted John’s parents in the front row of the church. No parent expects their child to go before them. How do atheists cope with death? I wondered. Do they believe their loved ones just deteriorate in the soil, that there is no afterlife or chance of ever seeing them again?
A women holding a child around her waist joined them. I stared at the child, trying to find some resemblance to John. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to grow up without a father. I appreciated the stability that two parents provide and wondered if I would have turned out different if I’d been brought up by single parent.
The man beside me offered me a Kleenex mini-pack. I looked up into his puffy, red eyes and started crying again, uncontrollably, putting my head on his clean blazer arm and sniffling into it. He didn’t mind. I didn’t care.
The ceremony finished and I wanted to find my colonel. There was so much to ask. Gently I weaved through the people as everyone headed out to the burial. The colonel was a very tall man so he shouldn’t be hard to spot, I thought. I stayed behind for one final scan, but with no success.
Gutted, I followed two lads out. They were discussing the family decision not to have a military funeral. John’s father didn’t want to have anything associated with the military as part of his son’s funeral, though a few of the men had tried to persuade him otherwise. I could see where the father was coming from: this was about his son, not the military.
I stepped forward to join the queue of people shaping up to pay their final respects. The coffin was lowered into the ground. I shuffled forward, scanning the close vicinity for familiar faces.
A lad holding a sandy beret walked to the head of the coffin, bent down and bowed, then dropped the beret inside.
I looked away, hoping there wasn’t a big drama. They may oppose the father’s wishes, I thought, but they had to respect them.
It was my turn. I walked over and knelt down, staring into the six-foot-deep hole. The beret had now slipped down the side of the coffin. The shape of the box made my stomach lurch. I couldn’t believe John was lying inside about to be covered with dirt. I couldn’t think of anything to say, stood up, blinked my tears and walk away.
Later we all crammed into a coach which took us to a community hall. I didn’t recognise anyone on the top deck. It reminded me of the minibus that used to take us to the Brecon Beacons, except these guys were wearing suits. I wish I had left when the colonel did, as I couldn’t see much conversation going on between me and this lot and I would probably end up standing on my own like a lemon.
The community hall was crowded and it felt like more people had joined. I walked through small clusters of people chatting amongst themselves, not sure where I was going. A few looked in my direction, then looked away.
No familiar faces, then suddenly I caught a woman’s eye. It took a few seconds, then it came back. She was an officer, on female selection; one who’d left on week three.
She stood amongst a few men from our unit, chatting away. I became self-conscious and intimidated because she was with people and I was on my own.
I headed over and she smiled as I approached her side.
‘Hello,’ I said, relieved that she recognised me. I tried to sound casual but it came out serious and loud.
‘Is Becky with you?’ she asked.
Why did everyone think we were joined at the hip? I recalled Captain Wood nicknaming us ‘Tweedle Dee’ and ‘Tweedle Dum’.
‘I’m trying to find John’s parents.’
‘Over there somewhere.’ She pointed across the hall at a partition wall where a small crowd were walking
slowly around, looking at photographs that had been pinned up.
I didn’t want to see any photos of John – too painful.
‘So what are you and Becky up to now?’
I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea what Becky was doing, though I had heard through the grapevine that she was becoming a successful motivational speaker, rubbing shoulders with television producers.
I felt like a failure; to have not seen something through to the end was something my father would never allow.
The woman was still looking at me, sipping her wine, lips curled up. I felt embarrassed. I wanted to leave, but first I had to find John’s parents.
‘Excuse me.’ I pushed through the crowds as politely as possible, making a beeline for the photo wall. A few familiar faces watched me with poker faces. I’d ignored them.
As I approached the photo wall, I found it hard to stop the flow of tears as John smiled back at me. Memories of the training came flooding back, all the good ones of John and I sharing moments together. I wished I’d spent more time with him and regretted the times I’d ignored his requests to engage.
What was it all for?
‘Good little Muslim girls shouldn’t be drinking.’
I spun round to see Briggs, who was supping a pint, then felt my fingers tightly clench the glass in my hand.
I nodded, not knowing what else to do, and took a gulp of ginger ale. It went down the wrong way and I tried to choke inwards, hoping he wouldn’t notice, before turning away and spluttering uncontrollably.
‘Well, Ahmed,’ Briggs continued, oblivious to my sounds. ‘You got treated the same as everyone else … no special treatment…’
I wasn’t sure what triggered this, but I wanted to stop him and say that I never expected to be treated any differently to the lads, which is why I respected him and the other trainers. What perception did they have of me? That I was a winger?
A few lads barged into our one-way conversation. Briggs became engrossed with them, laughing and revealing the big gap in his teeth.
Twenty minutes later I was stood in the rain on the empty platform at Godstone, staring down at the tracks. How surreal to see the trainers and my colonel again. It was hard to believe I once belonged to this world. I wondered where I would be if I’d got a brown envelope through the post, calling me up for service. Would I have done it? If it meant helping to stabilise countries of conflict, I would be proud to be part of it, but I couldn’t help wondering if this war was worth dying for? How long will it go on and will it prevent a bigger war from happening in the future?
Was this what John was thinking when he went out there? I wondered. He was a good man, always looked for the best in everyone and would always go out of his way to support the weakest. I now realise how big an impact he had on me during the training; always asking me how I was getting along, encouraging me every step of the way. He was the only one I could share my tears of pain with. I have a lot to thank him for and regret not telling him this when he was alive.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A LIFE IN PROGRESS
ON THE UPSIDE, my toenails have regrown, my blisters have gone and I can shave my legs.
The training was an opportunity of a lifetime. I have become a different person, my whole outlook on life is different. Perhaps if I hadn’t done the training I might still have been engrossed in the corporate rat race, with more money but not the priceless life experience the army has given me.
It should come as no surprise that my parents were still on my back about marriage. They began to show signs of desperation by saying that I could choose my own husband as long as he was Pakistani, spoke Punjabi and was from the same caste. After months of radio silence they came up with another suggestion; I could choose my own husband as long he was Pakistani and from the same caste. Later, this dwindled down to marrying anyone as long as he was from the same caste, down to ‘Just marry someone!’
So far, I haven’t.
Perhaps they thought I was a lesbian?
My reaction was to defend myself or just plain ignore them. But as time went on, things began to shift around me. My friends settled into relationships – real relationships, similar to the ones my siblings had. Those who remained single, like me, felt they were missing something and became active in finding that special person to share their life with.
I couldn’t understand why I didn’t feel the same way and found myself on a journey of self-doubt, confusion and even forcing myself to match these feelings. Perhaps my father was right that I was too self-sufficient, perhaps I didn’t carry that particular chromosome, or perhaps having witnessed the attitudes of recruits towards relationships I was scared. For some men at the barracks it was a way of life to have a few women on the side while married and it was accepted as part of the squaddie culture. So what was the difference between them and the Muslim men who had three wives and treated women as second-class citizens? The values I had run away from were here again, but just in a different environment.
I do wonder what my parents’ reaction would have been if they had discovered that I was once in the army. The best scenario with Mum would have been for her to realise I was just a reflection of herself; fighting for recognition as something other than a subservient figure in the family. Her need to get me married was to prove she was capable of also carrying out the family duties.
As for my dad, perhaps he would have been proud of my military life, causing a special bond to be formed between us. Perhaps a part of me wanted to do the training to prove to Dad that I was just as capable as his sons, and that I could step into a man’s world and do just as well. His army life was one he never shared with anyone; a life I wanted to be a part of.
I’m saddened my parents are not here today to read my book. They never did find out about my life in the army. Perhaps Dad would have been proud that I had entered his world after all.
Outside my home life, my relationship with Becky grew stronger once we left the army. We’d been through a unique experience together and the loss of it had left a big hole in our lives on a physical, mental and emotional level.
Becky went on to pursue a career as a climber and became a successful motivational speaker. Some of the other recruits went on to join the regulars in Hereford, others left the army and joined private security firms, and a few decided to get out altogether and headed for a career in the City. Silently, I watched from the sidelines, feeling a deep void forming inside, wondering where to go.
My interest in the military continued. I started a civilian job with the MOD by chance, working on campaigns to recruit soldiers for Afghanistan. It felt good to be back on old territory; working with retired colonels, officers and majors who were brought in to assist on marketing strategies. It was then that I realised there were other ways to pursue my interest in the armed forces other than on the ground – by pursuing a political interest.
Politics had never been on my radar, though I had been influenced by my mother’s salute to Margaret Thatcher on which party to support.
My hopes now were to give something back to my country and contribute to help make Britain a healthy society. I wanted to gain a better understanding of how our political conflicts around the world originated. Pakistan, a country close to my heart, puzzled me – why it had always remained corrupt and unstable compared to India, which it was a part of for many years. How a country whose name was invented by Cambridge professors – in fact an acronym comprised of the homelands that Britain owned – has now become Britain’s biggest continuous threat.
I began reading the national news, then decided to dip my toe into the world of politics. Many doors closed on me, including my local council, which I had called numerous times and never received a response. How does one get into politics from the cold with no contacts in this world? I wondered.
By fluke, I came across a talk occurring at the House of Commons about women on the front line. Anything related to the army still interested me, so I decided to go, though later I
realised the talk included journalists and aid workers working in areas of conflict. There was one high-ranking lady from the army who attended.
It took ages to get through security, then finally I arrived in the small, packed room. The panel was made up of several women and the three organisers were stood to the side. The army lady began to talk about her experiences of being a high-ranking female in the army, and what she saw as the future role of women in the field. Something made me put my hand up with a few others during Q&A afterwards and I asked her if she had ever heard of women ‘perhaps’ training with the SAS to also determine if there was a role for them in that unit.
‘Never,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard anything like that before and don’t think it will be on the army’s agenda.’
I sat back in my seat. If someone as senior as her had not heard about it then it had definitely gone into a black hole.
Afterwards I approached the three organisers, who were surrounded by ladies all wanting to ask questions. They were from the Conservative Women’s Organisation (CWO). I managed to get the attention of one of them, Carol, who invited me to one of their workshops.
I rocked up in jeans and trainers and thought I was in the wrong place when I saw the ladies dressed in suits and pearl necklaces … God knows what they made of me. Thankfully, Carol welcomed me with a warm smile. The workshop kicked off with a branding exercise where we were put into pairs and asked to write first impressions of each other. My partner put me down as ‘friendly but reserved’, ‘streetwise’ (probably because of my dress sense), and ‘from somewhere in the north’.