by Azi Ahmed
We moved on to selection questions, where each of us had to stand in front of the group and answer questions based on current affairs, with a few personal questions thrown in the mix. When it came to my turn, I froze at the first two questions; firstly because I’ve never done any public speaking, and secondly they were asking my opinion. Nobody had asked for my opinion on anything before.
‘Ah, this is a popular one…’ Carol wrapped up with a final question for me. ‘Is there anything about your past which would embarrass or jeopardise the party or yourself?’
I asked her to repeat the question to give me more time. Paranoia kicked in, was it important to tell her about my army training, and that I hadn’t completed the course for reasons unbeknownst to me?
Carol waited a few moments and then interrupted my thoughts. ‘Think front cover of the Mail on Sunday…’
It took two years and a very steep learning curve to get through the applications, interviews, assessments, campaigning initiatives and political knowledge pool to finally be selected to stand as a parliamentary candidate in the 2015 elections.
People kept telling me I’d got into politics at the right time, when parties were looking for people with a variety of backgrounds and experience, rather than just career politicians. It was good to hear, but, at the same time, I didn’t just want to be a tick in the right box.
My first stab was at becoming a councillor. I called up my local council and nobody bothered to get back to me, until Carol got in touch, at which point they returned my call. It was very hard to come in from the cold with no background in politics. The council I became involved with was friendly but distant, a different bunch. It wasn’t a support group like CWO – we were all out for ourselves to get councillor positions.
The experience was not brilliant. Most people had an extremely high opinion of themselves, which I didn’t like at all. And, for all that self-importance, when I got to the bottom of some of them, their day job was nothing to write home about… I’d done so much more with my life, but perhaps with my northern accent, ethnicity and gender, they didn’t feel the need to ask about me and had maybe already made up their minds. I couldn’t be sure this was the case, but I could sense it was.
Not surprisingly, I was put in a ward where I wouldn’t have a chance, but perhaps all this was for a reason. As soon as I realised that I didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of winning, I moved onto plan B: I would go for the elections the following year.
First, however, I had to pass the Parliamentary Assessment Board (PAB). I went into it a little late but was still determined to go for it. It would be an amazing experience to pass my PAB and run for a parliamentary seat. Both the Conservative Women’s Organisation and Conservative Campaign Headquarters (CCHQ) were very supportive and steered my application in the right direction, and within weeks my assessment was arranged in Cambridge.
Before I left, Carol gave me two pieces of advice for the assessment: have an opinion on anything they ask, and be yourself. And that was exactly what I did. I had no idea about some of the questions asked, but I still said something. I also mentioned running my own business, my army experience, working for a homeless charity and being a governor at a special needs’ school. This, if nothing else, set me apart from the others – lawyers, lawyers and more lawyers. Perhaps this is what got me through, as my political knowledge was definitely inferior to theirs.
I was thrilled when I got a letter to say I had passed. Next came the application, which needed to be well thought through. I lost count of the number of drafts I put forward to Carol to look at until I got the template right. To my surprise, I received quite a few invitations for interviews, from Sunderland to Wales, but the ones that drew me in were from Manchester and its surrounding towns.
* * *
As the train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly, it was raining as always. I headed out before the crowds and made a beeline for the exit. I was very grateful to have been invited to the initial interview for the Oldham and Rochdale seats. They were unsafe seats, but that didn’t matter to me – I wanted to go for it and experience what it was like to be on this journey. I had no idea what to expect.
As I walked through Manchester town centre towards the tramlink, I looked across to Piccadilly Gardens and noted how much the place had developed. I reflected back on when I first left there for London many years ago and how much the place had come on since then.
The tram went through Oldham, then finally Rochdale, which felt like a different world – only half an hour earlier I was on the dazzling stage of Manchester, now I was definitely backstage. I could smell the poverty – the young mums pushing prams, teenagers hanging around with nothing to do. The roads didn’t look clean, shops were either boarded up or had grills over their windows even though they were open. I almost stood on a used condom as I came out of the tram station.
It was like being in a time warp. The media coverage surrounding Rochdale since the last elections had not been good. Sex abuse and sex grooming – in the place where I’d grown up. My feelings were very mixed. The last time I was here was just before my father died and it had been too painful to come back since. However, the familiarity of the Rochdale and Oldham seats drew me to applying here. I didn’t think I would get as far as an interview, but here I was.
Going through Oldham on the tram didn’t feel right; I was so used to the big orange bus chugging away. Oldham town centre was busy, there were new shops and even a Muslim college. It felt like the English and Muslim communities were more integrated here than when I was growing up, even with all the media coverage of terrorism in the last ten years.
Times had changed for the better, I thought. I recalled the dreadful Oldham race riots back in 2001. Though I was living in London and was in the army at the time, I would visit Oldham and encounter an unpleasant sting in the air.
The Rochdale Premier Inn, where I was staying for the duration of my trip, turned out to be miles away from the tram station, but it gave me a chance to see the place. I finally arrived and, within an hour, I was in a local taxi taking me to Rochdale Conservative Club.
Twenty minutes later and eight quid shorter, I arrived. It was pouring with rain. I hadn’t thought my wardrobe through and, for some stupid, stupid, stupid reason, I had decided to wear a dress with flesh-coloured tights and heels.
The first step I took outside was into a big puddle, which resulted in murky water splashing all up one leg. The committee had decided to have the meeting in the pub below the Conservative Club, as the hall had been booked for another event apparently far more important than selecting a candidate for Rochdale.
The panel was sat on one table – all white, English people – with their wines and beers. On another table sat the candidates – all Pakistani men, bar one who was English. I could feel their disapproving eyes on me as they looked me up and down, no doubt noting my ensemble of dress and (now partially dirty) tights. I felt as if I had gone back twenty years; it was as if I were doing something shameful. I managed to raise a smile and joined the candidates.
‘What’s your name?’ one asked, who introduced himself as Khalil.
‘Azi,’ I replied.
‘Azi what?’
Here we go…
‘Azi Ahmed.’
I knew why they were asking – to check if I had a Muslim surname. They all looked down at my legs again. Even the English man looked puzzled. I pretended not to care but deep down I did. How could I be so stupid?! After all I had been through and with everything I knew about this area, I thought, why the hell did I wear a skirt? Thankfully, the meeting commenced shortly after and we began talking about the process of selection. I felt like cattle on a catwalk. A couple of elderly ladies in the blue-rinse brigade, who were sat at the committee table, shouted out in chorus, ‘S’cuse me!’
Khalil tapped me on the shoulder – they were speaking to me.
‘What’s your name?’ the ladies asked.
‘Azi … Azi Ahmed.’
&
nbsp; Khalil looked at me and said with a wink, ‘You’re in.’
We all had to decide which constituency we would go for if we had a choice, though it would be the votes that would dictate overall.
Of the three constituencies for which candidates were being chosen – Oldham, Rochdale and Heywood & Middleton – I wanted Rochdale the most. One of the Pakistani men put his hand up for Rochdale too, but the others, it seemed, were steering away from that constituency. The meeting ended an hour later and we were given the date of the selection interview, which would be after Christmas. I wondered why candidates for these seats were being selected so late in the day, and could only put it down to the fact that they were unsafe.
The next day I headed back to London feeling even more determined to get the nomination. I checked my email and noted a few more invitations to other constituencies, but my heart was set on Rochdale. It was therefore with great joy that, soon after the visit, I received an invitation to go back for final selection.
Over Christmas and New Year I read up as much as I could on Rochdale, as well as on its Labour MP, Simon Danczuk. He had written a book on Cyril Smith that lifted the lid on historic sexual abuse of young boys and, although it was by no means an enjoyable read, it provided a real insight into the power this MP had had over the local people, as well as how much the public’s perception of politicians had changed over the years. They were seen as such powerful entities in those days – almost like royalty. Though my mother was a Thatcherite, she thought Cyril was an amazing man with great presence, and even my dad would stop and watch the television whenever he was on.
My research on Rochdale was eye opening: one in four children were living in poverty; school results were below average in Britain; and, on top of all that, there were the sex-grooming and paedophile scandals.
All too quickly, the day of the interview arrived. We had been told to prepare a five-minute speech on why we would make a good candidate, a question I had gone through several times before. I would deliver the speech, then there would be ten minutes of questions from the committee, followed by ten minutes of questions from the floor. I’d been on the BBC news website for the duration of my journey here and had read all the newspapers I could get my hands on, so I thought I was prepared for anything.
This time we had the hall above the pub for the meeting, which made me wonder how many people were attending, but before it began everyone congregated in the pub like last time. After a while, people started to make their way upstairs to the hall – all except the candidates, who had to remain downstairs. A few minutes later, Michael, the chairman, returned with a handful of small, folded pieces of white paper, each with a number on them that would decide the order of presentations. Sod’s law, I got number one, much to the relief of the rest of them. They sat back at the table, sipping their drinks as Michael took me upstairs.
This time I had smartly thought through my wardrobe choice and had decided to wear formal trousers and a long-sleeved striped shirt, which was buttoned up to the neck. I followed Michael into the hall. I could only see the first few rows of people because of the lighting, but the silhouettes against the back wall made me convinced that the room was packed. I wasn’t sure whether to remain standing or to sit on the chair behind me, but I decided on the former, considering my height.
As I walked onto the stage, someone wolf-whistled. I stopped, not sure if I had heard correctly, and looked over at Michael, who was looking into the crowd trying to figure out who it was. He was visibly shocked.
My voice was shaking as I did my speech. It didn’t come out the way I had practised it in front of the bathroom mirror, but I bumbled through. To my relief, I got an applause at the end, which helped stop my voice from quivering. Then came the questions from the committee, the subjects of which ranged from Syria to pollution to the price of a pint of milk. I can’t remember the last time I bought a pint of milk, given that these days the 2-litre cartons are more common, so I gave the price of that and saw a few cocked eyebrows. ‘Where do you shop then?’ someone shouted.
Thankfully Michael came to the rescue and opened the questions up to the floor. The first was whether I thought we were doing enough about Muslim radicalisation. Of course not, I responded, but let’s start working with the families and owners of social media sites, rather than always pointing the finger at authorities, though they too have a responsibility.
They asked me about sex grooming, which I was expecting. ‘Of course we have a problem with a selected part of the Pakistani community which needs to be looked into,’ I offered. Finally, someone asked me my view about windmills in Rochdale. My mind went blank. Do they have them already or are they about to? I decided to do the most stupid thing on the planet and pretend I knew what he was talking about: ‘If we get them in, it will be a great idea to help reduce pollution.’
‘We already have them and we hate them!’ someone shouted.
I could feel my face burning but carried on until my ten minutes were over, then left the stage with a small applause following me off.
‘That was rubbish,’ I thought as I was escorted back downstairs. The one non-Muslim candidate, Ian, went upstairs next as he’d picked number two. The rest of them hovered around me downstairs asking what the questions were. To be honest, I told them, it all happened so quickly that I couldn’t remember most of the questions, but the one about the price of a pint of milk stuck in my mind, at which point everyone went onto the Tesco website on their phones to check out the price.
After Ian, it was Khalil’s turn, and as he went upstairs I asked Ian if he’d got the pint of milk question.
‘I did and I gave them the price of 2 litres – my wife’s just been on the phone having a go at me.’
When Khalil came down he had a big smile on his face. I guessed he had made them all laugh.
Once all the candidates had done their presentation, we all sat down and waited for the votes to be counted upstairs. I took my diary out of my bag and started to look at the dates for the other interviews, feeling low. Finally, we were summoned upstairs and asked to stand on the stage in a line. I watched as Khalil lost out on Oldham East. I thought he looked a bit miffed, but he was offered his last-choice constituency, which he accepted graciously. Last up was Rochdale – ‘last but not least’ – and then I heard my name being called out, followed by an applause. Stunned and confused, I looked around, not quite believing what I heard.
* * *
For some reason I wasn’t looking forward to my next visit to Rochdale, which was due to take place in March 2015. It was my first visit since being elected and, although I’d had a lot of correspondence with my agent, Ashley Dearnley, I hadn’t worked with him as yet.
I wore jeans and trainers as I was expecting to spend a lot of time outside. Unfortunately, I was a little late, which didn’t go down well with Ashley judging by his silent response when I apologised. I got in the car and we went to our first rendezvous point, where we would be picking up litter. It was bitterly cold at that time in the morning, and even though I was wearing two pairs of gloves, by the time we met up with Gary, the volunteer who ran the event, I was freezing.
‘I bet it’s a bit colder here than in the south,’ Gary offered sympathetically.
I started to nod, then stopped myself, suddenly remembering where I was and what I was in this town.
‘Not much colder,’ replied the parliamentary candidate for Rochdale in a strong voice. I didn’t want to risk anyone saying I couldn’t take the weather, let alone represent the town.
After that, we went leafleting in another ward. I wanted to go inside somewhere to have a hot drink but it didn’t feel right to ask. We cracked on, up and down the hilly streets, shoving the blue papers into every letterbox visible.
After a break, we were off to do some more leafleting, and then we shot off to a meeting with a candidate who had stood in 2010, Mohammed Salim. He was a nice chap, very approachable, and Ashley went out of his way to say that he was a good man
.
We met Mohammed in Starbucks with his cousin Sameena. Sameena was a lovely lady who invited me to a Muslim women’s event the next day. Great, I thought – in the diary.
‘Have you got a headscarf?’ she asked.
Why didn’t I think of that?
‘Yes.’ I replied coolly. I’ll get one from my friend, I thought.
At the end of the day I got on the train, feeling like an ice cube, and thought about the hot food and warm bed waiting for me at my friend’s house. She’d offered me a place to stay while I was in Rochdale – so much better than going back to an empty hotel room.
I was shattered by the time I arrived, so I began to work out what time I would need to be up tomorrow in order to get to this Muslim women’s get-together. It had been ages since I had been to something like that. I got terrible flashbacks that evening to when I was a kid and had to go to these sorts of events with my mum. I remember them being very intimidating, where a lot of women would look down their noses at each other, comparing daughter-in-laws and the amount of gold they had plastered on their arms. I’d hated it.
But now I was an adult, no longer being dragged there, but going of my own accord … kind of. Let’s face it, I told myself, twenty years have passed and things will be different. I borrowed a black headscarf from my friend – black was safe.
Finally, I thought, I was going to grasp the woman’s vote, which is what I needed to get ahead. Ashley picked me up in the morning and, as I rode with him to the venue, I realised how lucky I was to have him. He was a gentle man, softly spoken, and knew how to play his politics without shouting from the tree tops.
Ashley dropped me off at the event, and the chanting was loud as I joined the sea of colourful headscarves. I sat at the back and suddenly felt disappointed. These women were not how I expected them to be. Some British Muslim women are very forthright, but these all seemed very docile. It was another time warp; nothing had changed here for Muslim women in the past twenty years. My dreams were shattered – they won’t vote for me, I thought, they’ll vote for whoever their husbands ask them to vote for.