I met Halima on our first day at secondary school. My family had just come to London and I didn’t know a soul. My dad goes from one job to another so we’re always moving around, but my mum said that this is the final move. We’re in London for good – or so she says. But she’s said that before and they always quarrel about it. I’m sick of their rows.
Anyway, there I was, pretending to be cool and confident but feeling like shit inside, scowling at everyone, when I saw Halima chatting to a group of other Muslim girls. You can always spot them; they have to wear the school uniform – at least the trousers – but they are allowed to wear those hideous scarves over their heads.
No good expecting that lot to make friends, I thought to myself. I was about to turn away, when Halima looked up and caught my eye. And smiled at me.
I was so grateful that I walked right over and said, ‘Hi.’
She had a funny face. Not beautiful exactly, but strong and full of character. She was quite short and her hips were a bit on the chunky side.
‘I’m Kate,’ I said.
‘I’m Halima,’ she said.
And then we both laughed.
There I was, this great, tall, pale Irish girl with ghastly red hair flying about everywhere, and there was she, this dumpy, dark little Muslim. We made a strange pair. And immediately we both saw it.
I’ve never been one for beating about the bush. ‘I’ve never spoken to a Muslim before,’ I said, expecting her to clam up.
She didn’t. She tossed my remark right back at me.
‘And I’ve never spoken to a redhead before,’ she retorted.
And we laughed again.
So that’s how it began, this unlikely friendship.
If I thought she’d be angry when I questioned her faith and her way of life, I was right. But not in an over-emotional way. She knows where she’s coming from. She always defends it and she’s much more sure of herself than I am, though I would never let her think that.
I was really curious about her background and I pestered her to invite me over.
Well! That was an eye-opener! The inside of her little terraced house was a shrine to Pakistan. Glittery cushions, floaty chiffon and bits of silk, ornaments everywhere. So different from my home.
I could tell that her mum was uneasy as soon as I went through the door. She didn’t speak a word of English, so Halima had to translate for her. But she smiled a lot and she had prepared the most amazing meal. I’d already met Halima’s sister, Asma, because she’s at school with us. She couldn’t be more different from Halima. She’s very slim and her skin is a stunning pale brown. She has long tapering fingers and toes and a stillness about her. I think she’d drive men wild, though I guess she’s not allowed to do much of that, coming from the family she does!
But I’d not met the brothers before.
I went up to the older one, Khalil. ‘Hi, I’m Kate. Halima’s friend from school.’
He looked as if I’d molested him. He blushed and muttered something.
Imran was much more friendly. But the way the boys treated their sisters and their mother was appalling. At dinner, they let the women do all the work. They didn’t lift a finger. I offered to help clear the meal away but the other women refused to let me.
‘You are our guest,’ said Asma.
Although Asma was friendly enough, I sensed a bit of a freeze there. I don’t think she really approves of me being such a mate of Halima’s.
I turned to the boys, who were lounging about on chairs talking to each other, ignoring me.
‘Shouldn’t you give you mother some help?’ I said, all innocent.
Imran looked at me pityingly. ‘That’s women’s work, Kate,’ he said, as if he was explaining something to a slow-witted two-year-old.
It took me a moment to pick my jaw up off the floor, and I was just about to start a serious argument with these idlers when Halima came into the room again and I caught her eye. I bit back my comments. I really wanted to take issue with the boys but I could see she wanted to keep the peace.
When we met at school the next day, I let fly about her brothers. I think I overdid it, because she was really angry with me that time. I know she agrees with me in her heart, but family means a lot to her. She won’t have anything said against them.
It took us a day or two to get back on track again after that – and I didn’t get any more invitations.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Halima
Gradually, things changed at home. I was so used to speaking English at school that I found it hard to speak Pushtu at home. Sometimes I broke into English without realising it.
‘Have some respect for your mother,’ shouted Baba. ‘Speak in Pushtu.’
One day I shouted back at him. ‘We’re living in England, Baba. She should learn to speak the language.’ And then I muttered in English, ‘And so should you.’
I thought he hadn’t heard me, but he had.
‘Disrespectful girl. Go to your room. How dare you!’
I sighed and went off. It was easier that way.
It was about that time that I found a Saturday morning job in a dress shop near our house. I thought that Baba might try and stop me working there but, surprisingly, he agreed.
‘Good. Good, Halima,’ he said vaguely. ‘It will improve your English and you will save a little money.’
I had been anticipating a fight and I was amazed. He must have been in a good mood that day. Or perhaps he was relieved that I’d be out of his way on a Saturday.
I was growing apart from my parents. Although I still loved Ammi and appreciated all she had tried to instil into us children, my horizons were much broader than hers. I was beginning to think differently. I was restless and uncertain of what I wanted. As for my father, what little respect I had had for him had melted away. For Ammi’s sake I tried to toe the line, but I found it harder and harder to obey him.
Fortunately, Baba soon forgot about my insolence. He had a bigger problem – a problem with Imran.
Imran, the spoilt favourite, the clever one, the charmer, the golden boy. Baba had such high hopes of him. Imran was bright and popular, but Baba kept putting the pressure on him. Being second was never good enough. He must always be top of his class. He must make the family proud of him.
At first, the rows between Baba and Imran were no big deal. Baba would berate him for not achieving high marks, Imran would shrug and go out, slamming the door behind him. The next day, it was as if nothing had happened.
But it went on and on. Day after day, Baba would be on at him.
‘You have the best brains in the family, you silly boy. You are wasting them. What are you doing with your time, eh? You are not studying seriously. I know you are not.’
One dreadful day, I had just got back from school and let myself into the house and I heard terrible shouting going on in the front room. I stood uncertainly in the hall, not knowing whether to creep past or stay where I was. The two of them were yelling at each other.
‘Get off my back, Baba! If you go on like this, I’ll quit school altogether. Just leave me alone!’
‘But Imran, you know what plans I have for you. You will be a lawyer, maybe, or an accountant. You have the brains, son. You must make your family proud of you.’
Then Imran completely lost it. I’d never heard him use swear words before, but they all came tumbling out.
‘The family. Always the bloody family. What about me? And what the hell do you know about study, eh? What studying have you ever done? You work in a dead end job surrounded by your relations. You’ve been living here for years and you hardly speak a word of English, for God’s sake! So don’t lecture me about studying.’
‘Imran!’
‘Get stuffed. You’re doing my head in, going on at me all the time. What if I don’t want to be a bloody lawyer or accountant, eh? Have you ever bothered to ask what I really want to do? Have you?’
‘I have sacrificed everything for you,’ shouted Baba. ‘I have w
orked here for years so you can come here and have a good education. Now you throw all this back in my face.’
‘Just stop going on at me. I’m not some sort of genius. Why don’t you preach at Khalil for a change?’
‘Khalil is not as clever. You are the one from whom I expect the most.’
‘Too bloody bad! I’m not going to fit in with your plans any more. They’re your plans, not mine.’
There was a sudden silence and then a shuffling noise. Then a sharp intake of breath, a thump and a scream.
I knew that sound and my heart raced. Sometimes Baba hit me if I disobeyed or angered him. But I was sure he had never hit Imran before.
The door of the front room opened and Imran staggered out. He was clutching his shoulder and sobbing. He saw me, and turned his face away as he ran upstairs to his room.
Through the open door I could see that Baba had his hands over his eyes and his back to me. Very quietly, unnoticed, I slid past the door and followed Imran upstairs.
I knocked on his door.
‘It’s only me.’
‘Go away.’
I took no notice and went into his bedroom. I said nothing, just sat down on the edge of his bed. He was facing the wall and he wouldn’t look round.
‘Imran.’
‘Shut up. Go away!’
I stayed where I was. I creased the duvet cover between my finger and thumb.
‘It’s not fair, the way he keeps getting at you, Imran,’ I muttered. ‘He just doesn’t understand.’
Slowly Imran swivelled round to look at me. His face was blotched with tears. I reached out for his hand and he let me take it. He sniffed. ‘Little sister,’ he said.
We didn’t speak for a while, then Imran said. ‘It’s eating me up, Halima. Every day. Every day he questions me about my marks, where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing, why I’m not top. I tell you, I can’t stand it much longer. It’s stifling. This house is stifling, the family is stifling and all the bloody cousins and aunties and uncles. I need to get out. I need to be free of them.’
‘You wouldn’t leave us,’ I said, shocked. ‘You wouldn’t really leave us, Imran?’
Imran shrugged. Then he smiled at me. ‘I don’t want to leave Ammi and you and Asma – and even boring old Khalil – but I can’t stay in the house with Baba. He just doesn’t understand what he’s doing to me.’
It will pass, I thought, as I made my way back to the room I shared with Asma and slid my school bag off my back. I took out some books and started on my homework. A little later, Ammi brought me a drink.
‘Did you hear Baba and Imran shouting at each other?’ I asked her.
She looked worried for a moment, then put her hand on my shoulder. ‘They’ll make it up,’ she said. ‘Imran loves his Baba.’
‘Baba should be careful,’ I said. ‘He’s pushing Imran too hard.’
Ammi’s jaw set and she frowned. I knew that expression well. ‘Don’t criticise your father,’ she said. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’
‘But he’s never had to study, Ammi. He doesn’t…’
‘Enough, Halima!’
I sighed and went back to my work. Couldn’t Ammi see what was happening? Couldn’t she feel the atmosphere in the place? Imran, the light-hearted one, the star of the family, always teasing and joking, was becoming moody and silent.
When I talked to Asma about it, she didn’t seem too worried.
‘Huh! All teenage boys are moody, Halima. It comes with the territory.’
But it was more than that.
During the next few days, Baba and Imran hardly spoke to each other. The rest of us tiptoed round them, trying not to rock the boat. Khalil always seemed to say the wrong thing, though. He either made some heavy-handed joke or he banged on about what he’d been doing at school and then got his head bitten off either by Baba or Imran. Poor Khalil. I know he was only trying to help, but I despaired of him. He simply didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘tact’.
What an idiot, I thought.
But it turned out that the rest of us had been just as blind as Khalil. None of us saw it coming.
About two weeks after I’d heard the screaming match between Baba and Imran, Imran disappeared.
Quietly, he had been making his plans. He left very little behind and his room was clean and tidy. Somehow, this made it worse. Imran, who had always been untidy and whose room had always been such a tip. It was unnatural.
Ammi found the note. I was the only other person in the house at the time and I heard her cry out. I ran along the passage and into Imram’s room. Ammi was standing by the bed, holding a piece of paper.
‘Read it, Halima. Read it for me!’
I took it, wondering, even as I did so, why on earth he’d written it in English.
And then, as I read, I understood. The note said a lot of harsh things about Baba, things he wouldn’t have wanted Ammi to hear. I told her what she needed to know.
‘He’s safe, Ammi,’ I said quietly. ‘He’s gone to live with a school friend.’
‘Who? Who is he living with?’ She was standing in front of me, tears welling up in her big dark eyes, twisting a sodden tissue in her hand.
‘He doesn’t say. Another Pakistani family,’ I said.
‘Oh Imran,’ she wailed. ‘Oh the disgrace, Halima. How has it come to this?’
I took her by the shoulders. ‘It’s not your fault, Ammi. Please don’t blame yourself.’
‘How can I tell Baba?’
I shrugged. ‘You must tell him the truth, Ammi. Tell him that he has driven his favourite son away.’
In her fury, Ammi struck out, her arms flailing in the air. ‘NO! Don’t be ridiculous, child. Baba has done everything for him. He has worked so hard to earn money for you all. How can you say that, Halima!’
I didn’t answer. I felt so sad as I watched her fighting to control herself. How could she understand that, in bringing his children here to England, Baba was losing them. Our minds were expanding while his – and hers – were shrinking.
As I stood helplessly by, I wondered at their refusal to move on. It seemed to me that we had become fossilised. We were clinging on to the life we had known back in Pakistan, to all the customs, all the rules. It was a sort of security blanket.
And yet, when we’d been back to our village – twice, since we’d been in England – I sensed that things had loosened up there. Talking to my cousins there, it seemed that they had more freedom than in the old days. They told me that the attitude of the elders had become a little more liberal.
The village elders may have become more liberal. But Baba had certainly not.
At first, when he heard what had happened, he shut himself away and refused to speak to anyone. And then came the fury: shouting against Imran, railing at the rest of us.
‘That boy is no longer my son!’ he shouted. ‘He has disgraced us. How dare he leave us. Doesn’t he understand what he’s doing to our family honour?’
Ammi tried to placate him. ‘Perhaps he will come home, Baba. Perhaps, when he has calmed down, he will return.’
Baba was even more angry then. I could see the spittle gathering at the edge of his lips as he spat out his reply.
‘Don’t be so foolish, woman. Do you think I would ever let him in this house again, after what he has done to us?’
Imran’s absence left a great yawning void in our family and it had an effect on us all. Khalil tried to curry favour by being a model son and was ignored or snapped at for his trouble. Ammi, Asma and I kept our heads well below the parapet, and Baba became even more bad-tempered and despotic.
CHAPTER NINE
And Baba was becoming ever more watchful, particularly of Asma and me.
We had nothing to hide, but the questioning grew more oppressive.
‘Why are you late back from school, Halima?’ He was standing by the front door, waiting for me, tapping his watch with his finger.
‘It’s Wednesday, Baba. You know that I go to t
he debating society on Wednesdays after school.’
I tried to push past him into the house, but he didn’t move. He folded his arms.
‘Huh! Debating! What is debating?’
I sighed. I was practised in answering these sorts of questions. ‘Learning to put forward my point of view, Baba. Learning to put forward the Muslim point of view to unbelievers.’ Of course, this was only partly true, but it was an answer Baba couldn’t challenge. Sulkily he let me into the house.
And Asma was getting even more scrutiny. Even Baba couldn’t ignore the fact that she was growing into a beautiful young woman. There was no doubt that she had had all the luck when good looks had been handed out. I was OK, but I had big hips and a hooked nose – Baba’s features – whereas Asma had Ammi’s delicate bones and chiselled features.
One evening, as we were all eating together, Baba leaned back in his chair and smiled at Asma. We had just heard that she had been accepted at university. There was no question of leaving home, so she had only applied to London colleges, and she’d had several offers.
The first of his family to have further education! Baba was so proud of her, though of course he didn’t show it.
‘Now, Asma, we must start to look for a husband for you,’ he announced.
Asma stopped eating and looked up at him. She said nothing, but I could see the fear in her eyes. Did this mean she wouldn’t be allowed to go to college? If she wasn’t allowed to go, then I wouldn’t be, either. I held my breath.
Baba picked at his teeth for ages before he spoke again. ‘Yes,’ he said, at last, ‘We must start looking now, and then the wedding will take place as soon as you have finished your studies.’
I could see the tension in Asma’s face. A tiny vein throbbed at her temple. She swallowed.
‘You mean my school studies?’ she asked quietly.
Baba laughed. ‘No, silly girl. Your university studies, of course. You will marry as soon as you are through college.’
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