‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’ Pari says after she’s gone.
I nod. What I’m thinking is that Pari is much braver than me. I would never have asked Stella to sit next to us. I probably would have avoided her all through school. If Pari hadn’t faced up to her we would never be working together on this or anything. Now it feels a bit wrong carrying on without her because she’s the one who actually came up with most of the ideas so far. I’m sorry she had to go. I have to lean in quite close to the keyboard to hear Pari practising what we’ve done so far. She looks like she wants to tell me something, but she gives me this sideways glance, like she’s trying to weigh up whether to trust me or not.
Pari leans in close. ‘You know what Stella was saying about people hiding what they’re really thinking? She’s right. Sometimes I get this look from strangers like they’re suspicious of me or just don’t like me because I’m Muslim. Mum thinks I should stop wearing my headscarf and she doesn’t like these –’ she points to her sparkly scarf jewels – ‘She says I shouldn’t draw attention to myself.’
‘That’s not right! Why don’t you tell Mrs Latif?’
‘What can she do about what goes on out there? She can’t have a word with strangers like she did with Stella. People outside of school don’t have to say sorry, do they? Anyway, it’s just a feeling. No one actually says anything. But Mum thinks everything’s getting much worse for us here now. No one trusts anyone else.’
‘I’m sorry!’
‘It’s not your fault.’
We practise what we’ve done of the music so far. Pari thinks Stella’s right; it’s too even and steady. We really need to ramp up the tension.
I’m playing some chords, trying to work out what exactly the feeling was underneath the surface on that tube journey when the family got on to sell tissues. I go right to the top of the keyboard and play high chords, quietly at first, then faster and getting louder . . .
‘That’s more like the feeling!’ Pari says, tapping at her chest like it’s got her heart beating faster. ‘Then we should go back to something flatter for the end but keep some of that in too, so you can still hear it. Like once you’ve tuned into it, it’s just there all the time? I don’t know . . . that’s how it feels.’
I think I know what she means. It’s a bit like Nana’s chime, which you can hear ringing through you even though the actual note finished ages ago.
‘Packing-up time!’ Mr Rivera shouts, and people start to get up from their desks. He stands by the door, blocking the exit so people can’t leave before he’s finished telling us about our homework.
‘. . . So get together and carry on working on this. I realize this is quite an advanced task for Year Seven, but it’s a good challenge, and I have every faith in you. This is your assessment project, so you have five lessons to perfect it. Does everyone know which days the music studio’s open? If you don’t, familiarize yourself with the practice times; they’re –’ Mr Rivera opens the door and shouts after us as we flood out – ‘on the noticeboards to your right!’
‘I know I’m grounded, but can I have a friend back next Friday? Pari’s asked her mum and she says it’s fine.’
Mum and Dad do one of their totally obvious non-verbal conferring looks over the dinner table.
After thinking about it for what seems like ages, Mum nods.
‘As long as you’re at home, I suppose it’s OK . . . a new friend, is it?’ Dad asks.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good!’ Mum beams.
I wonder if they thought I was incapable of making new friends.
‘How’s Kez getting on with all her bat mitzvah preparations?’ Mum asks.
I wish they would stop asking me about Kez all the time. It just makes me feel guilty and confused about everything all over again. We don’t even text much any more.
‘Fine.’
‘Oh, she’s doing all that, is she?’ Dad asks.
‘Why do you say it like that, Dad?’
‘No reason . . . just didn’t know Luke and Hannah were practising, that’s all!’ Dad shrugs.
‘Practising what?’ I ask.
‘I just meant I didn’t think they were religious.’ Dad shrugs and picks up his phone.
‘You don’t have to be really religious to have a bat mitzvah. It can be like cultural too . . . being part of what other people do in your community. Kez says it’s like a way of saying you’re not a kid any more.’
Dad’s tapping out a text message.
‘Like a way of saying you’re not a kid any more!’ I repeat a bit louder.
‘Sam!’ Mum glares at Dad because she hates people being on mobiles at the table. Dad looks from Mum to me, as if he’s trying to catch up with what’s going on.
‘Ah well, good for Kez, if that’s what she wants.’
‘Maybe I’ll have a bat mitzvah,’ I say.
‘You can’t! Not unless your mum’s willing to convert!’ Dad jokes.
‘From what to what?’ Mum laughs, batting Dad over the head with a tea towel. Dad grabs Mum around the waist. They’re actually having a sort of play fight! Gross!
I leave them to it and go up to my perch and listen to them messing around. Some families would be pleased if their child said they wanted to get religious.
I wedge the chair against the door, pull the Banner Bag towards me, get out Nana’s painted banner and unroll it over Mira’s carpet just so I can see it again. I wish I could put it on my wall, but then I would have some explaining to do. Mum and Dad might even think Nana’s banner should be for Mira. The Protest Book yes, but this banner . . . I know Simon really meant me to have it.
I open Dad’s laptop and type in ‘Tibetan vigil’. I look through a few articles and find a photo of Simon and Hope standing outside the Chinese Embassy. Hope’s so beautiful and tall. She isn’t stooped forward in this picture. I flit around a bit, typing in the campaigns that Nana Josie and Simon were a part of, but then decide I should go through the list one thing at a time, because once you start reading about this stuff it gets really complicated. It’s like Mrs Latif says . . . even if you start out by thinking this or that is right or wrong, and you know what side you’re on, the more you read about it, the harder it gets to be certain. Though I think there are some things that just are right or wrong, whichever way you look at them. Like not letting a girl be educated, and shooting her just because she stands up for herself. That’s wrong whatever way you look at it.
The last words written in Nana Josie’s Protest Book look like they were written after everything else. They’re in pencil . . . like she just thought of something and wrote this . . . and the writing is really shaky.
I’ll never forget my first march or painting my first banner.
I google marches in London. . . there’s another one tomorrow. It’s a Women’s March. I feel like I’ve been going around with my eyes closed. I didn’t know about any of this . . . It says here that the last one was for people all over the world marching for Women’s Rights. I flit around from site to site, looking up different protests.
I find a clip of Martin Luther King’s speech. It’s so strange to think that Nana was standing in Washington listening to him when he gave it. What he says and the way he says it make you wonder how anyone could ever be racist again. His dream did come true, but maybe that’s the point of all the things Nana and Simon did. I think it’s what Malala’s saying too. People have to keep dreaming, otherwise they forget. I don’t care if I’m grounded. I’ve got to find a way of going on that march tomorrow. I look down at Nana’s beautiful banner. I’m going on that march with my nana!
I tie some bamboo sticks to the ends of the sheet and secure them with the little elastic ties at the top. It’s too big for one person to hold, but I’m taking it anyway.
I unwedge the chair when I hear Mum and Dad come up to say goodnight.
‘Night, Laila!’
‘Night!’
‘At least she’s starting to spend a bit of tim
e in her new room now,’ I hear Mum say as they walk up the stairs.
I tuck Dad’s laptop under my perch in case I want to look up anything else and settle down with the Malala book. I think I’ll finish it tonight. I’ve never read half a book in a night before. Mira’s always been the one that reads for hours. She said it would happen to me one day too, but I never believed her.
I don’t know what time I actually fell asleep, but it must have been around 4 a.m., because the last thing I remember is hearing a bird singing. I thought it was weird that it was singing through the dark . . . but maybe it was almost morning when I wrote this in my reading record:
Themes: A girl can change an unfair world. Adults should listen to children. Adults should protect children. All children should have access to education. Children can see what bad things adults do. Children can change the world.
Comments: This is the best book I have ever read. One day I would like to meet Malala Yousafzai.
My favourite quotes: ‘One child, one teacher, one book, one pen can change the world.’ ‘When the whole world is silent, even one voice becomes powerful.’
‘Massive march in town today,’ Dad says, turning up the radio. ‘Traffic will be terrible. I’d better set off now! I need to get that garden wall sorted before it falls on someone!’ He ruffles my hair as he grabs his keys.
‘We haven’t got much in food-wise for tonight,’ Mum says.
‘I’ll get something for dinner on the way home . . . should be back by seven at the latest! See you later!’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to go into work today, Laila . . . to set up my new office. You want to come and help me?’ Mum asks.
‘I’m grounded!’ I remind her as I tuck into a piece of toast to stop myself from smiling.
‘Yes, but you could come with me if you want.’
‘It’s OK!’ I say. ‘I’ve got loads of homework to do.’
Mum smiles at me, like she thinks I’m getting back on track. Now she’s listening to the radio – someone’s talking about the Women’s March.
‘Families, men, women and children are all welcome, as on previous marches. We are taking to the streets to remind the powers that be that we march for the protection of our rights, our safety, our health and our families. We recognize our vibrant and diverse communities are the strength of our country . . .’
‘If there’s another march, let’s go together,’ Mum says, tutting at herself. ‘If I wasn’t working . . .’
‘OK!’ I say taking a sip of tea and trying not to sound too interested. ‘What time will you be back?’ I ask.
‘Fiveish! If you get bored, you know where I am. Give me a call and you can come over and help.’
I watch Mum cross the road and then I race up the stairs. I take Nana’s painted banner from under the bed and roll it up into a scroll as small as it will go. I get two black bin bags and cover it up. Dark clouds fill the sky so I grab hold of Hope’s umbrella too. I’ve planned how to get to the start, but I don’t even have to follow my own instructions because as soon as I walk out of the door I see groups of people heading for the tube: whole families, people pushing prams, groups of women and girls, some boys too. There’s a man carrying a newborn baby in a sling, walking arm in arm with the mother. The baby’s so tiny you can only see its little yellow hat. The pavement’s pretty crowded so it’s easy to duck behind some people as I walk past Kez’s flat. Bubbe’s in the window watching people pass. She’s put a sign up:
TOO OLD TO MARCH.
NOT TOO OLD TO PROTEST!
She’s waving at people as they pass, and some of them wave back. I really miss Bubbe now Kez and me don’t see so much of each other.
I have to wait for two tubes to pass before I can squeeze on. But no one seems to mind that much. Maybe because most people are here for the same reason, travelling in the same direction. Some have banners sticking out of their bags, and the weird thing is that total strangers are actually talking to each other, laughing and joking. A girl with purple-dyed dreadlocks holding a guitar starts singing a folky song. She has a crackly sort of voice . . . it’s not that good. I wonder if the boy who showed me the way to ‘the Caring Community’ sings as well as plays the guitar. This girl sounds like she cares about the words she’s singing. I think she might have written this song herself . . . because the chorus is something about:
‘I can have purple hair, why should you care!’
At the end of the song, a few people clap. A lot of us change at Finsbury Park. I can’t believe that this is the same underground journey I took to see Simon. I have never felt less on my own than right now. I wish Simon could see me. I wonder if Hope will be on the march today.
It’s not raining when we come out of the tube, but it is windy. Everyone’s gathering in Victoria Park. There are some speakers – a politician I sort of recognize – but I don’t really listen because the voices are a bit distorted through the speakers. I just take in the atmosphere and all the banners with different slogans written on them. Standard ones printed by organizations, some written by hand, some that make me laugh and others with quotes and lines from poems.
‘UNTIL THEY BECOME CONSCIOUS THEY WILL NEVER REBEL, AND UNTIL THEY HAVE REBELLED THEY CANNOT BECOME CONSCIOUS’ #1984
MEN OF QUALITY DON’T FEAR EQUALITY
‘IF THE SOUL OF THE NATION IS TO BE SAVED, YOU MUST BECOME ITS SOUL’ – CORETTA SCOTT KING
SPEAK OF ME WITH LOVE NOT HATE
HERE FOR MY TRANS SISTERS
OUR RIGHTS AREN’T UP FOR GRABS AND NEITHER ARE WE
I AM WOMAN – WATCH ME FLY
KNOCK DOWN WALLS OF HATE AND LIES
MY BODY IS MY BORDER. HANDS OFF.
REFUGEE CHILDREN ARE MY CHILDREN
MOTHER NATURE WEEPS
GIRLS JUST WANT TO HAVE FUN-DAMENTAL HUMAN RIGHTS
NOW YOU’VE PISSED OFF GRANDMA!
I laugh out loud at that one, and the old black woman carrying it, surrounded by lots of young people who are holding a banner together that says:
AND TAKE IT FROM US – YOU DON’T WANT TO PISS OUR GRANDMA OFF!
I hold Nana’s banner under my arm. I suppose in a way I’m marching with my nana too.
People start to move out on to the road and raise their placards in the air.
A girl about my age is walking ahead of me carrying these words:
I’M A MUSLIM WOMAN.
I AM THIRTEEN YEARS OLD.
MALALA WAS TWELVE WHEN SHE CHANGED THE WORLD.
HOW OLD WILL YOU BE?
I would like to catch up with her, but I’m struggling a bit to unroll Nana’s banner. As I do, I drop Hope’s umbrella and it’s hard to pick it up because everyone’s moving slowly forward. I get caught up in all these marching feet and nearly trip over. Then this woman pushing a pram grabs it for me before it gets trodden into the ground.
‘Thanks!’ I say.
As she hands it to me the sky brightens and a glimpse of sunlight shoots through the clouds. I think of Simon sitting in his conservatory sunning himself.
‘What have you got there?’ the woman asks, as I try to unroll Nana’s banner. ‘Here, let me help you!’
She whistles when she sees it.
‘That’s a beauty!’
The little girl in the pram starts squealing when she sees it and strains to get free from the straps keeping her in.
‘You want to help hold your first banner, Fliss! Why don’t you put your umbrella in the pram? Doesn’t look like you’ll be needing it,’ she says, looking up at the sky, shrugging off her own raincoat and tucking it into the back of the pram. ‘I’m Jackie . . . this is Fliss. Why don’t we help each other out? How about I have Fliss on my shoulders and we can carry one side and you take the other!’ She lifts Fliss on to her shoulders and she grabs the bamboo pole. When her mum tries to hold it with her, the little girl squeals again.
‘All right, all right!’ Her mum laughs.
Proper little protestor! Nana’s words abou
t me float through my mind.
‘Thanks!’ I laugh at Fliss, who is already wrestling her mum’s hands off the pole. ‘I’m Laila.’
‘How long did it take you to paint this?’ Jackie asks.
‘My nana painted it for her first march.’
Someone nearby has started up a chant, so Jackie has to lean in to me so that I can hear her. The banner folds, making a little enclosed tent around us.
‘Where’s your nana now?’ she asks gently.
‘She died. I didn’t really know her but she left me this!’
Jackie holds the banner higher and shouts over the chanting, ‘Her spirit’s not dead then, is it?’
Someone’s brought a tabla and starts up a drum beat that makes me think of Priya’s music. I take in all the colours of the crowd, and we just march along for a while laughing at Fliss because she looks so happy high up there holding our wonky banner . . .
‘Queen of the castle!’ Jackie laughs.
The chanting comes in waves. It lulls, and then builds again, surging over the crowd. Now, as we turn a big bend in the road, it settles down, and there’s just a few whistles going off here and there . . . A few people take photos of Nana’s banner.
‘Is this your first march then?’ Jackie asks.
I nod.
‘Fliss’s too!’ she says, looking up at her little girl holding tight on to the old bamboo sticks of Nana Josie’s banner.
‘Sorry I was so long! It took forever to sort everything out,’ Mum says as she walks in the door and looks up at me snuggling on my perch like I’ve been there all day long! I can’t stop grinning to myself. What I love most about the march is that nobody here knows I was there. I ring the chime . . . except for maybe somewhere out there . . . Nana Josie.
The week since the march has gone so fast. In lessons I’ve been replaying things in my mind, trying to make sense of how I came to be on that march. What made me go? I thought I would tell Pari about it, but somehow the time never feels right. I like the feeling of having all these thoughts, sounds and pictures whirring through my mind that just belong to me and all those strangers. It makes me feel like I’m part of something much bigger than me, like Bubbe said Kez doing her bat mitzvah makes her feel. Every time I think of myself on the Women’s March holding up Nana Josie’s banner with Jackie and Fliss, I feel a bit stronger.
Tender Earth Page 15