The Reluctant Mullah

by Sagheer Afzal

  Musa cleared his throat and the room immediately became quiet. A couple of the rude boys winked at each other in a knowing way as if to say “An hour from now you’re gonna be laughing your ass off.” The coconuts sat up straight, their spinal cords tightening with the grandeur of the occasion. The Holy Men remained scornful.

  “My dear brothers, I would like to welcome you to the Islamic Centre. Before I start on the topic for this evening, I would like to stress that this is a debate and not a battle. There are no victors or losers. Everyone’s opinion counts. So please do not indulge in any games of one-upmanship. We are all here to learn about Islam through the eyes of others. All we want is to knock on heaven’s door one day and be let in so we can stand in gardens through which rivers flow in the company of companions pure and chaste. Have I not just hit the nail on all of your heads brothers?”

  Musa looked around and smiled. A few moments of silence followed, then those moments stretched to become minutes and he realised that the image had troubled them. He sighed; he would have to dumb down.

  “OK. The topic I want to talk about is 9/11. And I know that everyone has heard too much about it but it is still worth asking ourselves exactly what impact it had on our faith. Did it distance you from Islam or did it deepen your interest?”

  An array of arms shot up. Musa briefly surveyed them and decided it would be unjust to select someone and then describe them by their appearance or clothes as he had seen done on Question Time. He waved loosely at no one in particular.

  “You there, what do you say brother?”

  One of the rude boys stood up.

  “I think them planes were empty.”

  The coconuts and the Holy Men were baffled.

  “Honest to God, just think about it bro! Are you telling me that a bunch of guys with tin openers could just get out of their seats and beat up the air stewards and then force their way into the captain’s seat? No way! Everyone thinks that all air stewards are fairies but that ain’t so. Them guys are given training in ju-jitsu and all that shit. No way could they have done that. Them planes were remote controlled!”

  “By who?” asked a coconut.

  “By the CIA. Who else? Them guys trained him in Afghanistan! Think about it? America needs oil. They bust up a bit of their own yard and get everybody pissed off. Then they go invade Iraq for the oil. It’s logical. This is what it’s all about?”

  “But what did it do for your faith?” pressed Musa.

  The rude boy glared at Musa, angered by the interruption.

  “Listen bro, I ain’t the type that prays five times a day if that’s what you mean.” He held his hand in the air as if to deflect a torpedo. “One thing about 9/11 that pissed me off was all these guys telling me that I should start praying regular. Now that is a personal thing! No one ain’t got any right to tell you what to do! I’m a Muslim at heart. And if your heart ain’t pure you can pray fifty times a day and it won’t do you any good.”

  The rest of the rude boys got to their feet and applauded their comrade. One of the coconuts then stood up.

  “I’m sorry brother, but I think what you’re saying is a load of tosh” – tosh lingered in the air like a chemical cloud acrid with contempt. “9/11 was a travesty and a tragedy but it gave birth to Islamophobia and I think it has been indirectly responsible for a lot of anti-Muslim legislation. Because of that day Muslims are treated as if they were Nazis. People do not seem to realise that 9/11 claimed the lives of British Muslims as well.”

  The coconut sat down and was immediately subjected to a storm of hearty pats on the back.

  Then it was the turn of one of the Holy Men to speak.

  “My dear brother, there is no such thing as a British Muslim. You cannot live in this corrupt society and be surrounded by all this filth and pollution and still call yourself a Muslim. 9/11 was an act of evil. But evil gives birth to evil. How about the number of Iraqi children that died every month because of UN sanctions? Is that not an act of evil?”

  “Tit for tat killing is not justified in Islam,” said Musa firmly.

  “I know it is not. But we are standing on the wrong side of the fence. We need to tell this government to stop killing our fellow Muslim brothers. We need to make our voices heard!”

  “We’re getting away from the question. Did 9/11 change you as a Muslim?” asked Musa.

  The Holy Joe shook his head wearily.

  “I prayed five times a day before 9/11 and I prayed five times a day after 9/11. The only difference is that now I am uncomfortable about praying in public spaces. I would not feel safe. Non-Muslims look at me differently. They see my beard and think that I am a fundamentalist. But, my faith is stronger than ever. It seems to me you can’t be both western and Muslim!”

  This incensed the rude boys and one of them, his gold earring luminous, pushed back his chair and stood up. Musa recognised him; he was Urfan a neighbour’s son.

  “If you hate being here so much, how come you haven’t left? I bet you’ve never done a day’s work in your life. You say to people I can’t get a job because my employers gotta let me pray five times a day and let me wear my tunic and trousers and when they say no, you cry Islamophobia. So why don’t you go to places like Afghanistan or Pakistan? Shall I tell you why? ’Cos them places are third world countries and you’ve got so used to having it cushy here in Britain you can’t stand the idea of going back! You lot claim benefits and then talk about Islam. I got news for you bro, when you claim benefits and don’t even look for work, you are begging, plain and simple. And begging ain’t in Islam!”

  Now the Holy Men were enraged. “We all work brother but what we earn and how we earn it is halal. You people are the people of hellfire because you live amongst wolves and follow them like dogs!”

  Musa, who had heard similar arguments in the Madrasah and feeling it necessary to restore a little equilibrium, intervened.

  “You’re going off at a tangent again brothers. The question was whether 9/11 deepened or weakened our faith. I think that watching you guys has pretty much answered the question. 9/11, a grand conspiracy, evil planning, call it whatever you want, didn’t weaken our faith much at all because our faith was already weakened by Muslim fighting Muslim, arguing over the smallest thing to the biggest thing.”

  “I would also like to add something,” said one of the coconuts. “Once I read a book by John Simpson, the news guy. In that book he mentions an encounter with Osama bin Laden when he was travelling through Afghanistan with some others. They suddenly get stopped by some people. Osama is with them and he tries to get John Simpson and his camera crew killed. Those around him say no, they are guests and they get the three days’ worth of hospitality. Osama then tries to get them run over by offering to pay a truck driver five hundred quid. The truck driver says no and Osama gets so wound up he starts crying. Can you believe that? That is not the behaviour of a Muslim!”

  “Who believes anything that the media say?” said a Holy Man.

  “You can’t trust anyone who ain’t one of you!” said Urfan.

  “But isn’t part of faith based on trust?” asked Musa.

  He pointed at a poster on which were printed Arabic words from the Holy Quran.

  “Do you know what this means? ‘This is the book that contains guidance for those who believe in the unseen.’ Get that? To be a good Muslim we have to believe in the unseen. But if we can believe in the unseen even though we don’t understand it, how come we can’t make sense of things that we do see? Things all around us!

  “I spent most of my life trusting what other people said because they were older than me and wiser and more religious but you can’t use anyone else’s roadmap when it comes to your own life. Who knows what was in the heart of Osama when he started crying because he couldn’t kill John Simpson? Who knows if it was even him? Because to everyone else we are all alike.”

  He pointed to Urfan. “You may not think it is necessary to pray.”

  He then pointed at one of
the Holy Men. “You probably think it’s laughable that a person can call himself a Muslim if he doesn’t pray. But the problem is, what you do affects what happens to us. I think that was one of the consequences of 9/11. It’s only Muslims who draw the lines between us. To the rest of the world we’re one and the same. Cut from the same cloth and we both dip into the same well to drink. I can’t tell what’s in your heart and you can’t tell what’s in mine. But until I know for sure the decent thing to do, the Islamic way is to assume you have nothing but goodwill towards me. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “You’re talking shit. There’s plenty of guys that want to hurt us because we’re Muslim!” stated a rude boy defiantly.

  “Not everyone’s like that. You’re being narrow-minded,” retorted a coconut.

  “They’re not like that if you talk like them and act like them, like you boys.”

  “But what is it to be ourselves? No one really knows how to act as if they like themselves. Seems to me that no one really fits into their skin. Everyone is trying to put on a new skin. Black or white. No one seems to want to stop and be themselves,” said Musa.

  “I know who I am!” retorted a Rude Boy.

  “Yes, but do you like who you are? Are you telling me that no one around you wants you to be more than what you are? That’s the problem guys. No one ever told us that it was OK not to be clever or rich and that the only thing that matters is that you are happy and healthy. All my life people have been telling me that if I want to know Islam and be truly happy I need to follow the creed of the great scholars, people like Abu Hanafi or Abu Maliki or Abu Shafi. No one ever said to me, ‘Musa you need to follow your own creed because your life may not always be your choice but it will always be your responsibility.’”

  After the debate ended and the men had left, Musa stacked the chairs against the wall in piles of four. He then moved to the lounge area and sank wearily into a comfortable seat. How much more at home he felt in these debates than in the company of women. With his brothers he knew what he had to say and there was a clarity to his thoughts. He tilted his head back and stared at the chandelier. One of its crystals seemed to have a life of its own, hiccupping light on to the cold floor. He heard a sound of quiet footsteps and a lonely shadow cut into the circles traced by his wondering eyes.

  “Assalaam-u-alaikum Khadija.”

  “Waalaikum assalaam brother,” she replied softly.

  “Musa,” he corrected.

  Khadija, completely veiled apart from her eyes, stood still and Musa felt strangely troubled. He frowned as he pondered on the origin of his unease.

  “Please, sit down,” he said.

  “How did your debate go?” she asked, sitting down in a chair opposite him.

  “It went well… At first I thought there was going to be a punch-up because they were getting so heated! But they all had their say which is what I think they were worried about in the first place.”

  “Did you discuss 9/11?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t get a proper answer to my question on whether or not it deepened faith. I think they all enjoyed talking about it though. Strange…they all liked to feel they were Muslims when they talked about 9/11, but if ever they had the chance I think they would be tempted to run each other over!”

  “Maybe you don’t give them the credit they deserve…Musa.”

  He deliberately kept his eyes down in a meditative gaze.

  “Hmm…perhaps you’re right. What about you? What did you guys talk about?”

  “9/11. Same as you.”

  “And what was the outcome?”

  She sighed. “It was really hard work getting them to respond.”

  “Oh, why was that do you think?” asked Musa, intrigued.

  “I’m sure they lack confidence. Lots of girls who haven’t been to college seem to feel insecure in front of those who have.”

  “It’s the same with the guys.”

  “But with men, it’s different. All of you have an opinion, even if it isn’t worth a great deal. Some of these girls are just not interested in 9/11 or in the repression of Muslim women and I think they’re embarrassed by that.”

  “What are they interested in?”

  Khadija considered the answer. She crossed her hands and Musa noted with surprise that her nails were manicured.

  “They’re interested in…enjoying life.”

  “They are? Just like us.” Musa smiled.

  Khadija stiffened slightly and got up.

  “Or maybe just like me. Perhaps only me,” he said loudly as she walked away.

  Then he closed his eyes and sighed. It was so very tiring just being yourself.

  13

  Suleiman worked best in the dark. He sat in front of a large oak table wearing translucent surgical gloves. In front of him were two packets, a teaspoon, a beaker of water, gauze and a stand. Beneath the stand was an electric Bunsen burner.

  Carefully he opened a packet containing granulated sugar and, using a teaspoon, he placed twenty-five teaspoons of sugar into the beaker of water. Now it was time for the other packet. He took a deep breath and opened the heroin. Using the same spoon he placed four heaped teaspoonfuls into the beaker of water. He then placed the gauze on the stand, the beaker on top of the gauze, and lit the Bunsen burner.

  The granules of heroin danced crazily with the inert sugar that lay like the seabed at the bottom of the beaker. Cozened into life by the fury of the black particles of death the sugar began to rise like a graveyard ghost and swirl around only to be engulfed by a billowy blackness that at times seemed darker than night.

  Sitting upright, his hands on his knees, Suleiman waited as pungent fumes began to arise from the beaker. In the twilight of the room the vapour hovered: a spectre of the unspeakable. His hair was now dank and as always the odour bothered him as gradually it became a part of him. On those occasions when he awoke in the night, cold but sweating, this was what he smelt no matter where he slept.

  He walked to the window. The street below was deserted and littered with debris. In the moonlight, everything seemed draped with a deathly sheen. Giant bins reeking with uncollected refuse stood like sentinels warning away all who would enter his flat.

  His mobile rang.

  “You got any? I got someone who needs it. I can drop her by in five minutes.”

  “How many fucking times I gotta say this? I ain’t dealing with anyone I don’t know!”

  “Look, I’ll vouch for her. I will bring her and stay with her to make sure nothing happens. You can trust me, I’m a policeman!”

  Suleiman had heard him say this dozens of times before and as ever it failed to make him smile.

  “Is she a skank?” he asked contemptuously.

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “Be here in five,” said Suleiman. He snapped the phone shut.

  Sergeant Bullock was a good asset even though he was expensive. Suleiman had known him for seven years but neither of them ever said more than was necessary to each other. In his line of work, people formed communities, but friendships often proved to be dangerous. No matter how much you laughed with a guy, and no matter how much you spent showing him a good time, he would rat on you in a second if it suited him. There were also guys who worked too hard and made too much money and then started going on stupid spending sprees, not having a clue how they could account for their wealth. Those guys were usually Asians who, when they felt the heat, ran like a bunch of rats leaving a trail of shit that led right back to them.

  Ultimately it would catch up with him one day. He knew that. You could win battles but the war you would lose. It was inevitable. Some days you looked at the pile of money in your hand and said, This is it! It’s time to go. But then the bastard world around you just wouldn’t let up and you got to thinking one more deal won’t hurt. It’s not like you were committing a great sin because there were so many people now who were in on this game. Every neighbourhood had a supplier and if you didn’t give the punters what they wa
nted, they could soon find another dealer. The truth of it was you got so that you didn’t know how to do anything else, and after a while you realised that you didn’t much want to either.

  A police car pulled up and a dowdy looking woman got out. Suleiman sighed wearily.

  The water in the beaker had now evaporated, leaving cut heroin, ready for use. From a drawer he fished out a little plastic bag, switched off the flame, picked up the beaker and emptied the contents into the bag. He then removed the gloves and switched on the lights.

  Three knocks sounded on the door. There was a slight pause and then three more, another pause and then a final six knocks. Suleiman walked down the stairs, unlocked the padlock and opened the door. He was irritated to see that Sergeant Bullock had got back in the car leaving him to deal with the skank.

  “What do you want? It’s late!” he said gruffly.

  “I need some stuff. Just enough to get me through the night.”

  Suleiman squinted at her. The moonlight and her long dark hair emphasised the pallor of her face behind crudely-applied make-up. She had the stench of unwashed linen. Suleiman’s mouth tightened in disdain; she was a prostitute all right.

  He climbed the stairs and after a few moments she followed him into the flat which he used as and when he needed it, sharing the facilities with others in his trade. He waved her in the direction of a chair, watching her with contempt. She wore a long black leather coat which was unbuttoned to expose a low-cut tight-fitting black dress with bits of gauzy fabric hanging around her breasts. Her long leather boots were zipped to the knee.

  “Let’s see the money. Count it slowly please.”

  She nodded and with shaking hands she quickly pulled out her purse and began to fish for money. Suleiman thought she was Latino and that she had been taking drugs for some time now. He could see that she had once been pretty; her high cheekbones and tumbling hair must have turned a head or two. But now her face had that emaciated look and pretty soon she would no longer find work as a prostitute. Some keys fell from her bag to the floor and as she stooped down to pick them up her hair parted at the nape to reveal a tattoo. A starfish.