The Study Circle

by Haroun Khan

  Dismissive, Mujahid kissed his teeth. ‘Yea, same ol’ shit. Rats taking bites out of each other. Some outsider. Whenever I see strangers round the block I make sure that they know not to mess around here. I don’t accept no messin’. Anyway, I wanted to see you, you’re looking for work right?’

  Shams paused, standing feet fixed in the hallway ‘…yea, I just need some seed money for this business I’m doing. But I don’t want to get into anything dodgy.’

  ‘Bro, c’mon man, I wouldn’t ask you to do anything funny. That’s proper offensive. Dodgy?’ Mujahid laughed off the suggestion as he wiped a bit of grit from his eye and then started rubbing both. ‘What’s this business about?’

  ‘I have this cousin in Bangladesh who knows a lot of clothing factory owners. He says he can hit me up with the contacts and start doing some imports if I get the cash. Start off small you know, then try and build up.’

  ‘Mashallah, that’s good. Brothers should be earning their own way. Not relying on the kuffar for their jobs and income. The centre of our struggle, our Jihad, is money, bro. You can’t do anything without money. If that means taking from and exploiting the enemies of Islam, then so be it.’

  Shams looked unsure, ‘I…don’t know…what do you mean about taking? Stealing is haram. I’m talking about trade.’

  Mujahid returned a hand to Shams shoulder. ‘ Of course it is bro, but stealing ain’t stealing when you are taking from an unjust, oppressive system and giving it to people living under that oppression. Just sayin’. Nothing meant by it. Chill.’

  Entering the living room, Mujahid brushed some soft toys and a heap of children’s clothing off a sofa that had seen better days. Holes in the couch’s green fabric allowed the upholstery to make a break for freedom in sprouting tufts. Shams took a seat, being careful to avoid a wet patch. As he sunk deep, the cushioning made a despairing sough. A few wrinkled books were cast around the floor. The Crusades Through Arab Eyes, Foucault’s Pendulum, and what seemed to be a compendium of medical diseases. Mujahid sat down on a plastic folding chair opposite, picked up another book and showed Shams the cover in triumph. It showed a picture of Christian and Muslim knights on horseback, flailing their sword and scimitar at each other.

  Mujahid rubbed the cover of the book in a caress, while still warding off his slumber. ‘I’ve been reading see. Taking from the warmongers who once stole from us is not stealing. You feel that don’t you? Our countries have been invaded for 1,000 years, since the Crusades, bro. And they’ve kept invading, killing, and taking ever since. That’s how they made their money. We owe no loyalty to that. In this book, I was reading once about this one Crusade. There was a town the Christian invaders lay siege to called Ma’arra. After they took over the town, they killed the survivors and ate them out of hunger. Butchered them, and roasted children on spits. All these animals blessed by the pope. Cannibals. They’ve been hungry and biting bits of our flesh ever since.’

  Shams eyes widened. ‘Seriously bro, I never heard of that.’

  ‘Yes, I read, see. All the time. All those friends of yours think I just hustle, but I spend a lot of my time learning. Learning our history. Learning is power. I think and make plans.’ Muajhid looked at Shams, checking to see that he was suitably impressed, ‘Anyways, I do have some errands that you can do for me. Pays good cash.’

  Shams looked down at his seat, making as if he was examining the sofa. ‘I’m not sure that I’m interested. If the brothers from the halaqah found out, I’d get in trouble’.

  Mujahid stopped shifting and went quiet, the atmosphere altered as if Shams had uttered a taboo that petrified the air. Mujahid had attended the same circle as Shams and the boys, but his attendance became erratic and he faded from the scene. Some didn’t think anything of it. It was weird for Shams, being back on this estate but not going to that group. They were his crew. He respected Ishaq, who he also thought was strong but in a different way. Ishaq didn’t get drawn into crowds and always tried to do the right thing. Shams remembered when a local pusher offered him a different odd-job, a courier gig, by bringing out a wad of bills. To Shams, the man was like Willy Wonka. He held little tickets of freedom bound in a shining gold money-clip. As he had reached to take it, Ishaq had stopped him. It was not our way. Shams had pulled back. The grubby, pockmarked dealer then lent over Ishaq, held him by the throat and asked everyone who the little cunt was. He told Ishaq that there were no other ways here and, with a gravelled hoarseness, said, ‘Everyone does it, do you think you’re better then them, better than me?’ Shams remembered the chill down his spine, how everyone had frozen. He remembered how Ishaq’s eyes widened and body went rigid, but then how clearly and without his voice breaking he had said, ‘You’re a drug dealer.’ Ishaq closed his eyes, already flinching in anticipation of the blow. The dealer stared at Ishaq, licking a shrivelled lip, hesitating, and then told everyone to fuck off. Shams asked Ishaq afterwards whether he was being brave or stupid. Ishaq had replied, ‘I don’t know, Shams…it’s just right and wrong.’ Since then he had always turned to Ishaq for advice. But those days were gone. Ishaq and the others had left him.

  Mujahid wiped his lower lip with a finger, his face all angles and flatness like hewn stone. ‘What those poodles? Praying in the mosque and having their religious conversations but doing nothing. Do you think they respect you Shams? You’re like me, like the guys I met in prison. In there, there was true brotherhood. That’s where I found Islam. We fasted and prayed, and we were there for each other. Coming out, it’s every man for themselves. No nothing, no one has time for anyone else. You see this?’ Mujahid pointed to a sinuous trail on his right cheek, ‘In prison, one of those racist white pigs had a go at someone like you. A brother. A brother in Islam. I weren’t having it, so I stopped it. The guy had a razor and slashed me. I hit that guy so hard, his cheek caved in. No mandem dared try cut me after that. Or touch my friends.’

  People converted in prison, came and went through the circle and local mosques, sometimes never to be seen again. Their temporal needs sated or a return to being misplaced in the world. Mujahid was different. With others that he had met or connected, it was rumoured that he had indeed started down the path of his old ways, but this time with a tincture of Islamic-based defiance against the establishment. He forged his own way and Shams liked that.

  Shams tried not to stare at the scar. Seasoned, curling almost into a coil. Paid for with trauma, a currency that could never be taken away. Mujahid didn’t take any crap and had respect. Respect meant no one would try to mess. He enjoyed being a fly in the ointment. Early on, his ragtag group was called the ‘Muslim Boyz’. Their very basic graffiti tag was seen around a lot of the estate. Shams remembered Ishaq laughing at it, he thought the changing of the ‘s’ to a ‘z’ in the spelling was predictable and comedic, yet the group so unpredictable and tragic. He said their use of Islam was ‘a stain on us all.’ Shams had stayed quiet. Ishaq never seemed to understand the need to have a group that had your back. He mentioned the tag’s spelling to Mujahid once. Mujahid had given it the dismissive grunt it deserved.

  Mujahid continued, ‘Now, out here, no one was helping me out so you have to do your own thing. I know you feel that way too, Shams. You want to do something properly for our Ummah, our nation. I’m trading away and I’ve got big plans.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Mujahid grinned. In the evaporating light cast, by a sole naked lightbulb, his tarred yellowed teeth blended into one long strip.

  ‘Well, you can’t expect me to tell you everything straight away. You have to earn and deal yourself in. There’s loads of people that I could have called in to start helping us out, but I see something different in you. Something special.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Shams asked, growing unsteadier.

  Mujahid’s paternal smile pushed down and held Shams, their eyes fixed in an unyielding vice, ‘You struggle like me and my boys. You know what hardship is like. Those circle boys and the old men in the mosques are s
oft. On these streets we are living in times of war, and we are the warriors of Islam. We must live our lives like mujahideen in this land, not like those others spending their life pretending.’

  Mujahid stood, his smile dissolving into a look of fizzing anger as he banged his right fist into the other open palm, as he continued a righteous oratory.

  ‘Pretending that we are going to be here forever. They don’t like complaining or raising a fuss. Just want to get on. Just pretend that everything is all right. That this is a just society. And if you don’t, pretend everything is ok. If you say that you’re a victim of the police or racism, people say you’ve got a chip on your shoulder. They start blaming you, the victim, instead of the oppressor. And if you continue going on about it then they become uncomfortable. Uncomfortable that a man can feel. That a man can feel injustice deeply. They don’t like being reminded of the truth. So it’s easier to wear masks. Happy ones. Busy ones. Positive ones. Never showing our real faces. The painful and angry ones. We all wear these masks you see. Oils our way through life. Lets us be comfortable with each other. And if someone’s mask drops we crap ourselves, because we might see ourselves as well as them. People like Ayub. I refuse to be like him. I refuse to wear a mask. I refuse to pretend. I think you feel that way too.’

  Shams felt a tingling down his body, a new sensitivity to his surroundings, a craving swelling inside. Mujahid’s reddened face loomed, like a preacher delivering a fiery sermon. But, as impressed as he was, Shams knew other preachers. ‘But Ayub says we have to stick within the laws. Try and be good. Try and be better?’

  Mujahid mouth contorted. ‘Laws? The only law is Allah’s law and Ayub has no control over that. His word isn’t divine.’

  ‘But he is learned,’ Shams said, almost in a whisper, sinking further into his seat as Mujahid’s form bore over him.

  Both of Mujahid’s arms were out in front. Fists clenched, one finger out, stabbing at Shams. ‘A few phrases in Arabic don’t make you learned. See, what people like him don’t understand is that outside in the real world laws are there for other people. People who have their family to support them. People who live in areas where the police come. People who have backup. People who live in nice warm houses looking at crazy events on tele from ways away. They live in delusion. They think that there are laws, rules that govern our society. But there are no rules, not for us. And those types of people are hypocrites anyway. They’ll look down on a gangster hustling to feed his kid. But a banker earning millions from doing haram, from doing what harms all of us, well as long as he has the big car, nice suit and big house then they give that guy big time respect. They gather like flies to honey. They can’t help themselves. They make laws to keep people like us down. Especially Muslims. They always create new laws for us and pretend it’s justice. We owe nothing to that unjust system, made by men with bad souls. Tell me Shams, all these laws, how do they help you?’

  Shams had never seen Mujahid so animated. The air itself shook as if in fear. In a world of lies these words were a howling wind of truth. He felt as if this knowledge was implicit, that it had always been lying there unspoken. Mujahid had chosen him to share this deep well of experience and obvious hurt that lent gravity to his speech, his passion sanctifying inviolate truths.

  ‘I dunno…they…don’t.’

  ‘You do know. I see it. People like you and me who have none of that, know the truth. All I want to do is give you an opportunity to start being a man. Making your own way. Nothing dodgy, just legit work.’

  Shams’ eyes flashed, labouring to take in the feeble light. ‘…What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Nothing dodgy, and this isn’t stealing, this is a business transaction, pure and simple. All you need to do is take some cash and hand it over to this guy who works at the airport. He’ll give you a package and that’s it bro. All legit.’ Mujahid pulled out a thick wad of banknotes.

  Shams rubbed the side of his head up and down, motioned to say something, stopped, then said ‘…What’s in the package?’

  Mujahid took his seat again and his voice settled on a more soothing tone. ‘Trust me brother, nothing dodgy. You can take a look yourself if you want, once you get it. And if you do well, I’ll cut you in on the profits.’

  ‘Why can’t you go yourself?’

  ‘Hey, hey, questions. As you can see, I’m a busy man. Let’s not kid ourselves that you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t interested in doing the job. Come on Shams, you know I have people doing jobs for me all around the place, all the time. This place is miles from here. I can’t spend all day going back and forth. This is just one more on my list. I’m really relying on you. You can earn your cash for whatever business you need, then be off on your way, but I think that you’ll stick around. You’re the boss of yourself. Your own master.’

  After the street hawking Shams had searched for other jobs. He managed to get work at a local supermarket. He remembered his row with a supervisor that no doubt was racist. The guy always made a beeline for him, only him. Shams refused to handle bottles of booze. Other Muslims and a Jewish guy who complained about pork had been given other duties, but Shams was forced to work the alcohol aisle. He quit after they asked him for ID to buy his mum a simple paring knife. They knew him, what was the need? He wouldn’t accept being treated like some potential thug. Always the same.

  Shams looked at the thick pack of money ‘…Ok, but I will take a look at what it is?’

  ‘No problem, here’s the address. Take this phone too. He’ll be expecting you. Drop the cash off, and he’ll give you another day to come and pick it up.’

  Shams looked on as Mujahid placed the notes carefully in an envelope, sealed it and placed it on a child’s pink play table in front of him. He had never seen so much cash. He wanted to reach out and touch it. Here, now, at night he felt the room whirl with endless possibilities, but he carried a fear that if he reached out and clutched a strand it would all wither to a earthly reality.

  Mujahid said, ‘So we safe?’

  Shams replied, ‘I still need to think about it, I think.’

  Shams watched as Mujahid nodded, slid the envelope back and tucked it into the band of his trackie bottoms. ‘Ok, but decide soon. Take the phone, it’s got one of my numbers and the guy’s digits.’

  Mujahid offered the phone. An old Nokia candybar, it had a low-res picture on its scratched and dilapidated screen that Shams barely looked at before stashing it in a pocket. Mujahid stared at Shams, who was forced to return the gaze. ‘I’m doing you the favour here, working for me, remember that. It won’t come again. Opportunities like this don’t come often. As you know, other people round these ways are doing stuff for me and doing well. You could be like them. If you say no, I’ve got a line of them looking for a chance. You know that’s truth, but you were alright with me way back so I want you to be the one.’

  Shams nodded. ‘Bruv, I appreciate it. I’ll definitely give a think and give you a shout.’

  The men stood up, Shams needing a second attempt to bounce upwards from the couch. Shams gave Mujahid a hug. He left the flat and could feel Mujahid’s gaze follow. He looked out high over London, cars going to and fro, scurrying like ants. He heard the door shut once again, felt his body relax, felt its thirst, and quenched himself on the cooler air like a man coming out of a fever. As he walked and saw London walking with him, he remembered that Ishaq liked to climb to the top of these towers to stare at stars and memorise constellations. It had always been a pain, getting Ishaq to come along with him and Marwane on those tube adventures. Ishaq was reticent about steaming behind a passenger, and preferred to ask commuters for their unneeded passes. Shams thought it a strange code of behaviour when they were completely dodging fares either way. Ishaq said that his dad worked in transport and could get into trouble if they were caught. Shams remembered laughing as he called Ishaq a pussy, and how irritated he became when he was coolly ignored. Ishaq would say jumping the barriers only worked a few times, until you finall
y got caught. It was better to work through the system as much as possible, even if it was a total sham.

  Ishaq and Marwane were not that far from where he now stood but they were as distant as those ants. At some point the adventures stopped. The thrill had gone. They had been frontiersmen bucking boundaries, making their own stories and histories. Now they were just ordinary travellers.

  Shams took the lift down and exited the block, once again walking past the police sign that was partially obscured by a mound of consolatory flowers. The notices were so common now. Yellow harbingers of peril. There was probably no alternative, no real substitute for the police anyway. You had to bring focus to the crime and they didn’t have the manpower to go door to door for potential witnesses. Still, they added to an underlying feeling of gloom. Shams felt it whenever he came back. So permeated and soaked through that locals didn’t even notice it. That took an outsider’s eye.

  In the shadow of one of the large towers, Shams passed a rare grassy patch and remembered one such interloper: a well-dressed woman, well put together, in a royal blue suit jacket and pleated skirt with pearl earrings and necklace. From an affluent part of Surrey, she woke up one day, and took the train all the way into London for a trip. Once there she boarded a bus and somehow arrived at the estate. Probably the first set of high rises that could be seen when entering the city from the south, away from her own home and community, ready to make her statement to the world. She proceeded to climb one of the tall towers, ascending as far as possible, one floor below the roof. She took in the view. And then jumped. As her body fell, revolving, descending from the heavens, crashing into the indifferent earth, a febrile whisper dashed around the estate like lightning. Upon hearing, Shams, with Marwane and Ishaq and some other friends, ran to take a look at the body. Getting there just before the medics, the ten year-old boys egged each other on as to who would dare touch the body. Shams didn’t take part. He just stared at the cadaver. He had expected a pool of blood, but the body had hit that rare grassy bank and somehow remained intact. Her skin had turned a translucent pale and her face was fixed, not in fear or despair, but in peace. The medics arrived and took the body away. The first dead body Shams had seen. Some gatherers strained their neck to take a gander, and said it was such a shame, and voiced some quiet sorrows. A white youth with a more prosaic mind called her a dumb bitch and jogged on. Shams ignored them and went home. No words, his face showing no reaction or emotion. But he felt anger. The first real anger he had experienced. Anger that someone rich had come from outside to inflict their misery on the estate, as if they should simply accept it as a humdrum part of their lives. It wasn’t enough that they had all the chances that people here never had: they had given up, and in that capitulation wanted to make their suffering more important than anyone else’s. Shams thought that he would never end up that way. He would get out. Whatever it took.