The Study Circle

by Haroun Khan

  Bringing him out of his thoughts, his mum said, ‘Ishaq, son, I have a question, about something I saw in the newspaper this morning.’

  Ishaq asked, ‘Which newspaper?’

  ‘Daily Mail.’

  He felt his blood heat, quicken and rise. Ishaq was exasperated by his mum’s continued purchase. But when he had time to kill and the paper was just lying there, ready to hand, he was always tempted by it too. It was like being seduced by a schoolmate’s dodgy late night doner kebab. The shame and disgust existing before, during and after the event.

  ‘Mum, why do you buy that rubbish?’

  ‘I told you it has special offers and good shopping deals.’

  Ishaq found his mother’s simple nature infuriating at times. Maybe simple was unfair, more hospitable was about right, open, able to take everything at face value. Raised among her own people as the majority, she hadn’t needed to assess risks, or develop street smarts. Not been born into those feelings of insecurity and quiet paranoia that are borne of being from a conspicuous minority. She would strike a conversation up with pretty much anyone on a bus or the underground, with Ishaq smouldering, feeling agitated and protective when his mother was engaged by a potential threat. His parents lived on the estate but they lived a remarkably different life. From childhood onwards he saw how smiles evaporate as puppy fat disappeared, cheekbones became defined and muscles grew hard. Society’s pattern of fear and reaction, fight and flight, was set off by seeing boys of brown and black skin growing into men. Not by some tiny elderly woman in a salwar kameez pushing along a polka-dotted shopping trolley from the budget supermarket. A shopping trolley that did in fact get stolen when Ishaq’s mum left it at the bottom of the block’s stairs for five minutes while she fetched him to carry it up. That had been one of the rare times he had seen his mother angry. She had made a meal for an elderly neighbour and couldn’t believe that someone had dared to steal a beautiful fresh chicken biryani. Ishaq had enjoyed telling his mother how much this validated his view of estate life.

  Ishaq shook his head. ‘What did you read?’

  ‘Something about Muslims…’

  Ishaq started laughing, catching his mouth in case he woke his father. ‘Well, it’s always something about Muslims. Did a burka wallah steal toffees from a baby and do a runner?’

  ‘No, it was about something called FGM. I wanted to ask you, what is that?’

  ‘Uhhh…’ Ishaq’s face took on a rose hue. He puffed his cheeks as he tried to think of an appropriate answer, ‘uuh…well…you know how…men…get circumcised…well…in some countries in Africa they do something like that for women. It’s pretty gross. Nothing really.’

  Ishaq avoided eye contact as his mother stared, even more intrigued. ‘Ok…what does that actually mean?’

  ‘Mum, seriously, I’m not going into detail with you. It’s too gross, ask Maryam instead. Anyway, don’t worry. It’s some local culture thing, even if they are trying to pin it totally on us.’

  His mother grabbed a copy from behind a chintz-patterned pillow and started flicking through the pages, pointing at a picture. ‘I’ve asked your sister, she goes too shy as well. Why have they got a big picture of a niqabi next to the article? Nothing like this happens in Pakistan.’

  Ishaq took the newspaper, held it as if he were wearing asbestos gloves, folded it and handed it back. ‘Well because, as if they don’t have enough to slap us around with, they like finding any little thing that happens anywhere among a billion-and-a-half and then blaming everyone. It’s an called an agenda, Mum. Don’t. Buy. That. Newspaper.’

  Ishaq’s mother nodded, calmy taking the newspaper and putting it away. ‘You haven’t explained. So what exactly happens, and in which countries?’

  Ishaq scanned through the list of news reports in his mind. It wasn’t just that paper but so much of the outside world. Always hysterical. Anything from the serious, like benefit cheats and grooming gangs, to the surreal, like articles stating that Muslims are trying to implement Sharia law and ban Christmas. Ishaq was surprised they didn’t accuse Father Christmas of being a clandestine Muslim; that guy had a massive beard, avoided airports, and enjoyed breaking and entering into their homes on their sacred holidays.

  Still, the stories continued. Every minor infraction by anyone remotely ‘Muslamic’ diffused into multiple headlines, conflating the many fears of a crepuscular nation in decline. Rather than reflecting on our times, the media acted as the Pied Piper of public opinion. Merrily leading their aroused charges over the meridian to a blurry destination that was not even within their own purview, but probably somewhere where Winston Churchill was in charge, blowing hard on a cigar while listening to Vera Lynn.

  ‘I’m tired. Please ask Maryam again. I can’t do it. Can I go please?’ Ishaq said, hoping his abruptness would end the conversation.

  Ishaq’s mother paused, looking at him. ‘Ok, Ishaq get some sleep. You have school in the morning.’

  ‘University,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Ok, big man, university.’ His mother scrunched both eyes as she smiled.

  Ishaq kissed his mother and left, relieved that he had averted an excruciatingly awkward conversation.

  4.

  Iron bars of rain enveloped Ishaq. Running for cover, he felt their weight batting at him. Looking to the horizon he took in heady cumulus clouds laden, ready to dump their load onto an already dank university campus. The sky spread a grey-blanketed pall over already leaden buildings. Ishaq found this most London of hues a comfort; far preferable to those rare, hot, and somehow inappropriate summer days. No, London was better in a nice restrained grey, like a regal elderly statesman. Less of a stygian gloom than the palette of the estate but nevertheless muted and understated. Ishaq liked grey. He lived in grey. There was contentment in grey.

  He reached the entrance of his university’s administration building. Standing in the portico, within the shadow of one of the giant Doric columns, Ishaq fumbled around in his backpack for a hastily-scribbled post-it note. Once retrieved, he checked the room number of his final year tutor.

  Ishaq had gained admission as they raised tuition fees. With the money saved from living at home, and summers working at a call centre, he could just about make ends meet. Get through the years, keep the plates spinning without a crash or smash. His parents had always talked about university. It was a given. An article of faith that education solved all problems. It was the match that lit the generator of material wellbeing and security. When they had come to the UK higher education was free and it made their struggle worthwhile, knowing their children could work their way up. Now he felt like the drawbridge was being raised.

  He made his way to the east wing, climbed the winding terrazzo stairs and located his tutor’s door. On first inspection it looked like an impressive hardwood, in accordance with the grandeur of the building. On closer scrutiny, Ishaq noticed that the door was blistering and cracking in places, and in fact peeling away in others like chapped skin. He pulled on one strand of the hardwood veneer, felt it ease away and reveal cheap chipboard. Ishaq caught at another section. The door opened. Professor Harrell saw Ishaq looking slightly abashed, with a sliver of hardwood veneer in his hand.

  ‘I do wish you students would just come in, rather than insist on stripping my door of all its dignity. No time for gawping, come on.’

  A harassed-looking man, constantly pushing his unkempt hair one way then the other, Professor Harell always acted like he was late for his own funeral. He had been Ishaq’s tutor for a while, although they met intermittently. This suited them both fine. Don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.

  The door opened onto a room a little bit larger than Ishaq’s bedroom. Just enough to hold a wooden desk, a couple of haggard chairs, and a wall-to-wall bookcase haphazardly packed with papers. A likely indication of this tutor’s disheveled mind; though, in this digital age, Ishaq found that musty smell of old papers reassuring. They held the ready nostalgia of recorded history an
d the reclamation of minds long gone. But then it was not his history and nor were they related minds. This whole institution, its architecture, its discussions, its concerns, always reminded him how the West culturally and romantically traced the total lineage of human knowledge and wisdom back to the Romans and Greeks.

  The decision to study History had been a difficult one. Friends of his parents would raise eyebrows or ask abrupt questions of what their son was up to. It was axiomatic to his parent’s generation that getting a university education involved studying something of substance, something that had a direct link with job prospects. There was so much risk in migrating, and the future so uncertain, that you needed skills that were easily transferable. Abilities rooted in the real world, to do with things you could feel and manipulate. Doing, not thinking. Action, not prevarication. Competencies that were physical, not incorporeal. Ideas were too abstract and the subject of whimsy. They were beholden to extraneous judgement, and only as good as contacts, and any assurance bred-by-birth, allowed. The ability to make money from ideas fed on distant audiences and inaccesible networks was a charmed confidence trick that they did not possess the guile for.

  ‘Excuse the mess. Come in Ishaq. Quickly. Take a seat.’ The professor took one of the chairs and indicated another, moving a bundle of yellowing papers.

  The professor settled on the other side of the desk and Ishaq went to take his seat, having to evict one final book.

  ‘The Catcher in the Rye,’ the professor noted. ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘Yea, good book. A classic,’ Ishaq said, as he mirrored the other man’s nodding. ‘Is everything ok? I don’t believe that we had anything in the normal schedule.’

  Sitting with one leg over the other, the professor wrung his white liver-spotted hands. Like a spry gymnast preparing for action, thought Ishaq. Often this could look like nerves but Ishaq thought the man was the victim of an energetic and overactive mind, what with his constant fidgeting and irregular nodding while talking.

  ‘Yes, everything is fine, don’t worry…unless there’s something you want to tell me?’ The professor stared.

  Ishaq shook his head slowly and frowned, embarrassed by the ensuing silence, feeling that he was at a confession, prompted by a preceptor rather than a pedagogue. ‘Uhh…no…nothing that comes to mind. You called me in…’

  The professor continued with an attempt at an appraising stare. Something about the way the man was trying to look grave whilst lost in an oversize orange jumper, pilling from age, made him want to laugh.

  Professor Harrell said ‘Ok…well…Look, I’ve been meaning to have a chat to you about your future plans. Do you know what you want to do after you graduate?’

  Now this sounded like Mum or Dad talking. What about the future? Yea, what about it? He had romantic ideas of university as the opportunity to think and analyse and explore; they saw it as more of a passport to a secure livelihood, but this was all guesswork. This journey was just an idea that had never been tested. One part conjecture, another part founding mythology. He did accept the need to be more calculating. Be responsible, earn money. Cold decisions were required, not quixotic ideas. When applying for degrees he had flirted with the sciences and engineering, but had no interest in becoming a doctor or staring down at people’s manky teeth. The prohibition on usury ruled out banking. He even looked at pharmacy, but the idea of that was soul-destroying. Yea, the final choice was a bit carefree but the only opportunity to study something fascinating. One fleeting window in a lifetime, one narrow chance, that had flown so quickly that here he was now, in his final year. Resigned to applying for jobs and entering that so-called real world.

  ‘Well…I’m not too sure. I’ll probably go through the milk round, see what’s out there.’

  ‘Anything else?’ The professor’s eyes widened.

  Ishaq shook his head and pursed his lips, ‘No…not really…should there be?’

  ‘We, the department and I, have kept an eye on you…and think you have promise. I wanted to talk to you about the possibility of staying on.’

  Ishaq, slumping in his chair, straightened up. ‘To do what?’

  ‘Masters, Research, a Phd track maybe?’

  He had mastered the art of low expectations yet this felt different, it piqued his interest, but then surprises were not always a gift . ‘Why me?’

  ‘Well, we are getting a lot of funding for more research on the Muslim community in Britain, and as a promising student, presumably with germane experience, I thought I would see what you think.’

  If this is what patronage is, there’s always a premium to be paid, thought Ishaq. ‘So I would be the token Muslim guy? Great, what would the work exactly entail?’

  ‘No, no, no! You’ve been mentioned because of the quality of your work and dissertation this year. As for the work, well, that would be what we would decide together. There’s not enough that has been done on the history of Islam in Britain, reform movements, leadership, the media, mosque development, development links to activities overseas. The list is endless. I think you would find it interesting as it seems to be in line with your elective choices.’

  The venerable Prof was right; it was interesting. Social and economic shifts, groups uniting and dividing, ideologies prospering and declining. It was so engrossing. He couldn’t help comparing what he had learned here to his own community. It was as if he was experiencing history at an accelerated pace, the peculiar awareness that he was both an observer and participant. Some lefty students maybe dreamt to be a part of it. He saw their romanticisation of the downtrodden, the allure of a cause. As if he had been given a mysterious gift. If only they knew the truth of it. A cocktail of race and class struggle was begetting an inchoate future, abutted by periodic violence. So many questions but no time to sit down and think. He wanted some sense of understanding. His own perceptions. Some control, even if it were illusory. Some notion of agency, even if ultimately a mirage. He felt his community, if indeed it was a community, lurched from one crisis to the next. Society clubbing with one question after another, a wall of sound so sonorous, so resounding, that many started to tune out its constant pitch, to clamp weary hands to their ears and retreat inwards. He was the same as a boy – as a man – with a slushed foundation and no guide. Every movement forward a new frontier, a naked step, knee deep into virgin snow. Pioneering yet exhausting.

  He put a hand forward to make a point, but paused and retracted, took a brief look at this elderly white man, and pressed his thumb into the table, testing its solidity. Was it worth attacking that deep dive, the risk of drowning to find treasure?

  ‘That sounds interesting but I have to ask, what would be the point? Lots of papers passed between university and government departments. What does it ever achieve?’ said Ishaq.

  ‘Again that depends on you. You could use the research to help Muslim groups, it can be used to formulate government policy. It’s not an ivory tower project, Ishaq. It’s a niche area, you could make a good career. Who knows…if you are possibly interested in academia, this is a good opportunity. It’s a fascinating time and we could do with people like you researching it.’

  Government and its policy? There were many well-connected right-wing institutes that resolutely held them as their targets. You had shadowily-funded think tanks with Orwellian names such as the Centre for Social Cohesion, which aimed at spreading in-cohesion. One called ‘Student Rights’ that existed solely to attack the rights of Muslim students. Dog-whistle talk on how large the Muslim population will be or why the name ‘Muhammad’ is popular for babies. Questioned on why they were producing such papers, they would cower and say, ‘Just leaving it out there’ and ‘Let’s have a debate’.

  ‘People like me? You make it sound like paid-spying or government-lackey work,’ said Ishaq, insistent.

  Professor Harrell went silent. Taking a deep breath he said, ‘Again it’s not that…but it does tie-in with something else I wanted to speak to you about. This is difficult, but…
don’t know how to put this…but we have had requests for information about you.’