The Study Circle

by Haroun Khan

  The subject for the Panel was the ongoing European Conference on Muslim Affairs. A German minister was out on stage. Germany had taken over the presidency of the council that rotated every six months amongst the constituent nations. The minister spoke with clamant passion: ‘The political elites of Europe are becoming emotional and arbitrary. Muslims in Europe are a concrete fact and cannot be wished away. We must find solutions together head on, in an inclusive way. The French model of pretending everyone was equal under the law as citizens has not worked. They do not even count people by ethnicity in their census and many feel it has become a way for to hide bigotry. The English way of accepting and even encouraging difference has led to divided communities. No one way has worked. So we, the countries of Europe, have started to enact pettiness. A poor compensation for the inability to envision a future. The banning of minarets in Switzerland. Then the face veil in France, even though it was worn by the minority of a minority. An attempt to stop male circumcision in my country of Germany. An attempt that was dropped once realised this would affect Jews too. These incidents all destroy the illusion of justice for all. That they were anything but the victimisation of a specific group.’

  The speaker said that a blazing spotlight had been turned on. One that seared a community. Europe was letting itself be seen as confused. Inadequate. As if it was not emotionally ready to face up to a new world order. That Europe had to accept that it had changed irrevocably, that maybe it needed to be more like the USA; a melting-pot, not as a dream or aim but as a social reality.

  The man was engaging and frank. Ishaq could sense the audience draw within, keen on hearing more. He heard this fissure described as a threat to all. Newly accessioned states such as Poland were aggressive in maintaining the focus on Europe’s Christian roots. The minister reported how right-wing conservatives launched diatribes, accusing him of trying to change the very foundation of European civilisation that had brought human rights to the world. He told how many Muslim groups accused him of trying to force assimilation. That they complained that he was seeing them as a helpless and monolithic, rather than containing varying strands of racial, sectarian, social and economic complexity. They saw his proposals as intrusive, trying to regulate thought and action. That he was in fact intensifying light on the issue, stigmatising them, undermining their status.

  His words came in a flurry, not yielding to any silences, or the pensiveness of the crowd. Towards the end he paused, took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He looked out, squinting at the lights. Past the stage and lip of light, he must have only been able to see a pitch black. His words slowed, he insisted that many right-wingers did see Muslims as an annoyance. That these politicans were not interested in civic values, they were solely identity-protectionists, fearful and guarded of their privilege. He wanted a different approach. He wanted to emphasise that Muslims were a welcome and integral part of Europe, who could not just be used as cheap generational labour, or to fight in Europe’s dirty wars. But that required talk, demanded honest effort on all sides. As the minister left to applause, Ishaq was surprised at how impressed he was. This man seemed to have a vision for a way forward; for the way things could be. He was brave and talked a lot of common sense. Ishaq could only surmise that this would see his career fail.

  As the evening ground on, a variety of speakers stood at the lectern. One after the other figures paraded onto the stage. A Conservative MP, then a member of a right-wing think tank. Some self-styled leaders of Muslim communities, followed by others who had been handpicked by some arcane, government-backed process. Like actors in a theatre, reading some shared anodyne lines, all parties, from wheresoever they came, used the same script. They called for working together, for peace and harmony, and they all applauded one another. Ishaq felt it was strange and defeating that they all had the same formulae but actually meant totally different things. ‘Working together’ really meant accepting the word and ideas of one party over another. For the Right, this meant de-Islamicising Muslims. For some of the others this meant legitimising Muslim practices in the UK. Welcoming ‘discussion’ and ‘debate’ really meant mollifying the opposition by allowing them to vent their spleen and, once sated, the more powerful interest groups could go about their way as usual. Both sides of the argument remonstrated through the language of their own experience, that only produced a grainy myopia. Although all putatively native English speakers, it sometimes felt to Ishaq that one side was speaking Latin and the other side Arabic. Unintelligible and isolated.

  Maybe Marwane was right: this was a waste of time. Ishaq’s leg wiggled involuntarily as he looked around to gauge the reactions of others. They all hung intent on the words produced by this roll call of VIPs. Some, it seemed, were happy and placated simply by the act of a powerful person pretending to hear them out.

  The next speaker had been part of an extremist group. As a teen he was already recruiting others to his certitude that the Muslims needed saving, and by his group alone. After periods in jail and burning out at thirty, he started another organization. This time combating the original one. One that he was now positive was dangerous, and led by the very people he had recruited. Ishaq thought of Abdul-Majid: he had the same hip-hop stories, and supposedly rough upbringing in some small town somewhere outside London. Combining the vengeance of a spurned lover and a convert’s zeal, this guy attacked his former group and then spread his ire on Muslims displaying religiosity. Once again in ironclad certainty that he was the one to lead British Muslims, this time out of the darkness of belief, he had even convinced the government to fund his new think tank to the hilt.

  Yet another speaker followed who disagreed with these previous solutions and put forward those of his new think tank. This new man was supposedly an actual Jihadi but was now another poacher turned gamekeeper on the government’s payroll. Ishaq’s mouth hung open while listening to them. Splinter upon splinter. People arguing over slivered fragments so fine that they were invisible to the normal human eye.

  Some people just didn’t know when to shut up and take a back seat. Ishaq thought that these guys had never had real jobs. They first sponged off vulnerable people, then the state. They always thought they were right, and loved to tell everyone else what to do. They were truly assimilated, in that they would make wonderful British politicians. They were better off in their natural abode, the Houses of Parliament.

  The final speaker came on. A Muslim academic, he struck a very different tone. Bespectacled and wearing a tweed jacket, he was the personification of English academia. His honeyed-words flowed and made the audience feel safe. Straightaway, Ishaq didn’t trust him.

  ‘We need to create a British Islam. One that is at home and at ease more so here, in the UK, than some ancestral siren from foreign lands. Something that resonates in the hills of Yorkshire rather than those of the Punjab. We have a veritable Tower of Babel in our mosques, speaking in Bengali, and Urdu, and Farsi, and Turkish, when we should be reaching out to our people in the language of their own country: English. We need to remove any of our former cultural baggage from Islam and find its pure and true message.

  ‘To our non-Muslim friends and colleagues, I would say that this has been done before. We must remember that Christianity, once a middle-eastern creed, found its way to these shores and became a prime source of spiritual fulfilment. To my Muslim brethren, I say that we should not fear and cling on to an empty ritualistic approach, and to each other. We must remember that we are all God’s creation and part of one British community, that we have been given reason, and a mind in which to navigate matters that sometimes cannot be broached with a rigid orthodoxy.’

  Pleasant and soothing words. Altogether meaningless words. Yet again something everyone could agree on, yet meaning absolutely nothing.

  ‘It has been done before. We look at the example of Moses Mendelssohn, a Prussian Jew who paved the way for Jews to integrate and gain acceptance. Along with others, via the Haskalah movement, he paved a way for Jews to joi
n as equals in the European enlightenment.’

  Ishaq’s errant, juddering leg stopped still. He had studied the Haskalah movement at uni and was surprised that the speaker would push this model of integration. Moses Mendelssohn had started his attempt in 18th century Germany. And didn’t that end well , thought Ishaq.

  ‘We, the leading Muslim thinkers, should join hands with our colleagues in government and push forward a more cultivated and pragmatic education amongst those who maintain a tight grip on the hollow safeties of literal scripture. Show them a better, more egalitarian, way. We should take a more active approach with their offspring. Especially those of the most extreme, who we should take into our bosom with affection and great care. The burden is ours.’

  He went on and on. The speaker extolled a hands-on approach with communities and the education of their children, including intervention. Questioning them in their schools, taking them into care if under risk. The threat of children-snatching was a sinister fairytale seeping into reality. Ishaq had grown used to such outlandish proposals when they came from outside, but from someone supposedly within, it stung.

  Unconsciously, Ishaq raised his hand. Not waiting for acknowledgement and before he was aware, he shouted out, ‘These words are all nice but what does this actually mean on the ground? Are you seriously threatening to take people’s children?’

  His eyes blinking under the glare of the lights, the academic placed a hand over them and replied, ‘Not quite. Just in very extreme cases. It is very complicated. Maybe could you leave the question until the end when we have more time?’

  Ishaq’s voice gathered force. ‘I’d prefer to have an answer now. You’ve waved around some big statements, but how does this relate to people actually on the ground, people who work everyday? To me, all of these speeches just seem to be one posh class talking to another.’

  Murmurs rippled through the audience as necks turned to see where the question originated. The speaker made a calming gesture with his hand, as if he wanted to pat the question down. ‘Well, we have differences of opinion, sir. We should struggle to find commonalities. Discussion like this is important.’

  Another voice cast out from the crowd towards the speaker. ‘All parts of society have differences of opinion, whether it be race, class, geography, whatever. The fact is that Muslims already accept the rule of British law. Muslims are three generations in, and there’s no getting round the fact that we are permanent.’

  The speaker, neck stretched, tried to locate the second voice. ‘Yes, but they should accept Britain’s culture and not seek to change it.’

  Buoyed by the support, Ishaq shouted, ‘So, anyone can seek to change something in Britain as long as they stay within democratic norms, unless they are Muslim? So if I want the council to start collecting the bins weekly instead of fortnightly, I have to think in my head, “Hang on mate, I’m Muslim, I can’t ask that. I’ll just suffer in the stench like a good citizen.”’ A smattering of laughter was heard across the auditorium.

  ‘No, that’s is a caricature of the argument. I am saying that we should integrate into society, and look more at our reason and the western intellectual tradition…’

  ‘And discard all our traditions, or stop looking at any other. And, if we don’t, you’ll nick our kids?’ Ishaq felt his face heat.

  ‘Ok sir, thank you for your point. Next question…’

  Ishaq stood up, pointing and gesticulating at the man. ‘Hang on, I haven’t finished. You know, what really pisses people off about discussions like this, especially from our own, is the desperation to be accepted. You have no idea how people live!’

  ‘Ok, thank you, I think that’s enough. Please sit or I’ll have to ask security to intervene.’

  Ishaq’s voice reverberated. ‘As for this bullshit about a Muslim enlightenment; the Haskalah reached its culmination, it’s ultimate expression, in an individual like Fritz Haber, did it not? A self-hater, who boasted about the chemical weapons he was producing for Germany, who in turn rewarded him by using his inventions to try and wipe out his people, who he had denied. And in your own way that’s what bootlickers like you are trying to do, wipe us out or erase us from the picture…’

  Ishaq felt a hand on him and turned as an irritated security guard, who barely fitted into his uniform, shirt buttons bursting, tried to usher him away. With two more coming, he continued yelling, yet as loud as his voice rose it felt lost in the immensity of the hall. ‘While accepting a worldview of a society that has committed so many atrocities that they should hang their head in shame, before telling completely powerless people what to do.’

  Some people started to jeer, telling him to shut up. Others started to clap. A shout went out, ‘He speaks the truth.’

  Puffing and bent over from having run to Ishaq’s position from the bottom of the auditorium, another guard said, ‘Seriously kid, I don’t get paid enough for this crap. Let’s make this easy. Just calm down and let’s go.’

  ‘I ain’t going nowhere.’ Even in the struggle, Ishaq noticed his intonation and language code switch to a more ‘street’ type of talk.

  Ishaq tried to brush the man’s swollen hand off, but the security guard held a tight enough grip that gave time for others to come as reinforcement. Ishaq struggled as they physically ushered him up the stairs and out of the room. As he was transported to the top of the staggered arena, he caught the sullen face of one of the other audience members. It was Professor Harell. Trying to be charitable, the professor averted his gaze in an attempt to maintain some of Ishaq’s dignity, but the damage was already done. Ishaq shouted at the top of his lungs, ‘This is the reality of the discussion you type of people want.’

  Banished, Ishaq tried to control his emotion. He could feel his face burning from anger and embarrassment. Shame mixed with righteous indignation. Escorted outside, he looked back at the doors and saw two guards with crossed arms. Implacable, standing in front of the venue. He could feel the bile rise again, the guards’ faces looking like they were challenging him to give it another try.

  As he stood there, contemplating another confrontation, a fan walked by. Dressed as one of Dr Who’s enemies, the Cyberman ostentatiously paraded a considered robotic movement. As the steel grey automaton walked past Ishaq it stopped, and pivoted its head left to give what could have been a stern look of judgement. Ishaq eyeballed it, then the security guards, and gave a performative smile in the pretence of being in control. He turned around and put his hoody up, blocking out the world. Ishaq thought at least it wasn’t a Dalek shrilly screaming, ‘Exterminate!’…or did they say ‘Assimilate!’? He couldn’t remember which.

  He shambled his way to the nearest train station and got on the Docklands Light Railway, an automated unmanned light metro system. Like a self-guided drone, it weaved its way through the metallic towers of the financial district, and then through eerie boarded-up residential streets. Taking no notice of other passengers, Ishaq stayed on until the last stop by St Katherine Docks. His hands started shaking, and he decided to walk it off by following the Thames Path to Waterloo.

  Crossing Tower Bridge Ishaq thought how much of an ugly sore it was, especially compared with the jewels of London like the Houses of Parliament; the bridge’s Victorian gothic style a pastiche of what someone thought a fairytale London should look like. It was big, and one rule of life was that anything large, or powerful enough, could defy the rules of good taste. It created its own language, its own reality. It rendered any critique futile. He saw tourists, heads back, exposing their camera-strapped necks, looking upwards and gawking. Ishaq saw their awe. He saw how we wonder at monuments and relics of the past, when we should be judging societies on how we treat our weakest, on those small petty kindnesses we do when no one is looking. But history doesn’t record those so, like Ozymandias, we make an arrogant fight against the inevitable fading of the permanent.

  On the south side of the river Ishaq immediately felt at home, more certain and balanced. A bit closer to the fam
iliar sounds of emergency-service sirens and the curious cries of a busy South London street. Along a stretch of a few miles the northern bank of the Thames held the Tower of London, St Paul’s Cathedral, the gleaming offices of The City, and the Houses of Parliament. For the first time in its history the southern side of the river was rapidly gentrifying, to mirror the north, but echoes of what had been still lingered . It held narrow streets that had once hosted boozy inns, whorehouses, docks, and a wretched prison. He wondered whether people from that other time looked across the water in the same way. Unimaginable wealth poured through those offices, in instruments and methods that the general public could hardly imagine. Everything was centred around servicing the needs of those few. Maybe that was the real London.

  London was ever-changing but the constant was trade and money, for some small obscure elite that had been trained from birth in schools and societies and organisations that Ishaq would never come into contact with. The lives on the south side, those of the poor, were footnotes. Wealth being sucked-in from around the world, followed by people from around the globe trapped in the city’s magnetic hold; an invisible hand herding them to this bygone-Empire’s beating heart of darkness.

  Ishaq walked past the Pool of London. The river was at high tide and swollen. Always looking on the verge of breaking its banks and wrecking the city, the capital calmly stared this threat down and watched it subside. The wind chilled his face and he wound his hoody tighter, casting his face in shadow. And so what? Ishaq thought. Smarting from being told what was the norm, and that people like him had to capitulate.

  As if they had got everything right? All that wealth and the English were still miserable bastards. They had lost any religion; they poured scorn on any spirituality. The void couldn’t be filled by intellectualism, as they distrusted that too. They had no real shared culture across their classes except for crap television and consuming in excess. They were inhospitable to foreigners, sometimes to the point of being hateful. But then they did not seem to like each other too much either, or even themselves for that matter. Their family units looked cold and uncaring. They needed copious amounts of alcohol before they could even dare to think of connecting with another human being in anything other than a superficial manner. If they didn’t constantly treat him and his family like shit, he would actually feel sorry for them. All that wealth…for what?