by Haroun Khan
‘And you’re not worried about Mujahid?’ asked Ishaq. ‘That brother is bad news. He’s always slating people from the circle, saying we are like the kuffar. We should be fighting for Islam…whatever that means in his head. He’s even talking nonsense on the streets about creating a Muslim-only zone. Stupidness. He is going to cause big issues one day.’
‘Well…just keep an eye on him, yea.’
They parted as Shams returned with a new hoard of biccies, eagerly handing out some Jammy Dodgers. ‘So, Marwane, how’s tricks; keeping busy yourself?’
Seeing Ayub peering over again, Marwane puffed his chest and raised his voice, bringing it down an octave. ‘All praise is due to Allah, we pray that he guides us all, brother.’
Ishaq’s face took on a mischievous grin. ‘Shams, you haven’t heard, but Marwane doesn’t watch telly anymore.’
‘Well brother, I try to remember Allah often,’ said Marwane with mock solemnity, ‘and try to not indulge in frivolous activities, but then again here I am talking to you two?’
‘Frivolous activities. Joker. Remember that time you played skateboard warriors and scrapped-up your face on the paving. You went home bleeding; your mum took one look and gave you bare licks,’ said Ishaq. ‘Didn’t let you out for two weeks, after that.’
Shams and Ishaq laughed as Marwane pouted. ‘Well I was a proper Braveheart as a kid. Kill a man for being too damn brave, real guts, not like you two midgets. Issy, you were proper sly in games, getting digs in without anyone noticing. I see you.’
They would find an incline somewhere, steeper the better, and two lots of two would sit on skateboards. The boards sped-up, kicks and punches thrashing-out as they rolled down helter-skelter. The speed, or opposing bandits, would always get you.
Games got serious, got out of hand. It was always getting out of hand. That was the fun of it. One winter some chief had the bright idea of hiding rocks in their snowballs. You always retained the shock of that first smack in the head. That fluffy John Lewis scene slamming you in a combo of pain and sharded ice. Your head reverberating as it smarted from the pop. Balls were already being scrunched as hard as possible. And it became an arms race after that. The projectiles getting bigger and bigger, experiments with size versus flight. Testing arcs through the air, and the sharpness of rocks. Kids split into shifting teams, staging pitched battles and ambushes. Until you realised this wasn’t fun at all. It hurt. A lot. So you stopped going out until the melt came.
There was also British Bulldog on a epic scale. In between the towers there was kind of a plaza. Kids used to line up against one side, and run from one side to the other. There were brawls but it was hilarious. Always finding bruises in random places days afterwards. Shams and Ishaq were both shorter than the rest, but Shams was a bit on the larger size then. His mum called it ‘plus size’. If they were watching him huffing and puffing, ‘Don’t worry; Shams is just ‘plus size’.’ ‘Your son is getting fat, no?’ ‘No, he’s just ‘plus size’.’
If someone sucker-punched Shams, or tripped him from behind, Ishaq would make a note and get the kid back in the next round. The estate was great for playing hide n’seek. Shams would always choose the same place, the large bin-areas where the chutes ended, sometimes even climbing into the skips. He would take it seriously. Some kids thought it funny to leave him there hiding for hours, but Ishaq always made sure to do a round of the bin-stores to fetch him.
If any kid, especialy an older one, dared him, Shams would bite. Wall of Pain: a handful of kids would line up and face a wall a couple of steps away, bridging the gap by resting one arm. One kid would pass under the bridge and be punched and kicked until they managed to get out. Shams was always up for it, pleading that he could do it, but Ishaq never let him play.
‘What’s that thing you used to say when we were playing tag?’ asked Ishaq.
‘Oh that, if you were out then…’ Shams hunched forward, his voice just above a conspiratorial murmur, ‘there’s a German in the grass with a bullet up his arse, pull it out, pull it out, pull it out.’
All three started with a soft chuckle.
‘Oh yea, and that other one, remember? When you were ‘it’.’
Shams’ head dipped lower. ‘Can’t tell you in here, tell you outside.’
‘Saddos. Only us losers who couldn’t get their hands on a proper phone played that stuff. I would have preferred Playstation. Billy had one, remember, everyone kissing his backside trying to get an invite. He had Fifa,’ said Marwane.
Ishaq detached himself from the huddle, leaning back, eyes softened. ‘I remember him. Nice kid. Haven’t seen him around for time.’
‘I see him around. Tries to call himself Will, now; see him with his workmates sometimes, trying to be big. Always on the verge of saying something but too scared in case we’re alone. You know the type I mean.’
‘Sounds like an idiot. Anyway, Pro Evo rules,’ Shams said. ‘So, seriously, you don’t watch television?’
‘Firstly, like I said, I don’t waste my time watching television, my honourable brother. I read Quran or take part in more beneficial activities…’ Marwane saw the white brother look over and shake his head, so turned down the volume, ‘…Seriously. It’s all bad news now and it vexes me, and most films vex me too.’
Ishaq, nose raised, sniffing blood. ‘Yea, right, you watch enough. Go on, tell Shams why you don’t watch Western movies. What you told me last week.’
‘Chill, I’m not embarrassed. Well, Shams, take Pride and Prejudice. The elephant in the room is that Mr Darcy, or whoever would definitely be a slave-owner.’
‘Shams, let me clarify this for you…Marwane won’t watch an imaginary period-movie because the imaginary character might have had imaginary slaves,’ said Ishaq.
Marwane looked on Ishaq as if he was a naive child. Pursing his lips and with an exaggerated shaking of his head he said, ‘Pride and PREJUDICE. You may laugh, but all the rich white people in these stories probably got their money from slavery, so I don’t care who they get married to or how they do it. All their petty issues, talking about love and relationships, when they were oppressive, forcing everyone else to just think about survival. Yea, I said it. Mr Darcy. Racist.’
Ishaq observed Shams, who was moved to give his input. ‘Ishaq, thinking about it he’s right, you know?’
Ishaq held his head in his hands, one hand sliding down pulling at a cheek. ‘This is why I don’t like joking with you lot. I just hear madness. You guys are cracked. Ok M, what about Chariots of Fire?’
‘Well, yea, a story of triumph, at an Olympics with no black people. It doesn’t count when you win like that, does it, really? They only win because there are no ethnics. An Olympics with no one of West African descent, no Kenyans, Ethiopians, or Moroccans. Proper joke. Just like slo-mo black and white Fred Perry. No proper opposition. As they say round Shams’ area, ‘Innit’.’
Ishaq looked at Marwane trying to ascertain if he was being serious. It was hard to tell sometimes.
‘Bruv, that is proper off-key. I love that movie. Like the Scottish guy who wouldn’t run on a Sunday because it was against his code and religion. See, there were people like us back then. It’s about personal struggles. An individual in their world. When there were things more important than making money or just consuming. You know…what you’re saying is like non-Muslims asking why no one is talking about suicide bombing in a documentary on Zidane. Or like reading the Arabian Nights and complaining it doesn’t talk about Hamas.’
All three boys used to stay at each others on the odd occasion when their parents needed a sitter. Ishaq tried to avoid Marwane’s as his mum always gave chores. He tried proclaiming that he was a proper guest, like some white person, but would receive a bunch of ironing in the face. Shams’ mum was pretty cool, though, as they were allowed to watch old movies together, as long as they just shut the hell up. ‘Ok how about Zulu?’
‘You’re taking the P.I.S.S now. I know you’re trying to wind me up.
Proper transparent. Won’t work. Bunch of colonialists, dying while killing natives, and even then they are supposed to be heroes. Bollocks. I don’t watch that stuff. All these stories. When they are brave, we are aggressive; when they are smart, we’re crafty. Playground stuff. Pure wish-fulfilment.’
Shams said, ‘Yea…but Zulu’s got Michael Caine and he married an Indian. He’s cool, right?’
‘Even if it’s got Michael Caine in it, my distinguished brother,’ said Marwane, reverting to a playful solemnity.
‘Man, you can’t watch anything.’ Ishaq kissed his teeth and waved a dismissive hand at Marwane.
‘I’ll make my own movie then,’ said Marwane.
‘You won’t be able to make jack unless it’s some half-arsed story about some random repressed Muslim girl who secretly wants to wear lipstick and a mini skirt, or a guy who becomes a suicide bomber. They’re not interested in any other stories.’
‘I’d do it. I’m slick. I’d break the mould.’ Marwane passed a hand through his fuzzy mop of hair as if he were combing it.
‘Mould? You need stereotypes, otherwise how does anyone understand each other?’ said Ishaq, enjoying the taste of sarcasm. ‘You have to have the call to prayer at the beginning or something. It’s like the oldest cliche in the book. It would ring around the desert and show how romantic and alien we are.’
‘Nah, I’d be like an Algerian James Bond.’
Ishaq punched Marwane’s thigh. ‘Hahaha, you’re the brown guy who gets killed in the first ten minutes. At best you’d be of ambiguous morality, or a noble savage, and in your case M, we can drop the noble part.’
Wide eyed, as if he had had an enormous epiphany, some grand realisation, Shams spoke up. His interruption startled, hushing the other two. ‘How about The Italian Job?’
After an extended moment Marwane gave a generous grin. ‘Brother, everyone loves The Italian Job. ‘This is the Self-Preservation Society.’ Makes you proud to be British.’
8.
Ayub stood watch as the youths walked away, a conjoined trinity in impish delight at each other’s company. Their laughter rippled the air and dissipated, leaving a sleepy lull. A bearish white man, with a large mane of greying hair, came out to join him on the balcony. The man’s beard was unruly and unkempt. Large strands collided and argued as they tried to forge their own fractious path.
‘Subhanallah, what was all that movie nonsense? They talk some real bloody crap, don’t they?’
Ayub smiled. ‘Laughter is a gift, it softens the heart.’
‘But as the prophet, peace be upon him, said, “Laugh not excessively for this deadens the heart.”’
Ayub’s smile receded. ‘Yea…true…nice to see that you have kept your happy-chappy ways, Adam…it’s really good to see you too…honestly.’ They gave each other a quizzical look and started chuckling. They embraced, hugging each other tight.
Letting go, Adam saw a look of concern in Ayub’s face and gave him a warm smile. ‘Well just keeping it real, as the kids say.’
‘They are good boys, just passing the time. I’m pretty sure we used to be like that.’
‘They have it easier now. Islam surrounds them, and practising Muslims and knowledge are everywhere. Circles, Internet, conferences. Not like us growing up. We were freaks.’ Wearing leather Birkenstocks, Adam reached down and rubbed the skin of his feet through holes in his socks. Ayub had seen this plenty of times and once bought clothing for Adam, only for the gift to be indignantly rebuffed. Ayub tried hard not to take Adam’s pride as a personal slight, but he wished his friend would allow him to help, even if it was to allay his own concern.
‘C’mon, if someone runs out of loo roll they blame the ‘Mozzies’. When I was a kid we were ‘Asians’, chucked in with the Indians. We were seen as servile. Loads of jokes about the ‘paki’ shop, and eating curry. Then one day I woke up and suddenly we were all ‘Muslims’, bringing chaos, disorder and a threat to their women. These kids don’t remember a time being anything other than Muslim,’ said Ayub, looking outwards onto stone and a stillness. ‘No jokes anymore; they don’t get messed around on the street like ‘Asians’ did. No, instead they get messed around by the government.’
‘Different situation now, different issues.’
‘Dat is true, bruv,’ Ayub said, mimicking the tones of the street. ‘But I miss those days. The most exciting thing then was when Mr T used to to walk up and down Tooting Broadway.’
Adam did a double take. ‘Is that really true…was Mr T around here?’
‘Nah. It was just some random massive guy with a latex wig and mohawk. He wore some real looking gold chains as well, but it was just some bloke on day release from Springfield,the mental hospital…still, as kids we knew no different. Gutted when I found out.’
They both shuffled sideways towards the wall as a young white girl pulled along two even younger children. They wore tracksuits that looked as if they had seen time up a chimney. As one of them passed he looked Adam up and down. Baffled, seeing a largely-framed white man in a pristine white salwar kameez, with a bald, shaven head and a large bushy beard, he asked Adam: ‘Hey mate, why have you got your head on upside down?’
Ayub started laughing. Adam began to issue words of protestation. ‘You cheeky…’ but was stopped cold as the girl gave the kid a horrendous slap. The sound of the strike resounded so hard that it cannoned off the walls and Ayub touched his own cheek in sympathy.
‘Shut the fuck up. You don’t talk to people that way. Sorry, Luv,’ she said, turning to Adam.
The boy rubbed his flushed face. ‘Just a fuckin’ joke, Mum.’ His mother grabbed the boy by the scruff of his jacket and dragged him along with her as she stamped away.
Adam’s eyes followed the mother and children along the balcony until they disappeared into the stairwell. ‘“Head upside down”…cheeky little git; what were you saying about kids again?’
‘Haha, that was a good one though. He didn’t deserve that slap, I thought his head was going to come off.’ Ayub was happy to see Adam actually join in with a laugh, too.
‘I’ve been called worse…some kid actually called me Gandalf the other day.’ Adam looked at Ayub with such innocent hurt that Ayub started sniggering like a schoolboy.
‘So what have you been up to?’ asked Ayub.
‘I was working down in Cornwall on a site there for a few months. It’s a really beautiful part of the country. But I’m all done there, so now I’ve decided to head back up north. I thought I’d pass through. It’s been too long.’ It was still startling to Ayub that Adam’s considerable presence produced a humble, mellow timbre.
‘It’s been way too long. You’re always welcome. I remember you in my prayers often. Always on the move, Adam. Are you not interested in laying some roots?’
Since his youth Adam had hitchhiked around the country, looking for work like a winged creature, forever migrating to new horizons; a habit that was hard to break. Behind his barrelled figure and bedouin nature, and in his meekness and fragility, there existed a man at odds with the illusory solidity of the world. Someone who sought out temporality as a reassurance.
‘Not yet, maybe soon, inshallah. The kids are growing up so I’d like to spend more time around them, if their mother allows me.’
‘I wasn’t going to ask about it…but any chance of reconciling?’
‘Allah knows best; I can’t provide as she expects me to. I send pretty much all my money but it’s never enough.’
Ayub nodded. ‘Subhanallah, may Allah make it easy.’
Ayub looked Adam over to see if he was truly in good shape. Adam was the deepest brother that Ayub had ever known; he saw the wonder of God’s creation and magnificence in everything. He had a poet’s soul. From the structure of seashells to the pollination of flowers by bees, from the perfect ecosystem for conditions on life on Earth, Adam saw signs of the Creator in them all. Ayub enjoyed the way he could see wonder outside the constriction of the estate. He loved Adam’s wonde
rment and articulacy, and had a wistful desire to be able to see the world that way. However, even in other, happier, times, Adam’s continuous stream of profound thoughts could be exhausting. Adam had such intense feelings for the ineffable and transcendent, that Ayub could not immerse in. They instigated a playful need in Ayub, to vitiate and sabotage Adam’s train of thought with more trivial and purposefully doltish suggestions.
‘Jazakallhu khair, may Allah have mercy on us all. Have you read this?’ Adam took out a crumpled newspaper from a brown leather satchel that he wore around his shoulder and opposite hip, courier style. He had turned the pages back at an article and gave it to Ayub:
A delegate to the EU Conference on Muslims has asked for all European Muslims to sign a declaration that they reject violence and support the text of the Quran being changed to align with European values. When asked what happens if they do not sign, he replied that, ‘We are the most welcoming of nations. I cannot see why reasoned and moderate Muslims will not sign it. If they do not they must have something to hide. At least we will know where we stand, and life should be made hard for those people.’ As a member of the European Parliament, he had previously proposed a ban on all mosque building in Europe…
Ayub quickly scanned the rest and decided he had read enough. He clenched the newspaper in a fist, handing it back as if he were discarding a piece of trash. ‘It’s bit like dunking a witch and, if they drown, they’re innocent. I really don’t know what to say anymore. It’s going on every single day. Has he been sacked? Of course not.’
‘No, it’s all gone quiet. The fact that people can say this, with no one saying aught to them, is scary though. It’s pretty much like open season.’
Ayub clenched the balcony handrail, his knuckles turning white like a hot iron. ‘What more is there to say about it?…It’s the way it is, isn’t it. It’s pointless reading this stuff. It inflames the soul, puts us off-balance. Belief is difficult, Adam. The prophet, peace be upon him, said there will be a time when holding onto faith is like holding onto hot coals. In the end, life and Islam is simple. You worship God, work hard, spread the word and goodness as much as possible, and then depart, letting someone else take their turn.’