The Study Circle

by Haroun Khan

  In his German accent, and halting English, he said, ‘This is a disgrace. We have come …hundreds of years of fighting…each other. Have not learned a thing. We cannot blame. We need to help them more. We do need to find a final solution for Muslims in Europe.’

  The crowd started roaring, and glaring flashes blinded both men as they were peppered with further questions. Attendants and security pulled the politicians away, even as the German was protesting, having realised his mistake, his face masked with revulsion.

  Ishaq grabbed the control and turned off the television. Well, that was a major fuck-up, wasn’t it, he thought to himself.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad. Nothing will come out of it,’ he said, as if to himself.

  ‘Well, I want you and your sister to be careful for the next few days and no mixing with any hot-head friends.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Ishaq, as he went and grabbed some trainers by the door.

  ‘Where do you think you are going? Haven’t you bloody seen what happened?’ His father had both hands out towards the television as if he was presenting a cart full of steaming horse manure.

  ‘I’m going out. Local.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just footy with Marwane. I need some air. Don’t worry. It may kick-off in Europe but it’ll be different here. We’re not like them.’ Ishaq walked to the corridor and started lacing his trainers.

  ‘And no going to the march?’ shouted his father. ‘Trouble makers are everywhere. MFI will sort it out.’

  ‘MFI was a furniture store; I think you mean MI5.’

  ‘Anyway, they will sort it out.’

  ‘Don’t think they can sort anything out. No one is in control, especially those who think they are,’ said Ishaq, in a mumble.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. Don’t wait up, I’ll be fine,’ and Ishaq exited the flat before his father could shout anything further.

  15.

  Ishaq loved the freedom. It was perverse; that they played in a cage but felt ever-so free. Ishaq would run, ball at his feet, air on his face as it rushed past, penned in by meshed-fencing that would ripple and sing as a body or ball punched into it. The jangling of caging, providing percussion to an orchestrated movement of passes. The thrill of passing an opponent through speed or guile, the heady buzz of scoring a goal and taking in the acclaim of your mates.

  Ishaq even enjoyed the needle between opponents. Ishaq, Marwane and his friends enjoyed a skilful passing style. The aim was to create beauty. To display skill and panache by humiliating your opponent in exposing them through a nutmeg or an intricate buildup. Scoring a goal was incidental to this sophistry and even frowned upon if it did not contain some scintilla of flair.

  As well as infuriating opponents it also caused frustration among friends. They berated Ishaq and Marwane. Shouting at them that winning was everything, as they hoofed the ball upfield whenever they could, huffing, and puffing, and shooting at every opportunity. Playing like Vikings. It was all good though, especially on those sticky summer nights when Ishaq held a secret hope that this would last forever. He, being ever-responsible, guided the defence and came out with the ball in control. Marwane, indisciplined, capable of great skill but infuriating in his inconsistency.

  Ishaq and Marwane left the cages on this still evening, the air calming their perspiration. The two lads took seats on a railing while Ishaq vigorously rubbed his football sock into his shin, and then peeled it down to look at the result of someone’s errant kick. He did not look impressed, shoved the sock down, and then raised his face to the sky to let air cool his eyes.

  ‘No stars.’

  ‘What you say?’ Marwane looked sideways to Ishaq.

  Ishaq looked at Marwane and jabbed upwards. ‘No stars. Would be good to see some, sometimes.’

  Marwane was in the middle of a gulp from a can of coke, carbonated bubbles expanding and moving upwards, nearly overwhelming his nose. He was uncertain of what to say to such a random remark. ‘Just make sure you only talk to me like this; I think only I can handle your weirdness.’

  Ishaq jumped off the rail and, with Marwane following his lead, started to walk.

  ‘Whatever. Anyway, guess who I bumped into? Father Horan, from the community centre days.’

  ‘Oh, Father Ted. How’s he doing? He must be a fossil now.’

  ‘Nah, he looked fine. He was just taking care a few odds and ends at the building. Was asking about ze Muslimz. Talking about the IRA, and the bad ol’ days for the Irish.’

  ‘Was he now?’ Marwane said, in a mixture of amusement and derision. ‘Man, hate it when Irish people go on as if it’s the same. They should leave it out. Seriously, don’t try and ‘relate’.’

  Ishaq looked at Marwane walking beside him in his elongated but lolling style. With his height and explosion of hair, he looked liked a monochrome Ronald McDonald. Ishaq stifled a laugh, his shoulders purposefully hunched. Father Horan had said there was a chance to resurrect the centre, but no point telling Marwane, he would just hide behind a joke and belittle the idea.

  Mistaking the reason for the laugh, Marwane retaliated with his own triumphant cackle. ‘We haven’t talked about you going-off on one, at that inter-faith thing.’

  ‘Yea, yea, you told me so…Well done. If I had a hat, I’d take it off to you ,’ Ishaq made a bowing gesture.

  ‘Ah, you a bit sore about it,’ said Marwane, his grin widening. ‘Look, that’s what happens when you mix with the super-annoying, intellectual renewers of the Ummah. The only ones who can bridge Islam and the West, blah blah blah. You should let them get on with it.’

  ‘I just feel that we need to make more of an effort with them. We can be insular and scary to those lot. We actually have common ground. Did you hear that guy on telly today? He doesn’t make distinctions.’

  Marwane started laughing again, this time showing gently crooked teeth. ‘I heard it, but you trying really worked out for you, didn’t it? Look, these guys will always be more comfortable with middle class non-muslims . They’re just as insular. They can’t connect with us. They don’t want to anyway. They just want to kiss arse and get along. All their talks are about stuff like Muslim representation on TV. Stuff we don’t give a crap about. And anyway, the ways I heard it was that the speaker was calm and super-slick with you, you came out of it sounding like a foaming-at-the-mouth fundie. Honestly bruv, I would have paid to see it.’

  ‘Go on, laugh as much as you want,’ said Ishaq, kissing his teeth and shaking his head. His footsteps slowed until he was lagging a bit behind, making Marwane twist and walk backwards to interact. To a bystander it would have looked like Ishaq was being dragged forward by the other man with an invisible rope. ‘It just bugs that they look down on a lot of the kids. They think of them as simpletons who need rules and regs to navigate their lives.’

  Marwane’s grin dropped and he looked back, over Ishaq. ‘Well that’s right isn’t it? A lot of brothers do need a lot of hard rules. I need it too. What’s wrong with that? Man is in loss, nothing shameful about that, and it doesn’t make it less true. Look, these guys want to cure poor people of being poor, without actually having to meet any. Man, you’re making me angry now!’

  ‘Ok, let’s drop it. I acted like a tool. I don’t want to talk to you about it,’ said Ishaq. Marwane had called him Mr Negativity but all he offered instead was apathy and cynicism, and sometimes it just grated. He could now see that it was just hiding. It was funny now, but it was getting harder and harder to talk about anything.

  ‘Speed-up Ishaq. I want to get home. You got me going now. You know they’ve got that poster campaign, as well. The one that has pictures of model Muslims. You know, like a doctor who wears hijab, or a policeman, and they’ve chosen fair-skinned people or white converts.’ Marwane made a loud inhale of breath. ‘It’s just so desperate…the need to be included…’

  ‘Look, I actually understand what they are doing with the posters though. It’s not saying, “Please let me in, I
’m just like you”, it’s saying to people like that politician today, “Please don’t smack me in the face, I’m normal.”’

  ‘Well, then it’s a humiliating plea.’

  ‘Bruv, no point pretending we’re strong. What are we? Like four percent of the population and all different, all divided. Anytime, the outside can squash us like a bug. Nah man, we’re just the bogeyman.’

  They reached a tunnel. The underpass marked the end of a sparsely built-up part of the estate, where the cages resided. Their footsteps made cavernous echoes that fled away from them in a pitter-patter, descending down the singularity of the sloping path. As they exited they saw a cityscape lying passive under a waxing moon. A silver sheen spilled over the concrete. Laid out like an ice rink, this silent world was when the estate was at its most deceptive. An easy seduction into thinking all was right.

  Marwane opened his arms up wide, in protest at the emptiness around them. ‘And really? How would we have ended up, if we didn’t say no? Islam says don’t drink, so we don’t. It says don’t take drugs, so we don’t. It says, don’t sleep around, so we’ve managed not to get a girl preggers at fifteen. You know, people get a bit of ease in their lives, or get education, and they think it was all up to them. Not luck, or destiny, or a privileged background or anything. They think they’re so complicated, and we are all so simple, in our wants.’

  Ishaq tried to intervene but Marwane’s hands rebuffed him, whirling away while he ranted, his eye’s trenchant and fastened somewhere else.

  ‘Money talks, Issy. In those posh areas, they can afford to make mistakes. They can afford to look down on people like us, with our rules. Imagine you or me banged up before a judge with some coke. We’re screwed. We have to be stricter. It’s the only way and that’s part of the wisdom…Maybe we are needy, but then there’s some truth in people’s needs, not deception.’

  Ishaq was happy to let the words echo and settle, but Marwane kept fixing him with his triumphant ‘whadya think’ mug. ‘Well, M, that’s a bit deep for you. Where’d you get that from?’

  ‘Nowhere. Just made it up. See it’s not only you arty farty students that think a bit. It’s not good to be alone in that head of yours 24/7. You and your weird ideas. You have to live in the real world. See, what I’m gonna do, inshallah, is graduate. Get a job that pays, marry a good muslimah and raise a family. Simple.’

  ‘That’s fine, but this other stuff has a habit of breaking down your door at five in the morning, terrifying your wife and kids, and then carting you off to prison.’

  Ishaq changed tack, charging forward, Marwane sidestepped in a hop, facing him to continue the conversation. ‘That’s scary. But I ain’t involved in anything like that, so if any great injustice like that happened, then I’ll just accept it and rely on Allah.’

  ‘Really Marwane? That’s so easily said, but if that did happen, and you were innocent, then wouldn’t you want people to be around to help you out? People who cared about something other than just their own backside.’

  ‘Look bro, Allah says save yourself and your family first. So I’ll do that, then, if I have the strength and resources, I’ll help outside of that. It’s not being selfish, it’s about foundations. You can’t do anything unless the foundations are strong, and that’s your family, then your local community, and so on. Any racing ahead and trying to save the world, when that stuff isn’t right, is vanity, just causes more aggro. Don’t be like those uni guys who are only interested in cool causes that suit their ego.’

  The same rote lines. Ishaq could hear the uncertainty, more of blind hope than real conviction. As if repeating them, again and again, was a comfort in itself. Nothing had ever pricked Marwane’s protective bubble, and it wasn’t his place to pierce it, either.

  They matched strides as they forged homewards, making headway, the hush only broken by three barks of a dog that had been chained up someplace. They stepped through a small field that had been left boggy by rivulets of rain. Marwane cursed himself as one foot landed in a deep patch and he felt water spill over his shoe, down to his sock.

  ‘Speaking of marriage. That sister who gave you the leaflet, she was nice,’ he said.

  Ishaq smiled. ‘She was super-political and thought you were a twat.’

  ‘She thought WE were twats. Anyway, next time I see her I might slip her my phone number. Give it a chance. All through the parents, legit and all. Or Shams stylee.’

  Towards the end of their time together Shams had discovered girls. Ishaq remembered how stricken Shams was when he took a fancy to someone. He’d go mute and self-aware, fixed to the spot, pretend he was looking away. Once, he even spent hours outside a girl’s place, hoping for just a glimpse of a face. Ishaq had to bale him out sometimes, explain that his mate wasn’t strange, just having a moment. It was sincere though. For a time. The odd thing was that, once a week had passed, Shams’ ministrations found another target. A new arrow, piercing his heart. Layla after Layla, to his one Majnun.

  ‘I do miss that guy.’

  ‘You sure show it,’ said Marwane.

  After a moment’s deep thought Ishaq said, ‘Ibn Hazm, from Cordoba, Spain, thought that courtly love, one that was chaste and from a distance, could be edifying. It could ennoble your character.’

  Seeing Marwane give him a look of pity, Ishaq said, ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t know whether to slap you for talking about “courtly love” or for using the word “edifying”. Honestly, Ishaq, I think the stork that brought you to the ghetto must’ve been on crack that day.’

  Ishaq laughed. ‘Just reading, expanding my horizons, you bonehead. Back in the day, Islamic scholars wrote and talked about everything. And edifying means something that raises you morally…’

  ‘I know what it means, you arty farty ponce. Anyway, sounds like Ibn Hazm would have a coronary if he came round these parts. You’re pure if you hold out beyond the first time you get wasted together.’

  ‘Well, good luck then. Her dad might be like Obama. You know what he said he would send, if someone tried to date his daughters?’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘Predator drones.’

  Marwane’s mouth flattened and his demeanour chilled. Ishaq followed suit, realising his mistake. Marwane said, ‘Everything is a joke to those people, they’ve lost their souls.’

  They reached the old community centre. More of a hut, it was a shoebox-of-a-building. The walls were pock-marked from errant shrapnel thrown by passers-by. The windows were mostly smashed, and covered by rusted grating. Once a beneficiary of council funding, it had a good set of play equipment outside. In between the scattered trash there lay a carousel, multiple climbing frames, and swings. Yet no movement, petrified as in an exhibit. A sole lamppost bathed the area in a lambent pool, separating it from the field, and, once within, the rest of the estate looked indistinct. Two paths led to parts of the now adumbral estate which, while screened, was only a hop, skip, and a jump away.

  In the light they saw a boy wearing a green puffer vest over a marl hoody. He took his over-sized headphones off, and brought down his hood.

  ‘What’s up? Long time, man. Ishaq, bruv, you’ve gone awol. Don’t see you much since school days.’

  Marwane whistled, and gave the new boy a hug. ‘What’s happening, Levi? Ishaq’s having an identity crisis.’

  ‘Ah shut up Marwane,’ said Ishaq, as he clasped Levi’s hand and slightly bumped his chest.

  ‘I. Den. Tee. Tee.’

  ‘Proper dry. You’re really not half as funny as you think you are, you know that?’

  Levi nodded. ‘I see. I see. So what’s that about?’

  ‘Well, it seems to involve lots of posh words, and mixing with posh rich-kids discussing poshness. Ya know, how much pain is in the world,’ said Marwane.

  Levi said, ‘Nah man, Ishaq’s a homeboy. He knows what he’s about, don’t ya?’

  ‘Yea, he does really, but he also spends too much time on the Internet, and reading newspapers about how
much people hate him. He gets-off on it.’

  Levi folded with a snicker, bringing a fist up to his mouth in an abortive attempt to quell it.

  Ishaq made a theatrical shake of the head, emphasising slow and long sweeps to show his pity and patience. ‘Course I do. Course I do. I would love to be you, M.’ Ishaq’s hands were out like a showman at a circus. ‘I’d love to be dumb enough of our situation so I could be happy in my ignorance. You see Levi, Marwane just likes to stick his head in the ground like an ostrich. He never developed past five years old, and still thinks if he covers his eyes and can’t see people, then, they definitely can’t see him.’

  ‘Whatever, Ishaq. Go and spend all day on twitter. Hashtag killallmuslims.’

  ‘Marwane. Xo xo my backside.’

  Levi continued his snorting, as Ishaq gave Marwane a playful punch in the chest and Marwane bent over, pretending to wince in pain. ‘Man, you boys don’t change.’

  ‘Anyway, enough of our stuff. How are things with you? What’s new?’ asked Ishaq.

  Levi’s mouth fell into a grim line. ‘Where the fuck have you been? You haven’t heard? My cousin Leon got stabbed last week. Bled-out on the corner of the estate under one of the bridges. You haven’t been past there? Seen all the flowers and the incident sign?’

  Ishaq nodded. ‘I did see that, bruv. I’m sorry I didn’t realise who it was. What went on? How’s his family?’

  ‘His mum’s in bits. I don’t know what happened. He was sixteen. Some random beef. It’s fucking mental. Maybe he did something stupid, I don’t know, but I’m pretty messed-up about it, too. Someone said there was a group of them, just bounced on him like a pack of dogs. Fucking sick. Man, I’m sick of this place. Police don’t do nuthin’.’

  A fox darted out from the darkness. Levi recoiled with fright. With its neck rigid, the fox strolled its way round the edge of the play area. It kept a disconcerting stare on the boys as it sniffed out any discarded food.

  Marwane, trying to do the civil thing and not laugh at Levi’s jump, ‘You alright?’