The Study Circle

by Haroun Khan

  ‘Slaves. They were truly slaves. For years, they continued to wander the desert, searching for the Promised Land. A generation died-out during that nomadic time. A time of constant change and uncertainty. They were replaced by people who had been born free and had the ability to create, people with the potential for renewal. This process, of the new replacing the old, was necessary. The servile can only react and destroy, they cannot build. They didn’t have the fortitude to look at higher ideals, the wisdom needed to create a just society. One of mercy and forgiveness. Living for the moment, they lacked patience, sabr, to see what could be, what should be, and what needed to be.

  ‘Maybe we are like those souls wandering the desert. Our minds still recovering from the colonial West. Although free, we get angry beyond just boundaries when threatened, or we cower and are unsure when left to our own devices. Allah knows best, but I say to you that we must always hold fast to the rope of Allah. Stay away from the doubtful and create just individuals. Be soft on each other, soft on the non-muslims. Work on purifying our hearts, firstly working on ourselves and then helping to create better communities. And remember the golden age of the Prophet sallahu alyhi wa salam, and his companions, and the early generations. They were the exemplars. And as Allah says in the Quran, “Those who give in times of both ease and hardship, those who control their rage and pardon other people. Allah loves the good-doers.”’

  As Ayub spoke, Mujahid examined each individual in turn. His face a smooth shield, yet displaying damning judgement, he started to clap, a slow dissonant slapping of flesh, his hands slipping and sliding across each other in lazy observance.

  ‘You’re doing the job of the West for them, sitting here, gossiping like women. They steal everything under our feet because people like you talk and don’t do jack. You see that danger too late. Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, all destroyed because of your ‘forgiving’ and ‘mercy’ and ‘patience’. I don’t see any real men here, let alone free men. You should be outside, defending our people, not huddled inside like cowards.’

  Mujahid’s eyes met Ishaq and his mouth curled . ‘When we were strong people, strong on our way, everything flourished. We were the leaders in all the sciences, literature, mathematics, medicine, and education. But look at us now. Weak. Nothing.’

  Again this romantic nostalgia. Ishaq recognized it for something that you had never known but believed could be. It was warm, you could slip it on and feel comfort, yet he did not trust it. Seductive half-truths wrapped in mythology and auspicious perception. A distraction from the here and now. Everyone had a version, from his assailant in front of him, to the doctor, to the white guy ranting at the conference, and Ishaq had had enough.

  He clamped his eyes and slowly freed them. In a whisper, his voice skipping beats, he said, ‘We’ve been through this before. That Golden Age stuff is crap. People like Ibn Rushd and Ibn Sina, nowadays some random would have found fault with them and tried to chop their head off. Someone like you.’

  A couple of the brothers started laughing, not aware of what was taking place in front of them. One said, ‘Bruv, that’s so true.’

  Mujahid quelled the laughter by turning to the new voice with his own smirk. A smile that warned and suffocated.

  ‘I don’t know who that is, but maybe they deserved it. Sometimes you have to send messages. Like when an oppressed people riot. Because a judicious use of violence can get attention. Messages. You should know all about that, Ishaq.’

  Ishaq could feel Mujahid’s eyes burrowing into him. He raised his head and returned the focus, forcing himself to maintain a gnawing embrace.

  ‘The trouble with violence is that it is normally unhinged. It snakes around like electric wire. Its head cut off. It jumps, pounces, and threatens all. It’s not even in control of itself. Violence again, Mujahid. That’s all you seem to know.’ Ishaq’s voice was shrill, contorted, his eyes swallowed his courage and cast themselves downwards.

  ‘Nice words. You’re good at words…going to that university where they brainwash you. All you learn there is misguidance. You get above yourself. We have nothing to learn there. And funny you use the word snake, though. You don’t know anything about me because you’ve never taken the time. What do you know? You’re a spoilt brat.’

  ‘I may not know the A-Z of who you are but I know the Z, Mujahid. That’s the only character I need to know. You would be funny if you weren’t so dangerous.’

  ‘Both of you, fear Allah,’ Ayub said, intervening in this strange mesmeric dance. ‘Do you think this is the way…’

  Ishaq cut him short in a scream. ‘And Ayub…you, Ayub…in a way, Mujahid is right. All you always do is produce words – the same words – while out there it is all happening and you don’t have a clue. No. Bloody. Clue. We sit here week after week and nothing is solved, or really said. We’re left to read between the lines and make our own way. Look what’s happening on the streets right now.’

  Ayub went still, looking older, tired, obsolete.

  Mujahid shuffled forward to take the centre, nose slightly held high as if he had sniffed out Ayub’s weakness. ‘Brothers. Look at how little respect is here and how few answers. And the same goes for this system, in this country. This would not happen if we had our own state. This is a system for slaves. You have mortgages round everyone’s necks, which forces them to work, forces them to be productive for the system. They can’t get out otherwise they’ll be homeless. They give enough free speech so people are relieved of complaints but a small group still dictates everything.’ Mujahid banged his fist twice on the floor, his voice rising and filling the room with an augured grotesqueness. ‘It’s a beast, and a beast that demands more and more of a sacrifice. Soon the houses prices go sky high and the women are forced to go out and work. But the beast still needs feeding. It starts sucking the money skywards. It starts devouring any protections, anything good. Soon we will be back to children in poorhouses. They throw you enough rope to hang yourself in unpayable debt. This whole thing will eat itself as interest traps itself. Work harder and harder, get poorer and poorer. That’s why we need Sharia. Not idle words.’

  The words fell onto the gathering. Embers falling. They had a momentum that impressed or confused. In a few minds some marked, and caused pause, in others they crumbled with frailty. But it was enough to cause a new uncertainty. A gap, a silence appeared, that poured over and no one was brave enough to pierce it.

  ‘And what’s your alternative?’ Ayub’s gentle whisper, returning a rhythm, waves of calm that pacified the room. He stayed Ishaq with a hand held forward. ‘These takfiris – these people who decide who is acceptable or not – would you want them ruling over you? Such a little level of toleration that they live in fear of each other. They start killing each other. Sharia? It’s not about chopping hands, and executing people willy-nilly, and picking on the weak. There is the welfare state, rules for economics, and governing in justice and mercy. People like you say they want Sharia but they mean they want control. Their own Sharia. They make the word meaningless. You can’t be so rigid that you break backs. Is that what you mean by going outside, and being brave and protecting us? By causing further harm?’

  Mujahid looked around, uncertain. Ayub’s expectant face seemed to disturb him and all he could do was shake his head, as if at himself.

  ‘But why are you here, Mujahid, after so long? Why have you come?’

  Mujahid wiped his face with both hands. Drained eyes that softened as he looked at the faces around him. ‘I’ve come to warn you. Warn you all that we have vipers in our nest…that before we purify ourselves, as you put it, we should cleanse our homes of vile traitors. This boy, this child here, is one. And maybe his friend Shams, who is stealing from me.’

  Ishaq’s voice was weak in comparison but he forged on. ‘What are you on about? You’re with the fairies. Ayub, this man cut me with a knife only a couple of days ago, he’s unhinged and dangerous.’

  The rest of the gathering passed whispers, still uns
ure what to make of the exchange. Marwane moved up next to Ishaq, to try and reassure him.

  ‘I hardly touched him. Just a reminder. He has been consorting with the security services and passing on information,’ said Mujahid, jabbing a finger at Ishaq. Mujahid stood, grasping in the direction of Ishaq, his eyes burning, any hesitation purged. ‘He has fallen into error and needs to be punished. Maybe I got angry, but the sin is on the boy. I’ve got family.’

  ‘I’m not passing info to anyone.’ said Ishaq, his voice floating with a strange sterility. He looked around for support, but faces blanched away.

  ‘Shut up. You’ve said enough.’ said Mujahid.

  ‘I don’t know what he is talking about.’ Ishaq took a large swallow, a distension of his neck that did not appease. He felt Marwane steady his shaking body.

  ‘Sent by security services to entrap us. He’s a viper. MI5 have been all over this estate, and why? I have been told that it was him, and it all makes sense. Why else would they be here?’ Mujahid took another step forward, nearly over Ishaq. Everyone but Marwane had moved, afraid of what could happen.

  ‘It wasn’t me. Someone’s telling you nonsense. I swear by God that I haven’t done that.’

  ‘Shut up or I’ll hurt you again,’ said Mujahid, his face scaffolded in iron.

  ‘One more step and by Allah I will get up and stop you myself,’ shouted Ayub, sadness mixed with wrath. Mujahid turned and saw an Ayub that had no gentility, no forgiveness.

  ‘This is all to do with me. They are here because of me. Ishaq, leave us now. We will sort this between us,’ Ayub said to Ishaq, who remained rooted. ‘I said leave. I’ll talk to you later at the mosque. Marwane, take him outside. Calm him down. Please Mujahid, sit.’

  Marwane pulled Ishaq up and ushered him outside. He yanked him forward, Ishaq seemingly lost, his eyes elsewhere. Down the stairs and out of the block Marwane placed both hands on Ishaq, to take a look at him, but they were pushed away.

  Marwane grabbed Ishaq again and pushed him against a wall.

  ‘Ishaq what were you doing up there? The guy’s dangerous. You should let the bros sort it out.’

  ‘The bros sort it out. The bros sort it out?’ Ishaq, his mouth curling. ‘They can’t sort themselves out. I’m not being lectured to by a guy…by a guy who cut me.’

  ‘And attacking Ayub? You’re going to spoil your rep amongst the community.’

  ‘What community? I don’t care anymore.’

  Marwane shook his head. ‘You’re burning so many bridges, you’re going to end up alone. Adrift.’

  ‘Like with you. Like you’ve been useful, just standing there happy to do nothing.’

  ‘See what I mean? I’ve got enough shame about what happened.’

  Ishaq adjusted his jacket, wiping some dust off the back where he could reach and straightened it out. ‘You cutting me off?’

  ‘Of course not. Never. But I am advising you. For a while all you have been doing is having a go at others, just moaning and criticising. Have you got all the answers then?’

  Ishaq mulled it all over. A lamppost stood tall at the edge of the block to their right, its light filtering through a bundle of satellite dishes. Antennae pointed to every section of the sky, searching for the orbit that would bring news from Asia or Africa or the Middle East. Shadows spread their ambit, boxing the boys in.

  ‘No, but I have questions. So many.’

  ‘Ishaq, you’re not happy with the liberals, or the traditionalists, not with us, not with the kuffar. So who is right, just you?’

  ‘No, Marwane, no. I’m the biggest idiot of all, because all of these people – here, there, everywhere – are so convinced they are up on the truth that they power through life. Secure in mini-kingdoms, acting, having their mistakes forgiven. No, I’m the biggest fool. Too educated for what I really am. Exposed to too much, for a life in which I’m never really going to leave this place…I know that…I don’t need to be told.’ Ishaq made a kick at a flattened tin and saw it skim down the road. He thought about how stupid he was, how arrogant it was to want something more; about the absurdity of dreams.

  ‘And the MI5 stuff? You sure you don’t know nothing?’ asked Marwane.

  Marwane’s face betrayed some fear, which riled Ishaq even further. ‘Do you honestly think I have a flippin’ clue? Seriously?’

  Ishaq looked at Marwane and for a brief moment thought about telling him about the Security Services at university. He followed Marwane in bowing his head. Marwane had his hands in his pockets while Ishaq scuffed the floor with a trainer.

  ‘Alright, chill. I’m on your side,’ said Marwane. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the masjid. We can wait for Ayub and get this all sorted.’

  ‘Listen M, I’ll sort it. I’ll go. I don’t need you there.’

  Marwane’s body tensed for a plea, but Ishaq gave him a hug and left him in the shadows, as he made his way out of the estate.

  22.

  Truly in the body there is a morsel of flesh, which, if it be whole, all the body is whole, and which, if it is diseased, all of it is diseased. Truly, it is the heart.’

  Saying of the Prophet, pbuh - Sahih Bukhari

  Police cars ramped up and down in posses with ambulances following. Blinking, he felt a fever, a rising heat as revolving red light cut his face. So many sirens wailing that they melded into one high-pitched tinnitus.

  The Mosque used to be situated in an abandoned warehouse with a leaky corrugated roof. It had always been busy, but in this last decade it heaved under the weight of visitors. Sweltering in the summer and freezing in the winter, it was especially uncomfortable when worshipping through long Ramadan nights, when the community’s souls gathered in unison for Tarawih. Ishaq, now sitting inside, recalled the fragrant smell of lentil soup that local Arabs made during that blessed month of revelation, how it satisfied, sating an empty body.

  During distant Fridays the mosque overflowed with believers. Local streets inundated with cars parked at strange obtuse angles, and some discarded even more haphazardly. Far more perturbing for local residents was the sight of worshippers stopping, laying out their mats and prostrating. Local garage and postal workers, with short lunch breaks, taking a strategic approach to their prayers, added further bottlenecks. They refused to go in too far past the main entrance in case they ended up stuck trying to escape after prayer had concluded. The Imam would implore the congregation to leave their cars at home and be good neighbours. It was futile but, as usual, there were some who profited from the chaos. Traffic Wardens couldn’t help their smiles as they congregated on the honeypot. On bonus schemes, they dealt out thick ticket wads every Friday, thinking of that XL hi-def telly.

  After years of council inquiries and fundraising, planning permission was given for a multi-storey mosque on the site of the original warehouse. It didn’t completely solve the parking problem. The mosque remained brimming, as the next generation started to come of age in abundance. However it did allay the fears of those behind shaking net curtains, translucent screens that were so sheer they gave the illusion of openness but in actuality blocked all visibility. The concern at illegal Islamic annexations on South London roads was placated.

  A harmonious equilibrium had been reached, but that maturation, and then progression, led to a third transformative stage: the mosque disappeared. When a pig’s carcass was dumped at the entrance, an ignorant attempt to defile, CCTV was installed. When a Muslim, however distant, carried out an atrocity, mosque telephones pinged with death threats. Non-muslims were then barred from visiting except in official groups. When a string of mosques were subject to arson attacks, the railings of this House of God grew higher. They shot upwards like vines in crenellated bunches, topped with arrowed tips, and grew so dense as to obscure. The mosque had gone from clanging visibility to being draped in a steel cloak of silence. And now the net curtains started agitating again, quivering in whispers about what happened inside.

 
This was a serene home for Ishaq. The one place where his mind felt clear and his heart did not feel heavy. A normal worshipper. Not under siege from endless talk about the future. Safe from overwrought Chicken Littles. He knelt on the floor, leaning forward, his back bent over like the bough of a tree, tremulous under duress from an imposing wind. Eyes closed, his mind discordant, he felt a sharp tapping pain as he tried to impose order on stalking thoughts.

  Ishaq peered out through cut eyes. He saw the mosque inhabited by old men who spent all day here, growing beards, increasing their religiosity as penance for wasted youth, and who were waiting out the final act of their lives. Ishaq’s father used to tell him about what some of these now feeble elders used to get up to in their youth. It was hard to reconcile the image, before him, with those that lay behind them in blurred senescence. Ishaq felt the real test was to be moral and god-fearing in your youth, when vigour and ambition coursed through your veins in convulsion and tumult. When desire clouded your judgement and beguiled your senses.

  Not one could provide advice. He was as foreign to them as the country itself. Still, he held a deep love for those resting in their well-earned dotage, however vast the distance. At the time of the prophet, the mosque was a centre of social change. A vibrant place of consultation, a venue to settle disputes, a centre of radicalism where people were exhorted to look at their faults, within, and struggle to be their better selves. Now it was a place of chanting sermons, by robed Imams in languages the youth did not understand. In bygone times, these were once leaders, rising in resplendence as the best amongst them. Now they were imported from abroad. Modern clerics reduced to mendicants, asking for funds at the behest of nameless committees, to make ever larger domes and minarets that the people cared little for. Ritual and theatre entwined, worship reduced to esoteric liturgy.