Dear Infidel (7 page)

‘Do you know how the Taliban came into being or who these puritanical fanatics are? They are the orphans of your proxy war with the Soviets. The leftovers from the international network of Islamic militants that the U.S. helped to create, train, finance and arm, to fight the Russians in Afghanistan. You lose the right to now take a step back, point an accusing finger and look upon us all with contempt.’

‘Dr Qasim,’ sighed Ms Pettifer, responding as if talking to a child. ‘The West might indeed have armed the Taliban with weapons, but not with ideology. That was theirs to begin with. We didn’t force their
women to wear tents, with nothing but a mesh to look out onto the world from. We didn’t ask them to amputate the limbs of thieves or to ban chess and kite-flying. We didn’t require that they close down girls’ schools and dismiss women from work, and we certainly didn’t cajole them into executing heretics. Islamic fundamentalism is as old as Islam. It’s a home-grown creation; nothing to do with us.’

Last ball of the thirty-fifth over. Lewis to receive. Wasim bowls, continuing from around the wicket. This time the ball pitches outside the off-stump but it’s an in-swinger, a very fast in-swinger. It jags back and squeezes through a tiny gap to hit the top of leg stump. There’s no such thing as an unplayable delivery, but that’s as close as you’ll get. Chris Lewis has been clean bowled. The celebrations repeat but this time Wasim keeps running, unable to contain his joy. England will continue to fight but realistically it’s over. In two balls he’s turned the game on its head. He finally stops running and his handsome face is beaming.

‘Once I was talking to a friend, an English friend, about Iraq. Not the current crisis but rather about sanctions, and the after-effects of the first Gulf War. I remarked that just beforehand there was a growing problem of obesity amongst Iraq’s youth; a product of too much comfortable living. Doctors at the time wrestled with ways to get the youngsters off their couches, knowing full well the toll a sedentary life would take on them in later years. Then I told my friend that after the first Gulf War, obesity rather dropped away as a priority. I mentioned that on top of malnutrition, doctors were suddenly having to deal with the after-effects of depleted uranium. That because of the weaponry the Anglo-Americans had used, the water table had become poisoned and the food chain affected. And I explained that the young were especially vulnerable, and that, as a consequence, cancers of the immune system and congenital abnormalities, previously never recorded, were now being observed with alarming regularity. And then I said that in today’s Iraq, there are babies being born with no heads – literally no heads – and he laughed. He was holding his son at the time, cuddling his one-year old baby in his lap, and he burst out laughing. He’s not some callous buffoon or a maniac; on the contrary he is an intelligent, decent man, who loves his family and works hard to provide for them. And yet he found the thought of headless Iraqi babies, well, funny.
Are you starting to see a connection yet, Ms Pettifer? None of us lives in a vacuum, my dear. We are all intimately connected.’

‘Dr Qasim,’ interjected the broadcaster. ‘We haven’t, unfortunately, got time for riddles. Can you please explicitly state what you mean?’

‘I mean, sir, that hatred begets hatred.’

‘Nope. That’s not good enough,’ dismissed Ms Pettifer. ‘Your rather clumsy friend cannot help you deny the charge.’

Dr Qasim paused, shocked by the steel of the woman.

‘The truth is that in your eyes we just don’t count, and never have done. And the genius is you’ve carried your people with you, through Crusades old and new. No wonder you were convinced that your troops would be hailed as liberators; greeted with cheers and garlands, no less! And no wonder my friend found the thought of headless Iraqi babies funny. Our hatred for you doesn’t come from envy, from Islam, or even from our innumerable tin-pot regimes: it’s born out of your hatred for us.’

Fairbrother is holding up the party. Despite Wasim having inflicted serious wounds, England continue to fight. And with Fairbrother there, anything’s possible. Minds need to be concentrated. Aaqib Javed delivers a quicker, skiddy ball that comes onto Fairbrother a fraction earlier than anticipated. He skies it, the ball going high up in the air without carrying. Only two men are nearby: Aaqib himself and Imtiaz. They both tear towards it, to the beat of 85,000 hearts in 85,000 mouths. But as the ball begins its descent Aaqib stops running – only Imtiaz can catch this one now. Constantly looking up past the rim of his floppy hat, Imtiaz cups his hands, slowing down slightly before the ball lands safely. Aaqib simply stands with arms aloft whereas Imtiaz continues running, wearing a big grin. Once again the stadium explodes into colour and noise. Spectators at the front of each tier bang the advertising hoardings in approval. The Aussies in the crowd, having been politely supporting both teams up until now, have finally thrown their weight behind Pakistan. Everyone loves a winner. It was a really well judged catch, and Imtiaz accepts everyone’s praise without much fuss; he knows he’s good.

‘May I remind you, the both of you, that we are here to discuss the challenges facing Muslims, specifically here in the West?’ the
broadcaster reiterated in a desperate tone. ‘We haven’t much time left and I must ask you both to stick to the questions.’

‘Absolutely,’ began Ms Petiffer. ‘And accordingly I would like to put to Dr Qasim that the greatest challenge facing British Muslims now, is how they respond to the War on Terror.’ She was looking self-satisfied – mutual loathing filled the air. ‘Leaving aside the politics of it all, of whether one agrees with the line taken by our government, one is obliged to live by the rule of law.’

‘Without a doubt. Agreed.’

‘So I ask you then, Dr Qasim, exactly how welcoming can we be towards Muslims, when according to MI5, London is saturated with sleeper cells of Islamic terrorists, just waiting to bring us to our knees? Do you know how frightened people are? I have friends who have stopped travelling on the Tube. I know others working in Canary Wharf or living nearby, who are thinking of moving for fear of being attacked. And you still want us to reach out to you?’

‘Well I’m sure that if Iraqis can get on with their lives whilst Anglo-Americans drop 500-pound bombs on them, then you can keep your upper lip stiff. It is, after all, meant to be a very British quality.’ Dr Qasim winced.

‘Wow, that’s a simply outrageous comment. Do you realise how hurt and offended British people were when they saw pictures of young Muslims in this country, rattling collection tins for Bin Laden?’

‘Well it looks like they’ve finally called the nation’s bluff, no?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning they’ve been portrayed as fanatics for so long, they’ve at last descended into fanaticism.’ Dr Qasim felt numb all over.

‘So would you agree that the “challenges” are all but insurmountable? That Islam cannot co-exist here, in secular, pluralistic, democratic Britain?’

‘I would say, Ms Petiffer, that theory and practice are often two different things. In theory Islam demands that adherents live loyally by their land, which is wherever they choose to make their homes. No buts, no exceptions. Furthermore one should work hard to contribute, so much so that others see you as an asset and would not want you to leave. None of this is new. This isn’t a bolt-on, grudgingly applied to appease you; these are the immutable laws of Islam, of year-zero Islam. But as mentioned, theory and practice are so often very different. No one is listening anymore: not those kids, and not you. Entropy.’

The broadcaster cleared his throat.

‘So in conclusion, Dr Qasim, would you say that Islam does or does not have anything to contribute to this country? Can it add positively to Britain’s rich Greco-Roman and Judeo-Christian heritage?’

‘Sir, I must tell you that however proud you rightly are of your heritage, your country today has little to do with either aforementioned axis. Socrates in his day would be what you now call a celebrity. A student of his, Alcibiades, often spoke of the extraordinary effect his words had on him. He once wrote that “
From the moment I hear him speak, I am smitten with a kind of sacred frenzy. And my heart jumps into my mouth and the tears start into my eyes
.” Today throngs swoon similarly in front of TV personalities and pop-stars, people whose every move – indeed whose every word – is carefully crafted for them. Socrates demanded that his pupils look into themselves and transform their lives for the better. Celebrities ask you to buy products, which their accountants select for them to endorse. Therefore I say to you, sir, Ms Pettifer and listeners, that there are certain points between my world and yours at which I would politely decline any invitation to connect. However there are others – many, many others – where I’m crying out to be met half way. The rest is up to you.’

The match is over. Pakistan are the Cricket World Cup Champions of 1992. Despite some lusty blows struck by the remaining England batsmen, their contribution wasn’t telling; just the last, proud stand of a dying animal. It was fitting that the final wicket fell to Imran – the closing act of a long, illustrious career. Ramiz took the catch, another running effort, and he almost took off as he kept on running. Imran the Leader just stood his ground, savouring the fruits of his life’s work. Some fell to the earth and kissed the turf whilst others began dancing. The rest looked dazed, unable to absorb what they had just achieved.

As they make their way off the pitch, Imtiaz begins leading an impromptu
bhangra
jig. He is a great mover, is Imtiaz, one of that select band of men with natural rhythm. He steps in front of the whole team and begins dancing and singing: arms here, hips there. Some join in and others just watch, clapping and laughing. Imtiaz is such a joker, such an entertainer – everyone has fun when Imtiaz is around.

Outside the flat fireworks went off. First it was just one or two but soon there was a volley of bangs. Eid had begun.

Imran is handed the trophy; a crystal globe on a cubic base. The podium is hastily erected and dignitaries roll out from their executive boxes. Interviews are conducted and commiserations and congratulations offered liberally. Speeches are given and Wasim is made Man of the Match. At the precise moment that Imran holds aloft the trophy, fireworks are let off. The Melbourne sky becomes a riot of colours, exploding into the night. Imtiaz has of course seen fireworks before, but this was something else. He points one out to Wasim standing next to him, and the two friends savour the display. It’s for them, all for them.

Bang
! More fireworks. Fireworks inside, fireworks outside. Fantasy met reality. Imtiaz woke up.

‘Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!’ - The Nigerian takes to the pitch. He’s coming on as substitute and being greeted by a chorus of monkey chants. It wasn’t an uncommon experience for the player, or for English clubs in general, when competing in Europe.

The audio clip from the Santiago Bernabéu Stadium ended, and the broadcaster began interviewing the commentator from last night’s game.

‘Well, that’s just utterly despicable,’ roared the Englishman, his lungs stoked with outrage. ‘Was it like that throughout the match?’

‘In the first half we couldn’t be sure,’ began the Five Live chump. ‘We got reports of some of the other black players already on the pitch being subjected to taunts, but we couldn’t be certain ourselves. But when the Nigerian, Francis, came on in the second-half, the monkey chants could be heard from all around the ground. Why Francis should be singled out for the worst of the abuse, I don’t know. It was just deplorable.’ He was sounding both meek and aggressive, and in so doing was setting the mood for the item, the radio station, indeed the whole damn nation. Everyone fell into line, everyone knew their role: pundits and politicians queued up for a slice of the action, eager for the free brownie-points on offer. Pasha’s nostrils flared. He hadn’t got time for this. He loved his radio but today he only wanted a background noise, a wall of sound. Yet now it had penetrated his foreground and displaced his pre-occupation: Eid. Pasha was already late and playing catch-up, before he’d even started. He’d cursed himself on waking,
when he turned to see that it was 8.30. It was far too late when he had to be at his mother’s in London by 1.00. And that was just the time that everyone else would start arriving. He had planned on being the first one there, to have some time alone with her before the others arrived.
Why did I fall back asleep
?

A procession of the disgusted followed: the captain was interviewed and said it was shameful. The coach was angry, the sports minister appalled and everyone called for an enquiry.
The Spanish should do this, UEFA should do that
. The nation coalesced, unified by victim-hood. The previous night’s commentator was wheeled out again and repeated his incomprehension as to why Francis got the brunt of the abuse. “Because he’s the blackest of the black players, you dick,” muttered Pasha, getting increasingly wound up.

Listeners’ texts were read out:
I taped the game for my seven-year-old son, and had to tell him this morning that I couldn’t let him watch it. He’s in tears now. What should I say to him
?’

Pasha was close to throwing up.
Everyone has their blacks
, he mused, furiously retuning the radio. And the Spanish, being more traditional folk, had simply stuck to the tried-and-tested. The English, however, had moved on. What was their anthem, for when they played Turkey? “
Oh I’d rather be a Paki than a Turk, oh I’d rather be a Paki than a Turk, oh I’d rather be a Paki, rather be a Paki, rather be a Paki than a Turk
.” Pasha considered the contrast in reaction ...
We’re your niggers now
. But then again, the Pakis couldn’t just throw their hands up in the air and play the uncomplicated victim. They had a responsibility, a part to play, and they blew it.
They? We?
Exactly who was he?

He slammed the radio down by the bathroom sink and patted his face dry with a towel. He’d just finished shaving and was stretching his face, making ‘O’s, appreciating the cool sensation on his cheeks. Pasha reached up for a bottle of aftershave. Resting it against the basin he began unscrewing the top, but in his haste it set off into a spin. It took clean off, bouncing on the basin’s edge before coming to rest somewhere underneath the toilet. He cursed again and fell to his hands and knees, contorting himself within the space available. Unable to spot it he ran a couple of fingers along the toilet’s base, where they met the thickly piled rug. He collected dust, pubic hair and toenail clippings, the assorted muck on his fingertips making his blood boil. He used to take so much care of this place when he first moved in, all
those years ago. Then it was his pride and joy. It still was, but he just couldn’t manage the domestic chores like he used to. It frustrated him, knowing that his standards had slipped.
Maybe I should get a maid
, he thought, without being convinced that it was the answer.