Divinity Road (13 page)

Otherwise I am in good health. I continue to reduce my food intake – plain rice or bread, the occasional apple or banana, though fruit is only rarely available here. I have reacted against the milk in my tea – it bloats my stomach – so now drink it black with three or four spoonfuls of sugar. I believe it is this strong brew above all which sustains me.

***

Mamadu comes to see me today. He is Liberian, fled to Ivory Coast to escape the slaughter in his own country. Paid a smuggler to organise a flight to Lebanon. From there moved to Syria, then a series of long lorry rides to the UK via, among other countries, Slovakia and Germany. He tells me that his friend Joachim, an Angolan from Cabinda, has been admitted to the medical unit of the detention centre, having been found with slashed wrists early this morning. Joachim travelled from Germany with Mamadu and has been told he will be deported back there as a safe third country. His mutilation is an attempt to prevent the deportation. Mamadu says his condition is stable. It is lucky he did not cut himself at the weekend as they close the centre’s clinic from Friday afternoon to Monday morning, so self-harm during those hours is frowned upon.

***

I wake before dawn, rouse my cellmate, Kalil. We carry out our ablutions in silence, then side by side in brotherly union we kneel together in prayer.

While we wait to be called for our morning meal, let me draw you a picture of my place of abode. The centre is divided into three sections, one for administration, one for the prison officers and one for the detainees. The inmates’ accommodation is itself divided into three blocks named blue, red and yellow, though underneath the garish primary colours, the buildings are all dour grey breezeblock.

The routine here is unchanging: breakfast from 7.30 to 9.30, lunch between 12.00 and 1.30, dinner between 5.00 and 6.30. Food is poor quality, poorly prepared. Like everything about this place, the menu is designed to make us feel ill at ease and to persuade us that a departure from this country would be desirable. To drive us away.

The facilities are limited: a poorly-stocked and badly-neglected library with two computers, neither of which is connected to the internet. There are four PC games featuring runaway rabbits, car chases and snooker tournaments. The library is open most of the day, as are the three TV rooms, though channels are censored and restricted to sports, music videos and reality TV. The sports hall features a ping pong table and a volleyball net as well as what is grandly called a mini gym – a running machine and set of weights. Outside there is a courtyard used for listless football kickabouts. Maintenance and upkeep are minimal. The few cleaning staff who are employed seem to be issued with nothing more than a mop and bucket. No bleach is employed in the mopping process, no disinfectant used for lavatories, sinks and showers. When toilets leak or block, weeks pass before repairs are carried out. Their stench is a permanent feature of our existence.

The medical facilities are negligible, a token practitioner offering only two items on his menu, paracetamol or antidepressants.

They craft our pain with one hand, relieve it with the other.

***

Yesterday a visit from a Red Cross representative. She is tasked with tracing missing relatives and goes around systematically checking whether any detainee would like her to instigate a search. I am in a quandary. I am desperate to use this service but am unsure what to reveal of my story. The name I am using here is the one indicated on the passport I bought in Libya. To admit to the falsity of my identity would, I feel, be to lose all credibility in the eyes of the authorities. Yet I cannot lose the opportunity to find you, my love, so I obtain an interview with the woman, give her your name, that of the children, tell her you are a cousin, last surviving member of my extended family. I weave a story, half true, to provide a context to our separation. She tells me she will contact me within a fortnight with any news. The feelings of anticipation as I return to my cell are at once exhilarating and terrifying. A sleepless night follows.

***

I continue with my Islamic schooling. I remember how studious you were, how seriously you took your responsibility to transform yourself from kafir to Muslim, poring over each Surah, stumbling over the Ayat, then, once you had memorised the
Qur’an
, attempting to master the Hadith. Today Kalil and I work our way through the second Surah,
Al Baqarah
. We read in 2:39:

...those who reject Faith And belie Our Signs They shall be Companions of the Fire; They shall abide therein.

And then, thinking of you, we reach 2:62 and the passage offering salvation for those unbelievers that convert to Islam.

As we talk I notice a streak of impatience in Kalil’s attitude.

For him the world is black and white and Islam offers a set of instructions which, if stuck to rigidly, will earn you the prize you seek. I argue that it is less the formalities of religion that count, and more one’s faith. He is fixed on the ordinances of Islam, while I focus on attitudes: compassion, charity, patience, integrity and tolerance.

We work our way through the rest of the Surah, read about the torments and humiliation awaiting those who reject Allah. Again, my thoughts turn to you, my flower. I ask myself whether there was any fundamental difference between you as Christian or you as Muslim. Did you change when you converted? Did you become a better person? If you ever rejected your new-found faith, how evil would you become?

We take a break from our studies. Kalil produces an orange, peels it and shares out the segments. As we chew on the sweet-tart fruit, wiping our sticky hands on our sleeves, Kalil tells me that his interest in Islam is also fairly recent, that it has grown while in detention through contact with so many believing detainees.

He tells me of a Somali he met in the medical ward at Dungavel Asylum Prison in Scotland, a young man in his twenties who had broken his spine trying to escape but whose spirit was sustained through his faith. While we talk we are joined by two more detainees, Howar and Zaki. We swap stories of those we have met in detention, some who have shown great resilience, others who have faltered. Zaki tells of a Kenyan he knew in HMP Rochester who endured fifteen months of misery before setting himself on fire. Howar describes the mental decline of an Egyptian he shared a cell with in Great Dunmow, a placid and sweet-natured man who was discovered hanged from the roof early one morning.

When our visitors leave, we return to our studies. The hints of Kalil’s inner anger have grown since our talk of our suffering colleagues, and, back in the second Surah, Kalil’s eyes fall straight on 2:190:

Fight in the cause of Allah

Those who fight you.

There you are, he says excitedly. They treat us like dogs and we sit around like sheep, not knowing what to do. The answer is here, plain to see.

I shake my head. I ask him whether he really believes that we are all here because our religion has been targeted. He shrugs, says nothing. We read on and when we have finished the next Ayah, I point out that the words do not advocate violence except in self-defence.

But fight them not

At the Sacred Mosque,

Unless they first

Fight you there;

And even when you are fighting in self-defence, your response should be in moderation, I continue. That Ayah you have just quoted. You only read the first half. Look at the last two lines.

But do not transgress limits; For Allah loveth not transgressors

Yes, he says. But read on. Look at 2:194:

If then anyone transgresses The prohibition against you, Transgress ye likewise Against him.

Kalil’s eyes are bright, his voice animated. Again, I shake my head.

Finish the Ayah, I say, pointing with my finger at the next three lines.

But fear Allah, and know That Allah is with those Who restrain themselves.

Yes, but... he starts to argue. I interrupt him. Read on. Look at 2:195:

And make not your own hands Contribute to your destruction; But do good, For Allah loveth those Who do good.

Sure, he says. But there is more. Keep going. I read the next Ayah.

Fighting is prescribed Upon you, and ye dislike it. But it is possible That ye dislike a thing Which is good for you And that ye love a thing Which is bad for you But Allah knoweth And ye know not.

OK, I say. So all that means is that there may be some situations where, out of self-defence, you may be forced to fight, whether you like it or not.

Maybe we should stop waiting to be attacked, he says.

Maybe it is time to go on the offensive. He quotes 2:244, the one about fighting in the cause of Allah.

You are crazy, I say, slapping him on the shoulder. Allah advocates tolerance between peoples, not war. 2:256, I quote back:

Let there be no compulsion In religion.

Kalil has grown silent. He stares hard at me, his eyes cold and penetrating. I make one last effort. Allah is no bloodthirsty tyrant, my friend, I say with an attempt at levity. Remember the earlier Ayah:

For Allah is to all people Most surely full of kindness, Most merciful.

He looks at me for a few moments longer, then nods and smiles. Sure, he says. Of course. And with that, our study period comes to an end.

***

I continue to carry out the Salah dutifully, but confess that sometimes when I pray I have a feeling that no one is listening to me. I must rid myself of these negative thoughts.

Every day I wake up in anticipation of a visit from the Red Cross worker. Three weeks have passed, maybe a month. No news. Hope trickles away like sand through my fingers. I grow weaker. My memory is becoming hazy. I sometimes wonder whether my past life was just a dream, a delusion.

***

Days turn to weeks. We live in limbo, our lives frozen in time and space. My studies provide the only distraction. Little by little I commit the
Qur’an
to memory.

***

Today at breakfast I hear news of Kudzai, a Zimbabwean barely out of his teens who has been sharing a neighbouring cell. He has already spent months in Colnbrook before being transferred here. I am told he tried to commit suicide there by swallowing a whole bottle of shampoo.

I do not know much about his past, what demons haunt his memories, but we have all been aware that his slow slide into depression has recently accelerated with almost daily panic attacks. We have become accustomed to his pain, our nights punctuated with his tortured wailing. Mustafa, his cellmate, tells me his spirit has finally broken, that yesterday he agreed to voluntary deportation, that he has already been whisked out before he comes to his senses and changes his mind.

***

Our
Qur’anic
studies continue. Sometimes we work through the book, Surah to Surah, in a linear fashion. Sometimes we pick a theme and research Allah’s message within his work as a whole. Always there is the verbal sparring, the contrast between our interpretations: Kalil’s dogmatic austerity; my own more relaxed moderation.

***

The word has spread among detainees about my record-keeping. They seek me out in ones and twos, sit down awkwardly beside me and, at first with some hesitancy and then with increasing animation, they open up to me with their own personal histories. In one of my notebooks I record everything. I change their names but omit nothing else in their individual journeys.

It is all there: war, torture, loss of family and loved ones, flight, arrival, suspicion, rejection, abandonment and neglect. The themes remain the same, only the details differ.

We communicate in whatever lingua franca is appropriate, usually either Arabic or broken English. I never prompt them, never ask questions, seek clarification or explanation. My job is to record, nothing more.

***

Sometimes our study group expands as we are joined by fellow detainees. Today I am sitting with Solly, a Nigerian and veteran of UK asylum hospitality. He has been shunted from HMP Rochester, where two wings are set aside for immigration detainees, through Haslar and Belmarsh before ending up here.

We are waiting for Kalil to return from accompanying a Somali neighbour to the showers. The Somali, a fellow named Saleh, complained of a toothache last week and demanded to see a doctor. When his request was refused, he began protesting loudly. He was taken off by guards and given a severe beating. Since then he remains in his cell, too afraid to venture out anywhere unless accompanied by other inmates.

Earlier, I have a funny turn when returning from the library and collapse in the corridor. I am carried back to my cell by Solly and Pierre-Philippe, a Congolese nurse transferred from Harmondsworth last month. I drink some water while Pierre-Philippe checks me over. He asks me what I have eaten over the last couple of days and comments on my skinny physique. It is true that I have lost weight since my arrival here, and I start to tell him about the bloating and nausea I feel when I take food, but the words will not come out properly and I only rally after he leaves and we are joined by another detainee, Soran. He squats down on the floor, asks me to record his story.