She Wore Red Trainers (24 page)

‘How's it going, Amirah?' Zayd's voice was always full of concern, his tired-looking face hazy on Skype. He had started growing his beard and it made him look older, almost like an Arab. I didn't think it was fair to let our lives mess up his studies and make things hard for him. So I would smile and said, ‘Alhamdulillah, bro, we're fine. D'you want to speak to
Taymeeyah? She's dying to tell you all about her new teacher…'

And I would get off camera as soon as I could. I didn't want my brother to see my breakouts or the fact that I had lost loads of weight.

Such dark days.

Mum suffered from depression quite a bit. Of course, I didn't know that was what it was at the time. All I knew was that, all of a sudden, she couldn't cope anymore: the kids would get to school late, their uniforms unwashed, no packed lunch, homework book not signed.

And it all fell to me: getting the kids ready for school, sorting them out afterwards with snacks, homework, times tables, preparing dinner, reading to them before bed. That was on top of studying for my GCSEs. I had high hopes, in spite of everything. My school was pretty rubbish but I knew that the only way out of the future I could see stretching ahead of me – Mum's life – was to make sure I didn't mess up my education.

But I tell you, there were mornings when I just wanted to pull my duvet over my head and let them all get on with it, sort themselves out without leaning on me, expecting me to be there all the time. There were other times when I just wanted to run, run far away from it all: the pressure, the relentless nagging about everyone and everything. Because when Mum did emerge from her fog, all she had for me was questions. Questions, questions and more questions:

‘Were you at school today, Amirah?'

‘Have you prayed, Amirah?'

‘Who were those boys I saw you talking to, Amirah?'

‘Why is your scarf so small, Amirah?'

‘Who are all these boys on your Facebook, Amirah?'

‘Where were you all afternoon, Amirah? Why weren't
you answering your phone?'

At first I was good, respectful, patient. I tried to answer Mum's questions truthfully – but that didn't stop the suspicion or the accusations. As the weeks turned into months, I stopped answering her. I just stopped talking. After a while, Mum became used to the silence, to the sullen stares. Then, when she had run out of questions, I would look at her and say, ‘Are you done?' She would just wave me away then and go and yell at the kids about the mess they were making.

She didn't know anything about me, not because I didn't tell her but because she never asked. Never asked the right questions. Everything she said was like an accusation, like she already knew that I was up to no good.

And what happens when you suspect someone all the time is this: they start to live up to your expectations. I dyed my hair platinum, then purple. Took off my hijab when I was out. Got a few piercings – nose and ears – and would have pierced my tongue if my brother hadn't told me that it was considered a form of mutilation in Islam and that he would kill me if I tried it.

Of course Mum went crazy every time, shouting, crying, threatening me with all sorts. ‘You're behaving just like one of those trashy girls out on the street! D'you want to end up in the Hellfire? Is that it? Don't you want to be Muslim anymore?'

No response, of course.

‘You were raised as a Muslim, Amirah!' she would scream at me. Like that made a difference. Because, if you don't embrace it for yourself, it will always just be a set of meaningless rituals, a bunch of restrictions that come between you and what you really want to be doing.

Sometimes, I wished I could do something really bad, something even worse than what she was accusing me of. What difference would it make? Practically everybody else was. If Mum had bothered to open her eyes, to listen, even to observe her friends' children, she would know what was really going on with kids my age. And she would say ‘Alhamdulillah' that her daughter wasn't skipping school, taking boys around the back of the bike shed or sneaking out to do drugs in the park. She would know that I was just trying to figure things out, to find out who I was, where I was going.

In the end, it became too much. I couldn't take the feeling of being trapped anymore. Every day, I couldn't stop thinking about getting away from it all. So, one day, I did. Jumped on a coach to Brighton with a girl who had invited me from school, and didn't look back.

I was out there for a week with her and her friends, tasting the Brighton party lifestyle, with all its ups and downs: throwing myself in at the deep end, just to see whether or not I would drown, whether life away from Islam was really as bad as Mum and everyone else always made out.

At first, it was fun, of course. I felt free, at last. I took off my hijab. I got some more piercings, almost got a tattoo. And partied. Hard.

It was a miracle that I made it through the week relatively unharmed. But the day dawned on the following Sunday morning after I had left London and I knew that I was done. I looked at the bodies that lay at varying angles all over the floor of the flat we were crashing in and felt a shudder of revulsion. We were hungover, dirty and broke and my friend had picked up some dubious guy with dreadlocks and a body odour problem. This wasn't what I wanted. So I plugged my
phone in to charge and, as soon as it switched back on, I rang Zayd's old mobile number. Somehow, even though he was supposed to be in far off Saudi Arabia, I knew he would answer when I called.

And he did.

Alhamdulillah.

When I came back from Brighton with Zayd, it was the beginning of a new chapter in my life. Everything changed after that. I became a new person.

Most people would think so what, she went on a bender for a week. That doesn't make her a tramp or a criminal. But, I wasn't raised like that. My Mum didn't ever expect me to go against what she taught me as a Muslim. She thought that her
tarbiyah
, her nurturing, would be enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. And, mashallah, for some kids, that is. But for others, like me, the outside forces are too strong. I had my own ideas, my own thoughts and opinions that I needed to sort out. I wasn't prepared to take my Mum's word for life. So I dabbled. Others experiment. They push the boundaries. I'm not defending it or condoning it from an Islamic standpoint: it is what it is. You either deal with it or stick your head in the sand. My Mum, like most parents, unfortunately, find it easier to breathe down there than face reality. As I said before, as a young Muslim, you need to embrace the
deen
for yourself. Brighton was what convinced me that I wanted to come back to my life, my home, to Islam, and I was grateful for that.

Unfortunately, people are nowhere near as forgiving as God is. My name was mud for months after I came back, until we decided to leave the area and find new schools and a new community. Then things had started looking up again.

But now the Darkness was coming again, catching up
with me, leaking into my present and my future, poisoning everything.

No wonder Hassan didn't want to have anything to do with me. Why on earth would anyone want me, with all my issues?

45

I invited Dad and Jamal to the finale of the summer school. Even Umar had agreed to come down for the weekend, now that he knew we were leaving South London for good. My own plans had shifted up a gear: the invitation email from the school for the deaf in Mexico had come through and I had already applied for a Mexican visa. We had planned a football tournament and barbecue for the boys and, best of all, the Deen Riders had agreed to spend some time with them.

‘I think it would be fantastic for them to see that you can be Muslim, responsible and hip, all at the same time,' I had said to Yusuf. I just knew that the brothers on their bikes would be a hit with our kids.

‘We'll be there, inshallah,' Yusuf had replied, nodding with approval. ‘Working with the youth is one of our most important missions.' He looked away briefly then said, ‘My sister Yasmin sent some goodies for the kids.' And he handed me one of the now familiar cake boxes.

I felt my face burn. ‘Listen, Yusuf,' I stammered. ‘I am so sorry for that misunderstanding about your sister. I never meant to…'

Yusuf laughed and scratched his jaw through his beard. ‘No hard feelings, bro. It was my fault, really. Just got a bit
over excited, y'know.' Then he raised his eyebrow and gave me a sly look. ‘But does that mean that you aren't interested in meeting my sister or aren't interested in marriage, full stop?'

I mulled that one over. ‘Hmmm, let's just say what I want is out of reach right now.'

It was ironic that Dad had had a change of heart about marriage, now that the girl I wanted was promised to someone else.

We had prayed Fajr together that morning.

Afterwards, I had sat on the worn prayer mat, making
dhikr
. I didn't look to my side, where I was aware that Dad was still sitting, probably making
dhikr
, the
mus'haf
at his side, ready. That was one thing I had always admired about Dad: even though languages didn't come easily to him, he had never given up trying to master Arabic or working on his ability to read the Qur'an. But, even now, he still made mistakes.

As I sat there, I heard him start to read from
Surah al-Baqarah
. I listened to his gravelly voice, painstakingly pronouncing the Arabic letters, pausing where he was meant to pause, elongating where he was meant to make the sound long.

When he got to the twelfth
ayah
, he stumbled, as I knew he would. He always had trouble at that bit.

I turned towards him. ‘Dad, that bit's like this…' And I recited it correctly, the way Mum had taught me.

He gazed up at me, his eyes filling with tears. ‘That's just how your mother used to recite that
ayah
…' And, all of a sudden, I saw the way grief and loneliness had marked my father's face: lines where they hadn't been before, dark circles under his eyes, a dullness to his eyes that I had never seen
before. My heart broke for him.

‘Dad…'

‘Son, come here.' He beckoned, and I moved to sit next to him. He put his hand on my shoulder and took a deep breath. ‘Son, I've been thinking about what you said about marriage since the day you mentioned it. I thought about it all night, I couldn't sleep. You may not know this, but your mum and I always discussed family decisions after you boys had gone to bed. Sometimes, we'd stay up all night, thrashing things out. Your mother was so wise – and such a great person to confide in. I miss that…'

‘I know, Dad. So do I.'

‘You know, she often disagreed with me about your kids, about how we should raise you, particularly as you got older. She thought I was too lax with you, that I didn't lecture you enough.' He chuckled. ‘Sometimes I think she wished I was a bit less liberal and a bit more authoritarian. But I told her, that's just not my style. Especially not with you boys. I let her take that role.' Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘But now, here I am, the kind of father I swore I would never be: one who doesn't listen, who pushes his own agenda all the time, who forces his kids to do what he thinks is right, without guidance.' He looked up at me again with those tired, tired eyes. ‘Forgive me, son.'

I shook my head. ‘There's nothing to forgive, Dad. You did what you thought was right.'

‘I know, but that's not the bottom line, is it? I know what your mum would have wanted for you: to spend your life in a purposeful way, doing what brings you fulfilment. To find a nice girl and marry her, if that's what you both wanted. She was already worried about you not finding someone, or falling
into
zinah
. I used to laugh and say that if my boys couldn't control themselves, they had no business getting married. But I spoke to Imam Talib last night and asked for his advice, something I really should do more often…'

‘What did he say, Dad?'

‘He told me to be pleased that you were looking at marriage as a serious option; so many youth are in haram relationships and the thought of marriage doesn't even cross their minds. And he said to take you seriously, to trust you more.'

I had been speechless at his words. What a turnaround. I could hardly believe that this was my father speaking.

‘Ali, was there a particular girl you had in mind when you spoke to me?'

I had swallowed hard and shaken my head, ‘No, Dad. I think I may have missed the boat on that one.'

Yusuf's voice snapped me back to the present. ‘Ah, I see. So you'll have to wait a bit longer for your little halal love story, eh? Never mind, Allah is the Best of Planners. If He wills, it will be. You've just got to be patient. You never know, she could be just around the corner.'

And, no sooner had he said that, than I looked up to see Amirah, coming into the car park with her three siblings. I swear, it felt just like the very first time I saw her, at the basketball courts.

The whole world dimmed and dropped out of focus. Sound made no sense.

She was as lovely as ever, even more so, now that I knew that she was truly out of my reach.

And when I saw that she was wearing those red trainers, just like the first time, it was all I could do not to cry out to
her, to have her look my way, to smile at me, even if it was for the last time.

She waved goodbye as her little sister and brother ran off to meet their group leaders. They were going to be rehearsing for the parents' show that evening. Abdullah was left standing next to her, clutching a rolled up poster under his arm. She gave him a hug then signed that she had to go and that she would be back later, inshallah.

No
.

I wasn't about to let her walk away like that, not without hearing her voice again.

‘Amirah!' I didn't care who heard me or who saw me. I rushed over to where she was standing with Abdullah then stopped at a respectful distance.