Worlds Apart (21 page)

‘Azi,’ I replied.

‘Azi what?’

Here we go…

‘Azi Ahmed.’

I knew why they were asking – to check if I had a Muslim surname. They all looked down at my legs again. Even the English man looked puzzled. I pretended not to care but deep down I did. How could I be so stupid?! After all I had been through and with everything I knew about this area, I thought, why the hell did I wear a skirt? Thankfully, the meeting commenced shortly after and we began talking about the process of selection. I felt like cattle on a catwalk. A couple of elderly ladies in the blue-rinse brigade, who were sat at the committee table, shouted out in chorus, ‘S’cuse me!’

Khalil tapped me on the shoulder – they were speaking to me.

‘What’s your name?’ the ladies asked.

‘Azi … Azi Ahmed.’

Khalil looked at me and said with a wink, ‘You’re in.’

We all had to decide which constituency we would go for if we had a choice, though it would be the votes that would dictate overall.

Of the three constituencies for which candidates were being chosen – Oldham, Rochdale and Heywood & Middleton – I wanted Rochdale the most. One of the Pakistani men put his hand up for Rochdale too, but the others, it seemed, were steering away from that constituency. The meeting ended an hour later and we were given the date of the selection interview, which would be after Christmas. I wondered why candidates for these seats were being selected so late in the day, and could only put it down to the fact that they were unsafe.

The next day I headed back to London feeling even more determined to get the nomination. I checked my email and noted a few more invitations to other constituencies, but my heart was set on Rochdale. It was therefore with great joy that, soon after the visit, I received an invitation to go back for final selection.

Over Christmas and New Year I read up as much as I could on Rochdale, as well as on its Labour MP, Simon Danczuk. He had written a book on Cyril Smith that lifted the lid on historic sexual abuse of young boys and, although it was by no means an enjoyable read, it
provided a real insight into the power this MP had had over the local people, as well as how much the public’s perception of politicians had changed over the years. They were seen as such powerful entities in those days – almost like royalty. Though my mother was a Thatcherite, she thought Cyril was an amazing man with great presence, and even my dad would stop and watch the television whenever he was on.

My research on Rochdale was eye opening: one in four children were living in poverty; school results were below average in Britain; and, on top of all that, there were the sex-grooming and paedophile scandals.

All too quickly, the day of the interview arrived. We had been told to prepare a five-minute speech on why we would make a good candidate, a question I had gone through several times before. I would deliver the speech, then there would be ten minutes of questions from the committee, followed by ten minutes of questions from the floor. I’d been on the BBC news website for the duration of my journey here and had read all the newspapers I could get my hands on, so I thought I was prepared for anything.

This time we had the hall above the pub for the meeting, which made me wonder how many people were attending, but before it began everyone congregated in the pub like last time. After a while, people started to
make their way upstairs to the hall – all except the candidates, who had to remain downstairs. A few minutes later, Michael, the chairman, returned with a handful of small, folded pieces of white paper, each with a number on them that would decide the order of presentations. Sod’s law, I got number one, much to the relief of the rest of them. They sat back at the table, sipping their drinks as Michael took me upstairs.

This time I had smartly thought through my wardrobe choice and had decided to wear formal trousers and a long-sleeved striped shirt, which was buttoned up to the neck. I followed Michael into the hall. I could only see the first few rows of people because of the lighting, but the silhouettes against the back wall made me convinced that the room was packed. I wasn’t sure whether to remain standing or to sit on the chair behind me, but I decided on the former, considering my height.

As I walked onto the stage, someone wolf-whistled. I stopped, not sure if I had heard correctly, and looked over at Michael, who was looking into the crowd trying to figure out who it was. He was visibly shocked.

My voice was shaking as I did my speech. It didn’t come out the way I had practised it in front of the bathroom mirror, but I bumbled through. To my relief, I got an applause at the end, which helped stop my voice from quivering. Then came the questions from the committee,
the subjects of which ranged from Syria to pollution to the price of a pint of milk. I can’t remember the last time I bought a pint of milk, given that these days the 2-litre cartons are more common, so I gave the price of that and saw a few cocked eyebrows. ‘Where do you shop then?’ someone shouted.

Thankfully Michael came to the rescue and opened the questions up to the floor. The first was whether I thought we were doing enough about Muslim radicalisation. Of course not, I responded, but let’s start working with the families and owners of social media sites, rather than always pointing the finger at authorities, though they too have a responsibility.

They asked me about sex grooming, which I was expecting. ‘Of course we have a problem with a selected part of the Pakistani community which needs to be looked into,’ I offered. Finally, someone asked me my view about windmills in Rochdale. My mind went blank. Do they have them already or are they about to? I decided to do the most stupid thing on the planet and pretend I knew what he was talking about: ‘If we get them in, it will be a great idea to help reduce pollution.’

‘We already have them and we hate them!’ someone shouted.

I could feel my face burning but carried on until my
ten minutes were over, then left the stage with a small applause following me off.

‘That was rubbish,’ I thought as I was escorted back downstairs. The one non-Muslim candidate, Ian, went upstairs next as he’d picked number two. The rest of them hovered around me downstairs asking what the questions were. To be honest, I told them, it all happened so quickly that I couldn’t remember most of the questions, but the one about the price of a pint of milk stuck in my mind, at which point everyone went onto the Tesco website on their phones to check out the price.

After Ian, it was Khalil’s turn, and as he went upstairs I asked Ian if he’d got the pint of milk question.

‘I did and I gave them the price of 2 litres – my wife’s just been on the phone having a go at me.’

When Khalil came down he had a big smile on his face. I guessed he had made them all laugh.

Once all the candidates had done their presentation, we all sat down and waited for the votes to be counted upstairs. I took my diary out of my bag and started to look at the dates for the other interviews, feeling low. Finally, we were summoned upstairs and asked to stand on the stage in a line. I watched as Khalil lost out on Oldham East. I thought he looked a bit miffed, but he was offered his last-choice constituency, which he accepted graciously. Last up was Rochdale – ‘last but not
least’ – and then I heard my name being called out, followed by an applause. Stunned and confused, I looked around, not quite believing what I heard.

F
or some reason I wasn’t looking forward to my next visit to Rochdale, which was due to take place in March 2015. It was my first visit since being elected and, although I’d had a lot of correspondence with my agent, Ashley Dearnley, I hadn’t worked with him as yet.

I wore jeans and trainers as I was expecting to spend a lot of time outside. Unfortunately, I was a little late, which didn’t go down well with Ashley judging by his silent response when I apologised. I got in the car and we went to our first rendezvous point, where we would be picking up litter. It was bitterly cold at that time in the morning, and even though I was wearing two pairs of gloves, by the time we met up with Gary, the volunteer who ran the event, I was freezing.

‘I bet it’s a bit colder here than in the south,’ Gary offered sympathetically.

I started to nod, then stopped myself, suddenly remembering where I was and
what
I was in this town.

‘Not much colder,’ replied the parliamentary
candidate for Rochdale in a strong voice. I didn’t want to risk anyone saying I couldn’t take the weather, let alone represent the town.

After that, we went leafleting in another ward. I wanted to go inside somewhere to have a hot drink but it didn’t feel right to ask. We cracked on, up and down the hilly streets, shoving the blue papers into every letterbox visible.

After a break, we were off to do some more leafleting, and then we shot off to a meeting with a candidate who had stood in 2010, Mohammed Salim. He was a nice chap, very approachable, and Ashley went out of his way to say that he was a good man.

We met Mohammed in Starbucks with his cousin Sameena. Sameena was a lovely lady who invited me to a Muslim women’s event the next day. Great, I thought – in the diary.

‘Have you got a headscarf?’ she asked.

Why didn’t I think of that?

‘Yes.’ I replied coolly. I’ll get one from my friend, I thought.

At the end of the day I got on the train, feeling like an ice cube, and thought about the hot food and warm bed waiting for me at my friend’s house. She’d offered me a place to stay while I was in Rochdale – so much better than going back to an empty hotel room.

I was shattered by the time I arrived, so I began to work out what time I would need to be up tomorrow in order to get to this Muslim women’s get-together. It had been ages since I had been to something like that. I got terrible flashbacks that evening to when I was a kid and had to go to these sorts of events with my mum. I remember them being very intimidating, where a lot of women would look down their noses at each other, comparing daughter-in-laws and the amount of gold they had plastered on their arms. I’d hated it.

But now I was an adult, no longer being dragged there, but going of my own accord … kind of. Let’s face it, I told myself, twenty years have passed and things will be different. I borrowed a black headscarf from my friend – black was safe.

Finally, I thought, I was going to grasp the woman’s vote, which is what I needed to get ahead. Ashley picked me up in the morning and, as I rode with him to the venue, I realised how lucky I was to have him. He was a gentle man, softly spoken, and knew how to play his politics without shouting from the tree tops.

Ashley dropped me off at the event, and the chanting was loud as I joined the sea of colourful headscarves. I sat at the back and suddenly felt disappointed. These women were not how I expected them to be. Some British Muslim women are very forthright, but these all seemed very
docile. It was another time warp; nothing had changed here for Muslim women in the past twenty years. My dreams were shattered – they won’t vote for me, I thought, they’ll vote for whoever their husbands ask them to vote for.

I left feeling low, especially about the women. My strategy was to retain the Tory vote and take the women’s vote. I began to mull it all over as I waited for Ashley. I was just another woman to them, but if I had been Baroness Warsi, for example, the whole room would have stood up to attention.

I had a thought as Ashley pulled up. We were on route to do an interview with a local newspaper when I asked, ‘What’s it like here for putting posters up?’

I told him how the women’s event had gone and said that I thought trying to get the Muslim women’s vote was like flogging a dead horse. If I had a poster of me with Warsi in the shop windows of Asian communities, people would know who she was and maybe associate my campaign with her. Ashley liked the idea and suggested I email Warsi’s office to see if she’d agree to it.

The newspaper interview went OK, though I was very nervous. Hopefully in time they would get better, I thought. I was back to leafleting that evening before the association meeting, this time in a marginal seat I had been asked to help out in, Bury North. Ashley came with me and introduced me to everyone.

‘Who are you up against?’ one of them asked. ‘Is it Simon Danczuk?’

‘Yes,’ I replied enthusiastically.

‘Oh … well, you’ve got no chance with him.’

‘Thanks for the encouragement,’ I replied flatly.

‘Sorry, but it’s true. You won’t knock him off his perch, but good luck.’

Ashley and I went for a quick bite before the association meeting at 8 p.m. We went through the emails from local people on political issues as fast as possible and then I asked him about what the man had said about me not having a chance against Simon.

‘It’s a shame Danczuk won’t meet you as he knows everything happening in Rochdale and has access to everything,’ Ashley said. ‘Shame he’s not here today, he’s in Westminster as it’s Budget day.’

‘He might meet me if I ask?’ I prodded. ‘I do want him to say nice things about me, if asked. I’m no threat to him, I live outside Rochdale and perhaps I could meet him in Westminster to discuss the issues in Rochdale.’

We headed to the association meeting, and arrived a little late. There were about twenty-five people there to discuss events running up to the elections. All the time my mind was running through the events of the past few days.

By the time I got back to London, my inbox was crammed with emails from more local campaigners. I resigned myself to the idea that this would be the case until the elections were over – and then they wouldn’t be interested in my views.

One interesting email I received was from the producer of a television company based in Germany who said that they wanted to feature me in a televised documentary about how the parties were getting the Muslim vote. I thought this would be a great idea and perhaps the media exposure would mean that Warsi might want to join me. I jumped at the opportunity and Ashley agreed that it would be interesting, so I emailed CCHQ and Warsi’s office about it.