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.
Change did come, initially moving like a glacier, indomitable and incommunicable. The youth brought their new religion as a thawing recrudescence. This is why circles were set up in people’s homes, where they could discuss freely, outside the strictures of mosque and prying stares, and those greedy ears.
Ishaq’s eyes looked caved. He rubbed at them, trying to reintroduce some life and test their fragility. He thought about Mujahid, his refusal to listen. He thought about Shams. He couldn’t understand why Shams had been so weak. He thought about their pain, and how easy it is to just succumb. You could do a lot with pain, you could wallow in it and drown, you can use it as fuel to drive you to greater heights, and you could also weaponise it. Make it something to beat others with. Indulge in a competition to prove who was at more risk, whose life was under the most duress.
Your own pain and hurts were special. Hardly contained, it was difficult to endure and still be open with others. In fact the grief of others was a threat, as it felt like their suffering diminished yours. It was easier to deny theirs. That was only human. Ishaq remembered seeing a TV debate between two famous Jewish writers discussing the latest invasion of Gaza, one for and one against. Both of them prefaced their arguments by stating how their parents died in concentration camps, so as to add credibility to their argument. In other conflicts, antagonists clinically swapped ghoulish numbers of how many children the other side had murdered. Pain used as a currency in decreasing trades of poverty.
He had to be honest with himself. He had to make an admission that, however much he had tried to block it out, he too felt pain. At university, on the street, via the internet and television, he was barricaded in, just like the mosque. Constricted and attacked on all sides, betrayed by friends, and unsafe. He also had to admit that he desired, that he wanted much more than what the estate offered. Maybe to admit that wanting that much was a sin, or that aspiration was something for other people. Allah says in the Quran Kun fayakun, ‘Be and it is’. He wills it so, and it happens. New creations, new realities. That is God’s attribute alone, but aren’t we made from clay? Can’t we mould ourselves into something different, something that can rise above any given situation? Ishaq closed his eyes and leant over again to aid his thinking. He felt a hand on his back that made him shiver.
‘Assalmu alaikum, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump.’
Looking around he saw Ayub, kneeling beside him with a look of concern. Ishaq watched as Ayub reached into a small pocket in his pristine white thobe. He pulled out a rollerball vial containing fluid that clung to the sides of the bottle. Ayub took off the cap and offered it to Ishaq. As was custom, Ishaq did not refuse and rolled it over his hands, proceeding to wipe the liquid over his clothing. A distinguished white musk, the oil’s fresh clean tones spread over Ishaq, covering what was redolent of the day.
‘A lot has happened lately,’ said Ishaq.
‘Yes, it has.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about the spooks bothering you? We’ve sat there week after week listening to you.’
‘I thought it was ancient history and I didn’t want to make things worse.’
‘I trusted you,’ Ishaq said, observing Ayub through rheumy eyes.
‘And you don’t, now?’
Ishaq looked behind Ayub. The mosque thrummed with resonating murmurs, calls to the unseen that normally made Ishaq want to sit in a contemplative languor. He peeled back from Ayub onto his haunches and then set back cross-legged. ‘What did you say to Mujahid?’
‘I told him a few things and I told him to back-off. He can be controlled.’
‘He’s not in control of himself, so how can you control him? What happens now? It went too far.’
Ayub tended to his beard, grabbing at his chin, sliding down, and then starting from the top again. ‘I don’t know, Ishaq. I don’t know what to do. We try to control everything, sort it out between ourselves, and it just makes things worse.’
‘You can call the police?’
‘And bringing in outsiders will make things even worse. I know a man…men… that can bring absolute disaster with them.’ Ayub wrung his hands. ‘One wrong step and so many lives could be wrecked.’
Ishaq looked at the elder man’s face, on the tipping point of aging, about to follow the other men in this mosque. ‘You know, over the years, your talks were exactly what I needed. I still appreciate them, but you never checked the attitudes of the brothers.’
‘What attitudes?’ Ayub said. Ishaq was unsure of whether to continue but Ayub prompted him further. ‘The privilege of silence has passed. You might as well just say everything you need to.’
Ishaq nodded. ‘Ok, ok, it’s just that we sat there, as a group, week after week and some attitudes just didn’t change whatever happened. There just seems a lack of any…any real thought. You give amazing advice but left it at that…Well, it all got a bit lazy; as a group we’re insular and there’s no questioning of…’
‘Of Islam, of our way?’ Even sitting, Ayub was taller than Ishaq by a head as he leaned in.
‘Hey calm down. That’s a bit heavy. No, not that at all – just the bigger issues…here, now. It’s always…anyway…’
‘Look, that’s fair enough. But, as I always said, I’m not a scholar, nor is anyone else. We do what we can and we were doing our best to remind each other of the basics.’
‘I understand that but there has to be recognition of our circumstance, our drivers in striving for the truth…a truth. It’s just sometimes that…it’s all very predictable. Why we do what we do…I’m really not making sense. I’m tired.’
His words drifted like his thoughts, formless and without shape. Sometimes they piled up in heaps, indistinguishable, and other times they carried him along, wandering, buoyed by whatever light breeze or tempest was blowing that day.
Ayub softly wrapped a knuckle on Ishaq’s thigh. ‘No, I think I know what you mean, but that’s complicated stuff, akhi. You’re talking about intention, and the contents of one’s soul. Only Allah knows that, and in a far better way than ourselves.’
And sometimes those thoughts hinted at form, you could almost reach out and discern a pattern. It felt like, in that reach, you opened yourself. Exposed yourself to something that you may not come back from. Yet, it excited. It animated.
Ishaq said, ‘But if we are striving for a moderate middle way, a path, then shouldn’t we try to be aware of these things. Otherwise we could be just kidding ourselves.’
‘I agree with that, but we must be soft towards each other, in thought and deed. You know Ishaq, you’re in a very blessed position and have the luxury of being in a dream world. Studying, no bills to pay or people to support. Mashallah, you come from a stable family who are there for you.’ Ayub placed a hand on Ishaq’s shoulder to reassure him that he was not attacking him. ‘You can think about these things. You have time and little responsibility. Of course you should use that time, but remember that your thoughts also have their biases. A lot of the brothers have heavy family responsibilities. Jobs to hold, wives and kids to feed, extended families to help. They do this without your education, and far more limitations. They struggle really hard to rectify themselves and not to fall into old harmful patterns of behaviour. Some of these bros have done time, or made other mistakes in the past. And you and me are not better than them, we are all trying to get along.’
‘Even Mujahid?’
‘Even Mujahid.’
‘So I’m spoilt and had it easy. Did I deserve this? Because of my luxuries and position?’ Ishaq looked around and then partially brought up his arm and shoulder through the neck of his shirt.
Ayub’s face cleared and fell vacant at the sight of the cut. ‘No, of course you didn’t.’
‘And this is where our softness and understanding has led us…I want solutions, not questions that lead to more questions.’
‘I can’t offer that. All I know is we can offer up the struggle…the constant struggle to live in dignity…that’s all that we can promise ourselves. Companions of the prophet, peace be upon him, used to weep in the struggle to purify the heart from disease.’ Ayub paused, a sole finger resting on his temple. ‘And as for Mujahid, please leave it – at least until we find out where Shams is.’
‘Why? Shams went too far. Why should I care? Would he do the same for me? Why bother with him? Maybe, I’m better off alone. Maybe I can make my own way.’
‘I don’t think you mean that? You do need community. Its annoyances, its bonds. You have to be careful that you don’t straddle so many worlds that you get lost in between and are nothing.’
Ayub spoke inwardly as if he was warding himself, and then Ishaq saw it. Ayub was as confused as he was, fumbling in the dark, looking for something to hold onto. He must feel like he did, every day with the irritation of nagging concerns, that you can’t shake off, that remained voiceless and elusive yet irritated the pit of your stomach. That uncomfortable feeling of constant harm, that at any moment all of the walls around you would collapse and take with it every person you loved. A life of constant apprehension in which every minor step was deliberated on, where you stuck a toe out to test the ground, even though you could see it was concrete.
The boy and the man stopped talking for a while, gazes cast elsewhere, guarding their own counsel. After a while, Ayub said, ‘Whatever has happened Shams is your brother. The prophet, peace be upon him, said you should make seventy excuses for your brother.’
Ishaq clenched a fist and pressed into the lush carpet. ‘But, Ayub, some mistakes are worth a thousand others. This isn’t about a missed invite to a footie game, or being tight and never paying for chicken and chips. He brought me into harm.’
‘Yes, he did. But what now…cutting ties with him? You know…’
‘With respect, Ayub, don’t quote me another hadith. Sometimes that’s a cop-out. I know. I know.’
Ayub moved to touch Ishaq on the shoulder again but thought better of it and moved back. ‘But then you…we have ignored him. He feels left out. Vulnerable.’
‘Ayub, I feel left out. I feel vulnerable. Why is the sympathy one way?’
‘Because you’re stronger. All Shams wants is some love and care. What is it that you want?’
‘To live honest and true. I want the truth, Ayub. Unvarnished, even if it hurts. Because, even if it’s painful, at least it makes you aware of reality. I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I want my faith to be real, and I want to do something with my life. Not just survive and tick along.’
‘And you can’t do something with your life here?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m figuring out,’ Ishaq said, his voice surging.
An old man, back bent, shuffled past them and put a battered copy of the Quran back on a shelf, admonishing both with judging eyes.
‘Ishaq…maybe it’s just an illusion, but all these debates you’ve been having lately. Your head wandering in the clouds somewhere far away from here. All alone. It’s not healthy and it’s not our way. You have to reach out to other souls.’
Ishaq didn’t know if he was a thinker or a coward, someone of reason looking at the longer game or just small and fearful. A man could organise his life, live well, be successful, look after number one. He could look after a family and be a good citizen, wasn’t that enough? Who was more moral a person, one who could be a role model for others, maybe starting a business leading to thousands of jobs, or the one who smiled and gave reassuring platitudes, who was kind but aimless, who achieved nothing?
Ayub said, ‘It’s fine to chase after the truth, or a truth, or truths, but leaving and hurting people in the process isn’t. Go for painful examination, be harsh on yourself if you want, but be soft on others. Don’t let your search become the product of narcissism and greed.’
Ayub’s tone had changed, more pointed, and Ishaq could hear irritation. Ishaq was taken aback by the slight aggression . He had not seen him talk in such a manner before.
‘Ishaq, you’re despairing. As believers we hold fast to the rope of Allah. We hope for his mercy, we fear his wrath, and we love him for all that he has done. Hope. Fear. Love. It’s the same for society, too. Always hope for something better. Don’t despair. Fear consequence. And love, love each other with an open heart. We lurch and see-saw but we must have a balance between the three. We lean too heavily to one and then we fall. That’s part of life’s struggle.’
Ishaq listened carefully. The voice sounded exactly the same as when he gave the circle, yet it now lacked something. The timbre was controlled and dignified but it had lost its complete hold.
Ishaq shook his head. ‘It’s all so confusing.’
‘Yes, it is. There’s so many times I want to run from my responsibilities. To give up the fight. Like you I think, where else could I have gone? What could I have been? But, in the end, you have to decide what man, and you are a man now, Ishaq, what kind are you? What will make your heart rest easy?’
Ishaq used his right hand to lean on, making an ineffectual grab of the carpet’s fibrous strands. The matting was made up of panels that mimicked the portals of the Alhambra in Andalusian Spain. Ishaq followed it up to its edges and then up the whitewashed walls, until his eyes met the geometric designs on the ceiling. None of the star-shaped motifs that he liked, but rigorously ordered shapes in a never-ending pattern, simple in isolation yet amazingly complex as they extended and interlocked.
Ayub and Shams, they were both right in a way; we did have obligations to each other. Hunkering down in your head, with the rising bile coming their way, was sufferance. Real strength came in extending your arm outwards. Helping, assuring. In that extension you may indeed reveal too much, show weakness, a fragility that can be exploited, but there was no other choice. Enjoin the good and forbid the evil. Listen to each other, be kind. A mixture of his parents’ homespun cod philosophy was maybe not a systematic approach, but a necessary one. Ayub was right; there was no restful peace when everyone who came from the same place as you stayed in poverty and disrepair. Class, or tribe, or race, you needed their uplifting, too. Any success without that tasted like a bitter fruit. Wholesome and inviting but, as you ate into it, its acrid, biting, kick shocked the system, causing an instinctual violent refusal.
Ayub put a hand in his pocket once again and pulled out a folded piece of paper that he handed to Ishaq. ‘This is the address of where Mujahid sent Shams.’
‘Why can’t you go?’
The crow lines under Ayub’s eyes grew more marked as they curved and extenuated. ‘By Allah I would, but I have to be careful at the moment.’
‘To do with Bosnia?’ Ishaq had always known that Ayub was frightened by bumps in the night – apparitions from the past that he could not shake off. He saw the angst in Ayub’s face, and surprise. ‘We’ve always known. It looks like a city but it’s really a village. You didn’t talk about it so we respected you, protected you.’
Ayub nodded, he leant over and kissed Ishaq’s forehead, and then pressed his head against his. ‘I love you all for the sake of Allah.’ As Ayub scrunched up the piece of paper Ishaq stayed his hand, unfastened his fingers and took it.
‘Peace be upon you. I’ll see what I can do.’
Ishaq looked on as Ayub walked away. Once he was gone he stood in prayer, and then prostrated. It was the steady interruptions of the five prayers that gave rhythm to life. It was the primary ritual that united. A constant renewal of faith, a purifying ritual that reorientated. It reminded him of a greater vision of life, as compared to day-to-day banality. An act of submission.
Ishaq, kneeling, finished his salah. He noticed his shivering had stopped and his fever had subsided. Ishaq felt a new conception within him, a fresh soul had broken through, one not without doubt but one that harnessed his fears. All life, love, joy may be subsumed by the world he had found himself in, but he could retain an inner place, sustain a sanctum away from the terror. He could refuse to spend an existence in entreaty on those that despised him. Ishaq decided then and there that he would try to do the PhD. He would go to the university the very next day, to speak to Professor Harell and talk about the incident at the conference. He would explain how he would handle disagreement in a different way, and that he hoped the place was still on offer. Ishaq also decided he would contact Father Horan and try to help resurrect the youth centre project. It would be something that he could get Shams involved in, too.
It was not the life he had envisaged, but he could make it a good one. No lax fatalism. He may have to live his whole life within a rift, against shuddering clashes and in a state of constant schism. He may need to bear permanent exile from himself, but he could be of use, be an honourable man, a good man. And that’s all he really wanted, a modest opportunity, the affording of that slim chance, to be dutiful and upright. In doing this, as he had seen Ayub before him, Ishaq decided that he would never be leaving the estate.