…A man who has studied religion and has taught it and who used to recite the Quran will be brought forward and Allah will make known to him His favours and he will recognize them. Allah will say: And what did you do about them? He will say: I studied religion and I taught it and I recited the Quran for Your sake. He will say: You have lied! You did but study that it might be said [of you]: He is learned. And you recited the Quran that it might be said [of you]: He is a reciter.

Forty Hadith Qudsi – Hadith 6 [Muslim, Tirmidhi, Nasa’i]

This is an insight into how the world of independent Islamic schooling (Madrassa) was like in East London, where the majority of teachers and pupils were South Asian, when I was studying there at the turn of the millennium. A boy would be sent to Madrassa to learn the canonical texts that form the basis of the Islamic Law (Shari’ah), Arabic language and Quran studies and become a scholar (Alim), or, would commit the Qur’an to memory and qualify as a Haafidh (lit. Protector. Coll. memoriser of Qur’an). The motivation behind this was two-pronged. Ideally it was because a boy of good social standing and utmost morals showed potential in seeking knowledge and living a good moral life. But mostly, it was a parents last-ditch attempt at rehabilitating the behaviour of their misbehaving, morally bankrupt, probably mis-labelled autistic/neurodiverse teenager who was ‘noshto’ (Bengali, ruined/damaged). The school I went to was headed by Big Man, whom I will introduce properly in another post. His character and vision was not to blame; the community deemed him a good man. It was the rest of it that was lacking. But I shall focus on the pupils for now. Since the early days I was singled out as the slightly posh, goody-goody, likeable but highly enviable popular kid. They either flocked to me, around me, or glared at me from afar. By the way, I think it prudent to mention that I was the former category of ideal pupil with good morals and ethics!

Only God kept me safe and protected.

No word of a lie, I was offered all manner of cigarettes – from rollups to Rizlas to Cubans to (potentially) cannabis. Raid day was fun. Literally back then we didn’t have mobile phones as easily accessible. I mean, the Nokia 3210 was the latest handset on the market for God’s sakes! As soon as the whisper was heard that Big Man was conducting the raid, word spread in ways that would give instant messaging socials of today a run for their money; The Network. Comprising the sewage rats and the slum lords. Not actual rats (well some of them could have been described that way, but I digress), but I mean like first years, or pawns if they were chess pieces. The slum lords were the ‘older lot’; they were untouchable, and no one tried it wit them. As cool as they came back then. They all scrambled to the inward facing side of the Madrassa wall, and what they did could have easily been the Jewish practice at the Western Wall. Paper squeezed into the crevices, yes, but this paper was in the form of a zoot, and make no= mistake; no prayer was inscribed within. Apparently it was the only way to conceal their ciggys from Big Man. I reluctantly have to admit, it was resourceful. If only those guys applied that sort of resourceful fervour to their actual studies. Anyway.

No word of a lie, I was offered all manner of cigarettes – from rollups to Rizlas to Cubans to (potentially) cannabis.

“Let me feel it then”, said Actar. His hand reached out, and he cupped it in his palm, and with his thumb he lightly caressed back and forth the skin just above my upper lip. “Wow, that’s really smooth, I thought you shaved your moustache”, he concluded. We all learnt the lesson not to shave the natural growth of facial hair, when one of the boys in another year was beaten silly for shaving the pubertal ‘bum fluff’ that grows on the upper lip. It was raid day again, and Big Man was inspecting all of us for tell-tale signs of shaving. It was my turn, and being great at pretending, I assumed poker face and looked ahead, I smiled a little as a way of obscuring and then proceeded to itch my nose at an attempt to conceal naturally. I had nothing to hide anyway; I didn’t shave. I promise.

I mean, technically, I trimmed it with scissors😛 .

The trick was to catch the bumfluff before the first few shoots appeared, in order to maintain that delayed-onset-puberty look. Initially I only had a very light smattering of hairs across the upper lip, nothing really major at first glance. So, with a pair of really sharp scissors I cut the hairs very close to the skin. Did a good job considering I wasn’t taught male grooming, since I managed to fool Actar…and then Big Man.

This time it hurt. When that stick came out I knew I was in for it. Had my luck finally run out? Why couldn’t the cat live beyond the 9th life? Raid day again, and this time it was fingernails. The expectation was short, clipped and should never have dirt accumulating under the nail lest it prevent proper ritual purity from being achieved. I guess it slipped my mind. I was always on top of cleanliness, I mean I had learnt to handwash clothes and everything! Hair was never longer than a size 2 blade – mum saw to it, religiously. We all were knelt down, palms to the floor and then TWACK! Down came the stick and it bruised my fingers. Did I learn my lesson? Obviously not, I was like 12, had other priorities innit!

The Pragaymatic Muslim

• High School Chronicles
• His-story
• Pluralism
• Prelude
• Revelation
• Turning point
• Uncategorized

1. 

   Ahahha. Thank you dear reader. Please do forward this on to those whom you think may benefit. High school is…

2. 

   Oh can’t wait for the next part. Very captivating.

3. 

   Merci beaucoup. If it pleases you then I will strive to compose more. Please spread the word and invite others…

4. 

   I like reading these!

5. 

   […] about how to suppress and repress the dark thoughts and suicidal ideations that plagued me at the turning point…