“Madrassa”, (schooling system of Islamic Jurisprudential instruction) Dad mentioned it to me a week before I was due to start the Autumn Term in Year 7. “We feel that you would benefit from instruction in the Islamic Sciences”, he justified. “Erm, OK?”, I just shrugged, having been put under the spotlight by Dad in front of everyone and with Mums eager expression, how could I say no? And so for the next 3 years I was schooled in Islamic theology and experienced a lot. Like a lot, a lot. All up until I met the Wolfpack; they were East London’s answer to Mean Girls except they were boys. And I was groomed into this elite gang. It got to a point where I took the £500 tuition fees and made off with it to Hampstead. This is my deepest darkest secret and I will divulge exactly what happened.

But first, let’s return to the beginning, and how it all unfolded…

In my previous post – In Good Faith – I gave a brief introduction to Madrassa life. When I first started I had the notion that it would be just like the normal secondary schools, where newbies all had shiny new pencil cases full of cool stationery, new clothes, and fresh faces eager to make friends and learn. It could not be farther from it even if it tried. Every school had their good pupils and their troubled pupils. The Wolfpack (bless them they were good at heart) were just too full of the heady teenage passion for rebellion. Islamic schools began and ended with Ramadan as opposed to September, and I had joined 4 months into the school year. Friendship cliques had already established themselves. I came in looking really well-groomed (mums pride was to ensure her children were always clean and dressed fashionably and smart), a fully stocked cylindrical Pepsi-can pencil case (remember those?), shiny notebooks and my prized possession: silver Fountain pen complete with refill ink cartridges (which had their own see-through plastic case). Looking around, you would be lucky if you found a student with half a pencil or even a Biro pen that hadn’t run out of ink to hand. The carpet was dirty (in madrassa you removed your shoes as a sign of respect for the process of spiritual learning) and my white Nike socks had lost that fresh white glow at the soles. The socks matched my outfit which was a white kaftan style tunic, and a co-ordinated cardigan. All students were required to wear the Islamic skull cap. I never did, I just made excuses and instead wore my array of Nike, Adidas and JCB woolly beanies. The teachers frowned upon it, but, I made it work and they knew this, for they never asked me to remove it and I never got detention for it. Suffice it to say, getting away with stuff like that with the teachers singled me out as a target for the not-so-nice pupils. Look, even at that young age, I always took pride in how I appeared. I had great enthusiasm for all things especially learning, and my passion just radiated out from my soul. This went down well with the teachers who, know that I reflect upon it, took a liking to me. Ask any teacher, when they are faced with a student who shows interest in their subject, engages with the class and enjoys their company, they warm to them. And by extension, these students are usually forgiven for anything. For instance, like on the many, many occasions I forgot to do my homework and escaped the penalty. There is a punishment system that operated in every madrassa that I knew of. The most basic is the cane; 5 lashes on the palm/back of legs/shoulder. This is normally reserved for spelling mistakes. Insubordination during class earned you the ‘up-down’: one held their earlobes and performed any number of squats ranging 10-100. Insubordination outside class earnt the highest tier punishment and was usually reserved for the repeat offenders, endearingly called ‘the chicken stance’: you crouch, then loop your arms out and around the legs, reach up and hold the ears with head bent forward (supposed to resemble a chicken in a supermarket). This sentence is served in units of time. In living memory, I can recall doing squats 10x but that was as a group punishment because we just wouldn’t shut up when told to do so. In the 3 years I received only one set of 5 lashes to the fingers (wrist side up) for having more than 5 spelling mistakes in one homework assignment, delivered by a particularly grumpy teacher renowned for his grumpiness.

I took the £500 tuition fees and made off with it to Hampstead. This is my deepest darkest secret

That’s not to say there weren’t many opportunities. There were, but I used every resource at my disposal to evade penalty. When teachers checked our homework, we didn’t hand it in at the end of class to then read the remarks a few days later. No. These madrassa teachers marked homework in situ. Cane in hand, if you got more than 5 mistakes you were lashed there and then. When it came to me and I implored that I simply forgot to collect my homework from the kitchen where I was completing it whilst peeling potatoes and carrots and helping mum cook dinner (not true), I adopted the slumped shoulders of defeat and the the down-turned mouth corners of remorse, but maintaining eye-contact through my big brown goo-goo eyes in an attempt to convey my sincerity and (?honesty); if you didn’t meet the gaze, they knew you were guilty. It must have worked, because the teachers’ facial lines would soften and I’d only receive a light rap on the shoulder warning me that it would be my very last warning (it never was) to bring my homework in the next day (I never did). The class would just stare in utter disbelief and indignation at the unprecedented leniency afforded me. Furthermore, I learnt very quickly that there really was strength in numbers when it came to avoiding penalties. These ‘numbers’, I refer to them as the Triumvirate, a special trio of friends that I would make during Year 7. Together the four of us rose to high ranks attracting our peers’ adoration and respect as we went. I’ll tell you about them next time. For now I, leave you with this: unbeknownst to the triumvirate and myself, members of the Wolfpack were present in our classes…and they were watching, everything.

TO BE CONTINUED…

The Pragaymatic Muslim

• High School Chronicles (8)
• His-story (14)
• Pluralism (1)
• Prelude (2)
• Revelation (2)
• Turning point (1)
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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…

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   I like reading these!

5. 

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