“So where are you going?”

Q 81:26

Why did I do it?

All roses and rainbows is how I have made it out to be. In truth, every day was anxiety-ridden. Imagine, having to get the 7:52 train, a journey consuming 1hr and 15 minutes of life each way  across three zones of the London Underground network, all the way to East Ham (and remember this was pre-2000, and almost near Barking, where racial tensions were rife in that part of East London). A world away from the familiarity of the cool sophistication of my precious West End. Despite East Ham being the second epicentre of Bangladesh, I felt a foreigner. Yes, raised in a family and community with strong ties to my cultural heritage, but somehow whenever we (as in my siblings and I) visited the ‘ends’ we had this collective allergic reaction to it. Others raved and adored the fact they lived in ethnic communities that mimicked ‘back home’. Where everyone in the neighbourhood knew what you were doing and where you were going. But for us, it was stifling. We lived in a building with 3 other prominent Bangladeshi neighbours, and in the building across us, dotted throughout the floors, a fair few families, and even that was stifling. Having to conform, to perform that cultural dance so entrenched in the minds of all those parents who wanted their children to aspire to the perfect ideal. That strive for perfection never ended. The perfect house, perfect furnishings, perfect kids with perfect education, perfect upbringing with a perfectly untarnished reputation, perfectly religious living the perfect life. Impossible. Well those are the pressures one feels when entering these densely populated East End areas. All eyes judging and calculating how you matched up to perfection. So for me, traveling all them miles and enduring all them hours in Madrassa with all them people that reminded me of trauma was…traumatic! And so when Wolfpack suggested to me they were going to skip lessons that morning, I was poised to participate. “What do you mean? I don’t even know where that is”, I replied to Imran when he suggested it. “We’re going to Stratford to visit the Millennium Dome, wanna come?”, Imran winked with that irresistible glint in his eye that promised mayhem and fun. A million and one objections arose and each one was parried with effortless ease, rehearsed effortless ease. Now, Dad gave me £20 a week for school; £14 went on travelcard leaving £6 for buying food and snacks. I was always allowed more if I needed, without question, an honour not bestowed to any of my siblings; they usually had to face an inquisition and even then there was a 99% failure rate. It was Monday, I was not feeling it at all, I was anxious about school again. Mum used to whisper in my ear each morning “Remember, if you miss your train or you can’t get one, just come back home, OK my pet?”, and so with an already crumbling resolve, it was a wonder I ever made it to Madrassa in the first place. Just for the record, Mum was never comfortable with me travelling so far for school and she absolutely shot down the idea of me boarding. So yeah, as soon as the morning lessons started, and in the bustle of students running to lessons, through the throng of legs, socks (with holes in them), salwar kameez tails, 6 pairs of legs could be seen exiting through the front door of the Madrassa…

Oh God, Oh God. Oh Goddddddd please why did I do it?

Exhilarating to my core. Rebellious and rampant. We were running and jumping off of lamp-posts and the benches of Stratford, chasing pigeons, chasing each other, play-fighting as boys do. I spent all the £6 on sweets and drinks. I remember standing in the middle of the town square, arms outstretched and spinning like a Dervish, and the other guys all watching me and laughing at my expression of freedom. We even managed to get onto the Millennium Dome site and up the stairs to the actual dome where they take you bungee jumping these days. It must have been Imran who sweet-chatted them, because the contractors would never have allowed this to happen. 4pm and the day was drawing to a close. Stratford was in the vicinity of the Wolfpacks area anyway and so they put me on my train back to Central and after waving bye to Khaled, I whizzed round, swung around on the hand rails in the train carriage and plumped down onto a seat. And then it hit. The dopaminergic rush was spent and cruel reality set in.

OMG, I had just truanted that entire day. Unaccounted for. That has never happened. Which 12 year old back in them days went unaccounted for for an entire day. I walked home from the station, heart in my throat beating and pumping and I swear my head was pulsating with each double beat of my heart, like when you squeeze a stress-buster squishy toy. I rang the intercom. “Hello?”, said one of my many siblings. “It’s me”, I said back with confidence, but the last bit strained into a wobble. Beep. Beeeeeep. And the door opened. Walking up the stairs to the second floor, I hesitated here and there for any tell-tale sounds of mobilisation. What I mean by this, is the general din in the house when one of us has just been caught doing something and were about to face repercussions. It was just normal house sounds. I walk in through the front door…nothing. No enraged stomping of Dad’s footsteps. No frantic Mum running toward me to wring my neck and demand to know what I was thinking. No annoying older brother no.3 taunting and lauding it over me.

Wait, did I just get away with it? Waaaait. No way! No phone call home from school. HAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

The laughing stopped abruptly as soon as my head hit my pillow that night. Knots upon knots of gut-related emotion. What the hell was I going to face tomorrow. I don’t know. But I felt rebellious. Damn.

Oh God, Oh God. Oh Goddddddd please why did I do it? I stood outside the front gates of Madrassa the next morning. I was late. I didn’t want to wake up that morning, and I was kicking and screaming all through washing my teeth and eating breakfast. On the train, it threatened to come out a few times. I swear I looked pale and green. The anxiety was killing me. Stress so strong that my gastric juices were burning an ulcer right through my stomach at that moment. I traversed the threshold and prepared to face the music…

Eyes followed me from all directions. Teachers and pupils alike. They knew. GOD help me, they all knew. They all saw me. They must have. They talked about me at the midday prayer gathering I knew it.

I mumbled something to the teacher of the lesson I came late to about being ill.

Eventually it was registration time. Bigman recited the names and each pupil said “Aye” in turn. “Jubeyr”, Bigman said. “Aye”, I replied and waited. “Where were you yesterday? I called your name”, he enquired, looking up confused as I had never been absent from the roll call. “I was ill, Sir”, I replied in the sorriest way possible. “Hmm.  For 1 day only?”, Bigman mocked, but proceeded nonetheless. Interestingly, Imran, Akter, Dilwar and Khaled were also, that day, ‘ill, Sir’. I vowed not to do that again. I couldn’t handle the stress. But then, I was becoming more and more restless because I realised I didn’t want to… be here at Madrassa. Both, in attendance and physically, here. That’s how the seed roots itself and draws upon the nutrients of insecurity within the psyche. So anyone in guardianship of young people who they suss are struggling with attendance at school, spare a thought and reflect if this could possibly be plaguing them. OK back to me, please and thanks. Next Monday came, and the Wolfpack and I had that gleam in our eye and we sojourned in the bustle of Whitechapel. Had to be careful though, as the Wolfpack owned a few Indian restaurants on Brick Lane. Again, mumbled the same excuses the following day that I was ‘Ill, Sir”, and then nothing much came of it. Until one day Bigman had the audacity to remark in front of the throng, “Jubeyr, how is it you always seem to fall ill on Mondays?”, but he wasn’t chiding or derisive, just making a passive aggressive point. That’s it, I was caught, there is no coming back from this. To the gallows I go. But no consequence came of it. You would think the headteacher would make a point to follow up on this apparent pattern he had detected in front of the whole school, who by the way sniggered as he remarked upon it. Idiots. Eventually, that one day excursion turned into 2 days a week. Every week. I had to be smart about it though, so I would call upon Shahi the night before I would go back, say on the Wednesday. “Where were you!”, his shrill condescension cutting me. “Just come in man, how can you be ill for 2 days every week”, he chided again. Didn’t even ask me if  I had some underlying immune deficiency predisposing me to this awful weekly illness. I mean I don’t actually have that, but still, he could have asked! So after the latest tea had been spilled and he relayed to me that people were starting to raise eyebrows at my absences and the teachers were concerned, I’d hang up the phone and try not to tear up due to the immense anxiety building and building. People’s attitude was shifting a little bit however. I could sense side-eyes and judgy looks. Never one to confront, I didn’t address the rumours already circulating. The teachers were sweet to me however, and said they were happy to have my presence back in class again. But the anxiety was heaving within. Like a ship on stormy seas. Waves and bouts, utterly nauseating. So one day, I decided, I would just extend my daily excursions. Monday and Tuesday were a given. Wednesday. then Thursday and Friday. A whole week elapsed and there was no follow-up. Next week came. And it was the start of the new term at school. Now, I’m not really sure what rationale my father invented to justify this but instead of paying the termly fees directly to the school, he would hand this wad of money to me to hand over to Bigman. Huh? Exactly. And I never questioned it. I just did as commanded, ensuring I held the envelope close to my heart and guarded it with my life. So this time, I just took it upon myself to…keep the fees.

OMG, I had just truanted that entire day. Unaccounted for. That has never happened. Which 12 year old back in them days went unaccounted for for an entire day?

Each day, I would don the salwar kameez, have breakfast, bid Mum and Dad peace and blessings, walk out the front door, run up the communal stairs to the floor above our flat, remove the salwar kameez and tupee, and with my Western clothes on, head out. I explored every bit of London I could. Mostly on the London Underground, listening to Sclub 7 on my Sony Walkman brick. Three, four, five weeks quickly elapsed. Doing the same thing. Ofcourse I wasn’t completely a rebel. The trains are only so fun. So I started to spend days at the famous Marylebone Library; the place where all truanting students from everywhere congregated. Groups of friends laughing and chatting, bantering and also working. And there I am on my lonesome, sitting at a desk and reading my CGP revision books. No word of a lie, I was still keeping up with my English, Maths and Science work! Then at home, I would study too. I still read my Islamic books. I don’t know if it was guilt or what, but I felt a bigger pull to keep up with it all. And everyone was witness to it. I became increasingly more religious. I was wearing the salwar kameez and my tupee at home, leading the congregational prayers at home, having lively debates with my Dad and Arabic tutor (at home) at the material I was learning in my school books. Two months. Three months. It was well established in my mind that I was not going to break this cycle. I was learning independence (sort of) and enjoying, and developing another facet to my personality. And there were no consequences…or so it seemed.

“Jubz, the other day a kid from across the street came upto me and asked me if you were home”, my sister M said to me one day when I was visiting her on my free period. I didn’t have free periods at Madrassa. Not officially anyway, But to M, I told her I did. Free periods turned into free days. It was Madrassa, so they didn’t really question a system they weren’t familiar with. And it was me, whom they trusted completely. “Erm, I made friends with them when I came last time”, I shot back cool and collected. It was a bit strange to her that I was on first name basis with her neighbours, especially as she herself wasn’t that familiar with each child! See, my sister at the time was sort of living at her in-laws and sort of at her own flat. So I would house sit for her. “So long as you are sure, Jubz, and you are aware of what you are doing”, she left it at that. One time I was at her flat, watching TV at around 4pm, and my middle brother asked me casually if I was “Being bullied at school? Cos if you are, then let us know and we can do something about it”. I didn’t turn to face him and just said “Nah, why?”. I was panicking inside, because I am sure they clocked onto the fact that every day I had free periods where I would cut across London to Hampstead (where she lived at the time). They had all been through school and I certainly was not the first to invent bunking off, much less write the bloody essay on it. Furthermore, since I stood out amongst the other kids in the neighbourhood, naturally I attracted a lot of attention. The other kids in the area were suspicious that I had nice clothes, had the latest Sony Walkman which was a thinner brick this time thanks to the developments in design. I was living off the fees money remember. I bought the S Club 7 TV series as a VHS box set, I bought CD albums of the latest releases and I even would treat myself to cloths shopping sprees. Not rampant spending, you see I had to ensure the money wouldn’t run out. So I learnt to budget, and live off, say, £40 a week or so. I know, back then I was rich! I almost got into trouble with the neighbourhood kids over at my sister’s. They obviously got wind of the fact I was loaded, and there was a coup to mug me. There was a funfair type of event in the local area, and I heard some girls in a group whispering that the boys were going to get together and mug me. But wait, the boys they were talking about were sitting right here, and I was sitting in a circle with them around a bench listening to my walkman. I looked up at them one by one, and they in turn looked at me. Then one of them said “Jubz, is your brother here?”. “Yeah, he lives here”, I said, pointing to my sister’s flat. He then wipped around to look to who it was, with a sort of alarmed expression. “He’s not here, here, he’s at work now”, I reassured him. Then I sensed a subtle shift in the air and a general sense of…mobilisation. That’s the word. “Erm Jubz, shall we all go over to the playground over there, yeah?”, he said looking at his comrade and the other boys, there were like 10 or so of them ranging all ages. They all got up and the one listening to my walkman at the time disgarded it on the table unceremoniously and muttered “The rest of the songs are gay, anyway”, and walked off. Ouch. But also, shit. Spidey senses going haywire, all I could do was proceed with them as they all encircled me and me being the polite prat that I am, felt obliged to go along too. OBLIGED ffs. My brain was working on a strategy. The playground was 2 minutes away, but before that there was a stairway leading off from the communal area we were gathered at, and at the foot of the stairwell were some local shops. A newsagent. “Shall I buy a sweet?”, I offered one of the bigger boys. He looked sinister, like he was always getting into trouble at school for scuffling. We all filed into the shop and the newsagent kind of sussed out exactly what was up. Each one of the boys picked up a sweet and placed it on the counter, then looked at me expectantly. “Can I have this one too?”, one of the 6 year olds said. “No, I think just one for now. Later I can but you another one”, I cooed. The newsagent looked at the sweets then at me and asked “Is everything OK?”, quite poignantly. Ignoring him at first, he repeated it, but hadn’t scanned any of the items. Facing him squarely, I said “Yes, I will pay for all these”. Resigned, he proceeded to scan the items but he was signalling with his eyes that he did not agree with the blatant extortion taking place. But I didn’t want to give these boys any reason to kick up a fuss. We filed out the newsagent and I remember thinking I need to somehow make it around the corner of this building bit and I can leg it. Some bravery came to me from somewhere and I proceeded to walk and they followed me. Any minute now, an arm or hand or leg could have been directed at my back. I came to the back entrance of my sister’s flat. I had the fob to enter. OMG this could be it. Right as I was about to make it to the door, the boys encircled me. It was that moment in any mob, where it just takes one person to throw the first drink or punch and then all pandemonium ensues. It was coming. It was palpable. For some reason I reached into my bag and pulled out my older brother’s Swiss army knife. I don’t know why or how I always carried it with me. It was just a nice little trinket. I honestly was never ever going to use it on human flesh, c’mon. “How much do you lot wanna bet that I can open this entrance door with just this knife?”, I posited. The boys were instantly intrigued. What? As if. Hah. Go on then. They jeered. I had learnt this trick, from my brother in law, who showed me incase I was ever trapped outside. Tugging on the door, the triangle latch bit was ever so slightly exposed. With the tip of a blade, I applied force and the latch retracted into the handle and hey presto, the door flung open.

At exactly the same time the group of girls burst through the other side. It was pandemonium, but of a totally different kind. The girls were obviously sisters and cousins and friends of the boys. One of them, whom I had developed a deeper friendship with saw me, grabbed my arm and whispered to me “Jubz, you need to fuck off out of here now, like now, cos these boys are about to beat you up”, with a look of deep concern. Didn’t need to tell me twice babe, I was outta there.

The following days that I was at my sister’s again, I didn’t venture out. Callers came, and went. They called out, tried to get my attention with small stones at the window, but I refused to engage. Literally betrayed by these lot who were for all intents and purposes my friends. There was no way I was going to allow them near me again. If they saw me through the window and they waved, I would wave back, but that was it. All of this was happening in the Summer holidays, by the way. In the Madrassa world, the ‘summer’ holidays for us is Ramadan, and that had already passed in the Winter (during Christmas). I just felt like I was fast running out of options. That harrowing event showed me that a) I was a badass strategist and b) what I was doing was not sustainable. I had watched and re-watched every single day time show, my boxsets were becoming a fantasy, where I was trying to live a free life through these scripts. My other siblings were going to progress onto the next years at their respective schools and eventually, my sister would come back to live at her flat. So…where was I going? Poignantly, Allah asks us in Q 81:26 “So where are you going?“….Indeed for a few weeks preceding that almost coup, I had been feeling wretched. My parents were so proud of me, and I was granted an immense amount of licence. The guilt was eating me alive. Until one afternoon that Summer holiday with two weeks left of it, when I was watching TV with Dad, I decided that I was going to go back to Madrassa. I made a plan: I will go and beg Bigman to let me back in. I will cry to him and say I am sorry. I have no pride. Somehow Dad won’t know. Basically the resilient part of my child brain rationalised it so as to spare me trauma. It was going to work. I mean, look at what I had gotten away with thus far? It was all going to plan. I was going to the library to ensure I had covered all the material for the 6 or so months I was gallivanting. I was slowly getting used to the idea of going back to Madrassa again.

That was of course, until the other shoe dropped, on Judgement Day.

Oh boy, I have to tell you about Judgement Day…

The Pragaymatic Muslim

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

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…