October 2001, and there was a great amount of debate as to what would become of me. Parents were still keen that I complete Islamic training; siblings objected. And so I went back to Madrasa, back to Bigman. I owed him an explanation, in person. Naturally the neighbourhood found out what had transpired, but Dad was adamant that he wanted to take the heat. “No Jubeyr, if anyone asks questions, the official story is that it was my decision to pull you out for 6 months for my own reasons”, Dad explained to us. I honestly didn’t know how to express my thanks for having a Dad that after it all, was willing to shield his child from censure. May you rest in peace, Dad, Ameen. “I’m in a predicament here Jubeyr”, Bigman spoke softly to me across his bureau. He had sat and listened to every word of my frank and open explanation. Truly there was nowhere to hide and truth eventually guides the fate of man. Looking troubled, Bigman said, “You missed out on a lot of school, and the end of year exams. As you know, our policy is that if you fail or miss them, you repeat the entire year; we do not believe in re-sits”. He paused, and chewed on his lower lip, brow furrowed. The grandfather clock behind him ticked and swayed for what seemed an age. My own heartbeat, a metronome to the beat of the death drums heralding my fate. Torture. Finally he broke the silence. “Your academic records are in fact, stellar, you perform very good in all oral exams and I personally know how able you are in your subjects”. Literally the blood rushing through my head was the most deafening sound, and my body wracked with each powerful pump of the heart. I was about to faint and suffocate in my own bile. “All this…makes me think that repeating the year would be a waste of time, really”, he mused to himself. Man, what is it to be, please, just name the punishment, anything, just not this limbo! “So Jubeyr, by virtue of your remorse and your academic record, I am going to break with tradition, and allow you to progress into the next year”, Bigman’s final verdict. I know what you are thinking, is there anybody in this world who can resist/refuse me? No, there isn’t hah!

It was a bumpy ride getting back into Madrasa. And school being a school meant that naturally word got out about what transpired in Bigman’s office. I mean it was only myself and Bigman, and one can hardly imagine him lauding his favour to me to all, and I sure as hell didn’t betray the details; to this day I am at a loss as to how the school found out. The trifecta was once more, but our foundations were built upon repressed accusations and unspoken finger-pointing. However Rahi, was adamant I was the devil reincarnate and he kept his distance. Other boys gave cold shoulders and any jokes shared were met with half-hearted enthusiasm. Amongst the teachers I was unceremoniously knocked off my high pedestal. They could not fathom how I would give up the opportunity to go to Bury madrasa by bunking off and staying at home. At least that was the half-truth I told them. They probably saw through it. Imagine, being the centre of all socio-political life to being that kid that sat by themself, a little away from the throng. And every so often having narrow-eyed glances thrown your way. OK, the year 7s didn’t even bloody know me so what right did they have to treat me this way? Not as if I betrayed their friendship. Bloody gits. Pupils in my own year were becoming more and more vocal about the disproportionate amount of licence Bigman afforded me. In class the taunts became open and vociferous. Adjusting was damned difficult, and I couldn’t manage it. In the end, I told the family that my heart just wasn’t in it. My eldest brother was happy about the fact that I was taking control of my feelings and voicing my choices. What choices though? The only alternative was mainstream schooling, and I hadn’t been in that environment the last 3 years now. He actually said to me that my personality would be better suited in ‘normal’ school, and that I would make something of myself, not to worry. For sure, by the grace of God, in the process I got three degrees and became a doctor. But if I had persevered with madrasa, would I have become the person I am today? I imagine I would have been married, living a marriage of convenience to appease society and play the part expected of the clergy. God plans the best for us, this much, if not anything else, is true.

Every school term had already began and in fact the half-term of the autumn term was soon approaching, and so pretty much all the London schools that served our area as catchment had no more spaces. Except two: Holloway boys school, and, North Westminster Community School. The former, was just going to be a repeat of my life at Madrasa, I could just tell. Oh Lord, imagine all the drama of Wolfpack 2.0? No. Way. Jose. So in terms of academic years, due to the complete mess of my life, Holloway said I would have to stay back a year and repeat Year 9. The latter, NWCS, was where all my siblings attended, and literally all the kids from the local 3 post codes. All memories and banter seemed to stem from “Oi, do you remember at North West”, or “Haha, Year 8s at Marylebone yeah…”,. I was the only one who didn’t have that commonality. We enquired, but unfortunately, no places left in Year 10, which would be my age cohort. There was a place for Year 9  (the year below) however. I could not face my friends and neighbours, knowing that I was in the year below kids my own age. Embarrassing. All things considered, I think I made the decision to go Holloway. Nobody knew me there, nobody would question me, I could reinvent the narrative. So I was due to start at Holloway in a few days and I required the uniform and sports equipment that could only be purchased from the school shop. I had that dread and foreboding. I just knew my school life was going to be how they stereotypically portray in the films and programmes for gay kids. It was Friday, the weekend before I was to start on Monday. A phone call came from the admission office at NWCS; they opened a space for me in Year 10. Subhanallah (Glory to God). The relief that washed over me, fate was guiding me on the path that was best for me. I would finally be at the same school as all my siblings, sharing and engaging in all the memories, and new ones to come.

Being the new kid on the block is not nice. Why do I always join friendship groups late? I stuck out like a sore thumb and not only because of my mannerisms. North Westminster was at the intersection of Paddington, Edgware Road, and Marylebone. Three very different degrees of affluency but all housed people from lower socioeconomic backgrounds. The school was properly multicultural; predominately Southeast Asian, Black, Arab and Kurdish. White was the minority ethnic. Boys were all trying to be hard and macho, girls were mostly trying to be wifey material-meets-Mean Girls. There were the fringes, and there were the stable middle territory; not exactly hard, not really flakes, but the right amount of popularity to be their own identity (strong mix of culture and religion) without it being offensive to others. Then there was me. Very articulate, well-mannered, and likeable, with a strong sense of self, and unique fashion style. I say unique because it was like American skater boy meets goth meets Jock. Eclectic if that’s the word. The clothes didn’t attract attention; it was my manners and speech. I didn’t learn slang or street. And at home we would have been beaten if we spoke that way. Actually, brother no.3 one time said “That breyer”, which was slang for brethren to mean bro or guy. The older 2 brothers heard him, took him to a room, closed the door and battered him. So all these boys in school had alien vernacular, and I had to acclimatize quick-time. It wasn’t just the words, you had to have the correct form of speech to speak slang; imagine King Charles speaking slang, he would have to change his entire speech into London accent in order to be legitimate. And that was the problem I faced, legitimacy. If I tried to speak their way, I got weird looks and sniggered at. Brother no.3 was 2 years my senior and was in the same building but I didn’t see him much nor associate with his friends. He was very popular in his cohort and somehow, his reputation penetrated through into my year. People were very surprised we were siblings. He was all the things you expect of a middle-school popular guy and he was going to leave for college at the end of that year. My younger brother was still in the lower years which was housed in a different school block. He was also popular in his year cohort, and had his own dramas and socio-political arena within which he, as he tells it, reigned supreme (eye roll). It was becoming quite apparent that I was not fitting in with the mainstream trying to emulate them. So I found myself in the library one break time. A good vantage point to observe pupils engaged in their territorial playground behaviour. The groups of pupils that hung out together in groups was very predictable in their designates areas. It was like, the Arabs dominated the derelict old Workshop building, the weird drama students hovered around the drama building, the nerds were at around benches doing their homework, the clone Southeast Asian girls in the middle of the playground parading on display, the white sporty lads playing football, the loners sat or walked alone at the edges of the playground which may aswell have been the edge of the universe, and the Southeast Asian boys were right at the rear of the playground and indeed the school site, where they were trying to pry open the wire fence in order to escape off campus to bunk, and finally, there was this random area of benches where all the hanky panky took place. Mmhmm, you know what I’m talking about.

I was sat in a corner and the lights went off. Great I thought, I can hide out here rather than face the throngs in the playground. Wondering how on Earth I was ever to fully integrate into any number of these groups, I suddenly felt a sharp rapping on my collar bone and then my earphones flicked out from my ear. “What the hel-?”, I began and before I knew what or who it was, “Excuse me young man, earphones or walkmans are not allowed in the library, either get it out of here or I will have to confiscate it”, this old hawkish woman bellowed at me. I stared incredulous that first she shattered my collar bone then destroyed my ear (slight over-exaggeration). Intense blue-green bore into my own liquid mahogany, and I could smell her chamomile tea breath. Intense breath. This was the librarian, an eagle-eyed hawk faced sour hag of a woman. “Out, please, it’s my break time too”, this shrill voice boomed me. Jeez flipping hell. “Erm, hi, I’m sorry, but please can I just stay in here?”, I tried it. “Absolutely not, you should be out there with the other students”, she was Australian. She peered at me over the top of her wire-rimmed specs. “Go on now”, she shooed me. Absolutely no empathy. What a cow! Another time, I tried to strike up conversation with her, you know, trying to schmooze her. Short, sharp and ascorbic responses is how she dealt with my inquisitiveness. Damn! How was I ever going to get in her good books. I went home and told Shez about my encounters. “Hahahah, no way, Ms Fawcett? She loves me! OMG she would allow me to sit in the library at break and lunchtimes any time I wanted. Aww, just tell her you’re my brother”, Shez said. Next day, I walked slowly upto the library desk, my eyes narrowed and shrewdly assessing her mood. She was waaay beyond the menopause, clearly, so that could not account for it. Maybe she had a chronic illness that made her grouchy? “Hi Ms Faecett”, I said with fake brightness. “She looked up at me over the rim of her specs then looked down again at he computer. “Mmm hmm, is it?”, she shot back, I swear her thin, dried lips didn’t move. “Well, you are probably right. Erm, by the way, my sister Sweety says Hi”, I shot my shot. I had never ever imagined what would happen next. The hag stopped typing, looked up, removed her specs and peered at me really closely. “Sweety is your sister?”, she enquired and her mouth split open into a full blown grin. “Oh, I absolutely loved her. She was always in here, reading all the books and her art, oh I loved her art. Well isn’t that something. I saw your face and I thought to myself you looked remarkably like her”, she was reminiscing fondly. The bell rang for break time. She looked up at the clock, put her specs on and proceeded to gather her things. “I’ll be back in 15 minutes”, she said to no one in particular, and with an ever so imperceptible smile across her thin, dried lips, she looked at me and flicked her head toward the back of the library, and left me inside. Get in!

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…