fact that Nasreen was to be sent to Loreto and deprived of the benefits of a private tutor at home. ‘We’re Muslims first, Ibrahim!’ Uncle Rafiq thundered. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten that!’
‘If I ever do, I’m sure you’ll remind us,’ Abba retorted. ‘But I’m not sending my boys to a madrassa! Neither will I limit Nasreen’s opportunities by employing someone to teach her how to be a model housewife. She will learn about domestic life from her mother.’
They reached an uneasy compromise, adopting Ma’s suggestion that Uncle Rafiq be responsible for our Koranic learning. We didn’t know what awaited us.
At first Zia and I were excited by the prospect of stories—Creation, Heaven and Hell, Angels and Devils, Allah’s designs for the human race, the Day of Judgement and the pleasures of Paradise. But the twice-weekly evening lessons passed agonisingly. We learned to read the Koran in Arabic without any understanding of the language. We sat stonily through lengthy monologues about the pious life, the unimaginable terrors of eternal punishment for becoming deviants, and the endless rewards for being true believers. And we were constantly told to contemplate both Allah’s grand design for mankind and our search for ways to earn places in Paradise.
The Omnipotent’s blueprint for an eternity in Hell seemed far more comprehensive than any vision of a subliminal state in the company of angels and the elusivehouris. And given the criteria that would qualify me for the joys of Behaesht , I felt doomed and destined for Iblis’s domain.
What we experienced was the curse of eternal boredom.
How could we ever forgive Uncle Rafiq for terrorising and manipulating our imaginations? We had nightmares about ghoulish creatures traversing burning wastelands in the hunt for young boys to be speared, dipped in cauldrons of blood and pus, and then eaten alive.
T HE WELCOME SPEECH has been mercifully brief. It turns out, though, to have been a prologue. We move swiftly into the politics of religion and the malaise of the world. Uncle Rafiq drags us through a soporific account of colonialism and the causes of the attack on New York. My generation of Muslims has been enervated by materialism and we’ve sold our souls to Western interests. He talks passionately about Palestine and the despair in the refugee camps. We sit through diatribes on Afghanistan and Iraq. He catches my eyes and smiles condescendingly. ‘The purity of the Islamic way of life needs resistance to fleshly temptations. Muslims everywhere have lost the meaning of self-discipline…’
He drones on.
I stifle a yawn. Zia shifts uneasily, his eyes focussed on the tablecloth, mindlessly tracing a circular pattern with his index finger. Nasreen examines her fingernails.
‘Vermicelli?’ Abba interjects suddenly and loudly. ‘Eid!’ He’s thought of the traditional festive sweet.
‘Abba, it’s not Eid,’ Zia says softly.
Abba glares at him. ‘Eid!’ He bangs his plate on the table. ‘Eid!’
‘Yes, of course. The cook is preparing it.’ Zia gives in, perhaps thinking that within minutes Abba will have forgotten.
‘Nana doesn’t know when it’s Eid!’ little Yasmin chimes, eyeing her grandfather.
‘Ssh!’ Ma admonishes.
‘That’s because Nana is crazy. He’s mad!’ Zafar, Nasreen’s son, says tactlessly.
Nasreen whispers urgently to her son.
The adults suffer an uncomfortable silence.
Uncle Rafiq watches me intently, as if his words are personal, a challenge to what he understands to be my adopted values. He doesn’t allow the interruption to faze him. ‘And what does our family member from Australia think about what is happening in the world? As a Muslim how does he feel about the threat to Islam?’
Nasreen nudges me under the table.
‘I’m not a practising Muslim any more,’ I reply neutrally. ‘But I do take your point about an independent state of Palestine.’ I pause. Ma looks petrified. ‘I’m more
‘If I ever do, I’m sure you’ll remind us,’ Abba retorted. ‘But I’m not sending my boys to a madrassa! Neither will I limit Nasreen’s opportunities by employing someone to teach her how to be a model housewife. She will learn about domestic life from her mother.’
They reached an uneasy compromise, adopting Ma’s suggestion that Uncle Rafiq be responsible for our Koranic learning. We didn’t know what awaited us.
At first Zia and I were excited by the prospect of stories—Creation, Heaven and Hell, Angels and Devils, Allah’s designs for the human race, the Day of Judgement and the pleasures of Paradise. But the twice-weekly evening lessons passed agonisingly. We learned to read the Koran in Arabic without any understanding of the language. We sat stonily through lengthy monologues about the pious life, the unimaginable terrors of eternal punishment for becoming deviants, and the endless rewards for being true believers. And we were constantly told to contemplate both Allah’s grand design for mankind and our search for ways to earn places in Paradise.
The Omnipotent’s blueprint for an eternity in Hell seemed far more comprehensive than any vision of a subliminal state in the company of angels and the elusivehouris. And given the criteria that would qualify me for the joys of Behaesht , I felt doomed and destined for Iblis’s domain.
What we experienced was the curse of eternal boredom.
How could we ever forgive Uncle Rafiq for terrorising and manipulating our imaginations? We had nightmares about ghoulish creatures traversing burning wastelands in the hunt for young boys to be speared, dipped in cauldrons of blood and pus, and then eaten alive.
T HE WELCOME SPEECH has been mercifully brief. It turns out, though, to have been a prologue. We move swiftly into the politics of religion and the malaise of the world. Uncle Rafiq drags us through a soporific account of colonialism and the causes of the attack on New York. My generation of Muslims has been enervated by materialism and we’ve sold our souls to Western interests. He talks passionately about Palestine and the despair in the refugee camps. We sit through diatribes on Afghanistan and Iraq. He catches my eyes and smiles condescendingly. ‘The purity of the Islamic way of life needs resistance to fleshly temptations. Muslims everywhere have lost the meaning of self-discipline…’
He drones on.
I stifle a yawn. Zia shifts uneasily, his eyes focussed on the tablecloth, mindlessly tracing a circular pattern with his index finger. Nasreen examines her fingernails.
‘Vermicelli?’ Abba interjects suddenly and loudly. ‘Eid!’ He’s thought of the traditional festive sweet.
‘Abba, it’s not Eid,’ Zia says softly.
Abba glares at him. ‘Eid!’ He bangs his plate on the table. ‘Eid!’
‘Yes, of course. The cook is preparing it.’ Zia gives in, perhaps thinking that within minutes Abba will have forgotten.
‘Nana doesn’t know when it’s Eid!’ little Yasmin chimes, eyeing her grandfather.
‘Ssh!’ Ma admonishes.
‘That’s because Nana is crazy. He’s mad!’ Zafar, Nasreen’s son, says tactlessly.
Nasreen whispers urgently to her son.
The adults suffer an uncomfortable silence.
Uncle Rafiq watches me intently, as if his words are personal, a challenge to what he understands to be my adopted values. He doesn’t allow the interruption to faze him. ‘And what does our family member from Australia think about what is happening in the world? As a Muslim how does he feel about the threat to Islam?’
Nasreen nudges me under the table.
‘I’m not a practising Muslim any more,’ I reply neutrally. ‘But I do take your point about an independent state of Palestine.’ I pause. Ma looks petrified. ‘I’m more
Similar Books
