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4. A Change of Heart

‘I do not have the words,’ growled Imam Munieb to the boys, who had hastily and fearfully reassembled in the classroom expecting an explosion of anger from the Imam.

‘It is dishonest,’ he continued, his voice ever hinting at an escalation in volume, ‘to sneak a ball into the mosque and to play with it without my permission. And you broke the window so you see how it is not sensible either!’

‘But Imam, we only broke it today, we didn’t …’ Ibrahim’s voice trailed off as he realised what he was about to reveal.

‘Didn’t what?’ demanded Imam Munieb.

‘Er …’ Ibrahim blushed.

‘Didn’t what? Didn’t do it before? You are telling me you have played before?’

Nobody said anything. He looked around.

‘Is that what you’re telling me?’

With no one volunteering an answer, he turned to a reliable source of information.

‘Abdullah,’ he said, his voice suddenly full of disappointment at the very thought that Abdullah could have been complicit. ‘How long has this, this … football … been going on?’

‘W-well,’ stammered Abdullah, aware that all eyes were suddenly upon him, and for once unsure of his response, ‘I think … er … a few weeks.’

‘Tell me when it started Abdullah,’ demanded the Imam, ‘and I want the truthful and accurate answer.’

‘Sunday, March the fourth, Imam.’

Incredulous that Abdullah should know the exact date and inform Imam Munieb, Ibrahim tutted.

Now came the explosion.

‘What did you make that sound for, Ibrahim?!’ roared Imam Munieb, his cheeks visibly reddening above his thick black beard. ‘You think you have the most right to that sound? I think right now I have the most right to it! I ask you and I ask you truthfully, are you behind this? Is this your idea, Ibrahim?!’

Ibrahim was somewhat cheeky, but equally he was honest.

‘Yes, Imam,’ he said.

‘And it was your ball too, I suppose!’

This time Ibrahim said nothing.

‘It was my ball,’ murmured Khalid.

‘Your ball, Khalid!’ said Imam Munieb. ‘You are together in this?’

‘Yes, Imam,’ admitted Khalid.

‘Well at least you have some honesty! But not much, because there is no honesty in doing something when you know that if you ask me first I will say no!’

‘We just wanted …’ began Ibrahim.

‘What do you just want now, Ibrahim?’ cried the Imam. ‘After all is said and done and after the damage you have caused, what is it that you just want?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Ibrahim.

‘No, I think you should tell us! I think if there is something that makes you do something like this … makes all of you do something like this … we need to know what it is that you just want!’

Ibrahim squeezed his hands together anxiously.

‘Tell me, Ibrahim!’

‘We just wanted to have some fun,’ he said.

The following Sunday, madrasa was subdued. No one had dared to bring in a ball, and in any case, the Imam had arranged for Fatimah to bring his cup of tea to him outside during the break. He perched uncomfortably on one of the stone steps and glared at the boys occasionally as a reminder.

At the end of the session, Imam Munieb announced that there were some letters to take home for parents to ‘treat as urgent’.

‘These are to tell your parents about the damage you caused last week,’ he explained bitterly ‘The damage has been repaired but the cost of repair will be paid for by you. Since you were all involved, you share the punishment. The letter tells you how much money you must bring, in cash, by next Sunday. Do not go home and ask your parents for this money. Do jobs for people to earn it. And you must bring the money next Sunday.’

Ibrahim gazed up at the ceiling and started thinking of reasons why he wouldn’t be bringing the money in a week. Imam Munieb saw him and read his mind.

‘Do not give me excuses because Mr and Mrs Bateman from Number 18, whose window you smashed, will be coming to the mosque on that day to accept the money from you and to give you a chance to apologise. If you do not bring the money you owe them, I will point out to them which of you did not honour your responsibility. If you learn from your mistakes you will become better Muslims.’

The last thing Junayd intended to do was to pass the letter to his father. Junayd was scared that his father would blame it on his brother’s bad example.

‘Saleem,’ he whispered the following day at home, ‘Can you think how I can raise five pounds?’

‘Eh?’ grunted Saleem, crashing onto the sofa next to his brother. ‘What do you need five pounds for?’

‘We broke a window at the mosque.’

‘Ha! Those madrasa sessions must be getting livelier than when I used to go!’

‘Very funny,’ replied Junayd, unmoved. ‘We have to pay for the repair.’

‘Tell you what,’ suggested Saleem, ‘you get Ubba off my back and I’ll give you the five pounds myself.’

‘How would I do that?’ asked Junayd.

‘I don’t know. Next time he tries to force me to work at the restaurant, jump in and offer to do it yourself. Make out you really want to.’

‘OK!’ agreed Junayd. ‘That’s fair enough.’

‘There’s nothing fair about it little bruv. He should be paying you more than a fiver for what you do for him. But anyway, I’ll stump up the dough if you do that for me.’

Junayd wondered if Saleem even had five pounds, but he was happy enough to go along with the idea. After all, it might make things a bit easier at home.

‘How did you break a window anyway?’

‘Football. Khalid kicked the ball and it hit a greenhouse at Number 18.’

‘You guys are allowed to play football now?’ said Saleem, impressed. ‘Wicked!’

‘Er, no,’ replied Junayd.

‘Oh. I see. Bet the Imam’s chuffed,’ said Saleem. ‘Hey, I know how you can raise the five pounds another way then.’

‘How’s that?’ asked Junayd.

‘Life insurance,’ replied his brother. ‘If you don’t pay up for the damages, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance the Imam will kill you next week. Your life must be worth at least a fiver.’

One way or another the boys raised the money for Mr and Mrs Bateman the following week. Khalid had grudgingly washed his dad’s car. Accepting that there was no way around the punishment, Ibrahim had wanted to cut his little brother’s hair, but his mum would only trust him with the garden hedge. And, of course, Junayd had put in an extra couple of shifts at the restaurant, for which Saleem had honoured his pledge of a fiver. Junayd had showed such enthusiasm that he wasn’t sure whether he was being paid for his chopping, peeling and washing up; or for his acting skills.

The Batemans were quite understanding and forgiving. A little too much so, thought Imam Munieb.

‘I remember what it was like to be your age,’ said Mr Bateman. ‘It’s a shame that yard’s so small, too. You could do with a bigger spot for a good game of football.’

‘Yes, but of course the mosque is not a place for football,’ interjected the Imam. ‘I am trying to explain this to the boys so they learn to be more responsible and to see how their actions can affect other people.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ replied Mr Bateman unhelpfully. ‘They’re a good bunch of lads, this lot. They just need to learn to shoot straight.’

After that, madrasa sessions reverted to their more familiar and established form. The boys yawned their way through them, only chancing the occasional hushed conversation when they thought they could get away with it. Enthusiasm for learning the Qur’an dwindled, as did any willingness to ask questions. Or to see the relevance of madrasa to their lives in a twenty-first century seaside town. Once more Imam Munieb began to find little pleasure in the sessions; except in the hope of his rewards for delivering them.

***

‘These boys, nothing touches them,’ Imam Munieb complained to his wife, over dinner, one evening. ‘I can talk and talk, but they don’t hear me. Or if they do, I don’t think it touches their hearts.’

Salamah tried to console him.

‘It’s the same with the girls, you know,’ she said. ‘So many people don’t feel the beauty of Islam. It’s not the children’s fault – they’re only picking up on the messages they’re getting. Even the Sunday madrasa is part of that – once a week the doors swing open, the children tramp in – over to you, sister.’

‘It’s true,’ agreed the Imam. ‘Two weeks ago, one of the fathers came to me. He demanded to know how the boys could break a window when they’re coming to the mosque to learn their Islam. I said “I am glad you realise how much we need the parents to help with the madrasa, to supervise all of the children.”

‘Did he come last week? What do you think?’

Salamah smiled sympathetically.

‘Do they think that Islam is a part-time course?’ Imam Munieb sighed deeply. ‘Ya habibti … we need these parents to take the matter seriously!’

He looked at his wife, hoping she might offer a solution.

‘It’s a test,’ she said. ‘A test for all of us.’

‘I have been trying,’ said Imam Munieb, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps I’ve been trying the wrong things.

Imam Munieb’s mind was a whirl of problems and deadends. He prayed to Allah to renew his patience, to keep him steadfast, and to show him how he might genuinely improve the situation for his community.