Читать книгу A Long Jihad - Muhammad Abdul Bari - Страница 10
ОглавлениеON A CLEAR LONDON afternoon in early September 1978, two young officers of the Bangladesh Air Force (BAF) landed at Heathrow airport in a Bangladesh Biman (BB) jet. With the severely short haircuts typical of most armed forces servicemen, they looked pale but carried themselves confidently. As they approached passport control, they handed their passports and documents to the customs official, who stamped them and wished them, 'a nice time in the UK, officers'. Thanking her in return, they strode off with their characteristic military stride and headed in the direction of luggage reclaim. This is the brief story of my first arrival in Britain, one of humanities' great melting pots.
I grew up in rural Bangladesh, where a broad minded Hindu teacher in my village primary school had inspired me, with tough love and care, to discover faith in God. In my small village there existed only Muslims and Hindus, and during my secondary school education a saintly Muslim teacher influenced me to become a 'bookworm' and nurtured an enthusiasm for the spiritual dimension of Islam. My parents, especially my spiritually-rich father, and these two teachers, helped shape my childhood with thoughtfulness, respect for others and broader horizons. But I was only exposed to South Asian people during my college and university life.
In London, for the first time in my life, I suddenly encountered a mosaic of humanity from my very arrival at Heathrow. I was both amazed and exhilarated by the experience, I had never seen such diversity, with people of all colours and languages around me. I looked at Mostafa, my fellow officer, and exclaimed: 'Did you ever see so many types of people, Mostafa?' He shook his head. We both were amazed and uplifted, despite the long tiring journey. From that day onward it became my personal article of faith that God's human garden is all the better for being multi-coloured.
Outside, a junior staff member from the Bangladesh High Commission was waiting to receive us. He led us to the underground station to catch a Piccadilly Line train towards central London. It was a totally a new experience, travelling underground for the first time. I had heard and learnt about riding on 'the Tube' from reading and talking with others, but 'seeing was believing'. Feeling bemused as the train broke out of the tunnel, I could see London's clear blue skies, cars moving around and children playing. Realizing we were new to London, our host tried to run a mini-commentary whilst we kept quiet and soaked it all in. My train of thought was travelling just as fast as the Piccadilly Line train.
It was only a year before that I was unsure I would even join the Air Force, as I prepared to become a physicist. But failing to secure a teaching or research job in either Bangladesh or abroad I had to think of other avenues. Some of my friends, who had been trying hard to move to America for higher education with teaching assistantships, had already left. I was probably too complacent, thinking I would easily get a job and could then secure a scholarship to go abroad. But one day I suddenly realized that I was jobless and would not be able to pursue my academic ambition. So I decided to join the Bangladesh Air Force ... and now here I was in London.
My job in the BAF was something of an accident. When I kick-started my search for a commissioned career in any of the three services, I caught sight of an advertisement by the BAF for two commissioned officers in the Armament Wing; and they were looking for graduates with a Physics or Engineering background! There was an additional incentive: the advert mentioned that after a short basic training the two successful officers would have to attend an overseas course in the UK. I decided to test my luck.
I was well aware of the need for both physical fitness and mental agility for any commissioned post. A hyperactive childhood and a rather free-thinking nature gave me confidence in both. The selection process was long and arduous, and as I made my way through the selection stages I found myself uplifted and growing in determination. After a gruelling final few weeks – the long oral, IQ and personality tests as well as physical tests by the 'Inter Services Selection Board' (ISSB) – two of us had crossed the final hurdle. Once the news of my success was announced I felt ecstatic, and so did Munshi Golam Mostafa, the other candidate and by that time my new-found friend.
We were given two weeks of basic physical training before our commissioned officer status could be approved and so the two of us travelled to the officer cadet mess in Dhaka on 20 August 1978. The short training was as gruelling as it could be and my physical agility was tested to extremes. The thought of a secure job in the Air Force, and also the course in the UK, kept us going. Two long weeks finally passed and we received our Pilot Officer's insignia on 5 September. We became proud officers of the BAF and were reminded of our status and obligation to the country.
As the train reached our final destination in Gloucester Road and we were led to a nearby hotel, my mind jumped back to the present. Here we were, in London now, I thought, but I never had the slightest idea that one day I would settle in London and call it my home.
★ ★ ★
The following day we took a train from King's Cross to Sleaford in Lincolnshire. A taxi was waiting for us at the station to take us to the big airfield at Cranwell, around five miles away. Cranwell was essentially a training base, and we were allocated rooms in Trenchard Hall Officers' Mess (THOM), which for about a year would be our home in this new land. We organized the room, settled in and relaxed for the rest of the day. In the late afternoon, we went to an anteroom for tea. A Bengali-looking officer in uniform entered, and although we had not met before we immediately realized he was Flight Lieutenant Mahbub Malik from the BAF. He had arrived some months previously for another course. We stood up, straightened and gave him a BAF salute along with the Muslim greeting of peace, Assalamualaikum (peace be upon you). With a broad smile he embraced us, but advised us not to be that animated with senior officers in the officers' mess! We had a good chat and learned some basic tips for life at Cranwell. Over the next few months, until he left, he was to be a great help and friend to us.
Life followed a strict routine at Cranwell. There was no physical training, and there were designated batmen for individual officers who would bring morning tea to the room and help them organize their uniform and polish their shoes, prior to starting academic classes or practical training. After the day-long lessons, life in the officers' mess was pretty relaxing. We were provided with high tea in the big ante-room after office hours, which was an opportunity to meet other officers, chat or read papers and journals. There were quite a few designated rooms for indoor games or watching TV, and dinner was served early. During the late 1970s halal food was not easily available, but this was not an issue, as some of us easily became vegetarians or pescatarians; egg and fish were often available, too. There was a reasonable-sized gym, with squash facilities. Squash was new to me, but I enjoyed it and within a few weeks it became my favourite game.
There was plenty to learn during our training. Each full day supplied us with the basic technical skills needed for an officer in ground engineering and relevant to military personnel. Handling and firing weapons, workshop experience in repairing and dismantling equipment, and various aspects of aircraft engineering were all part of the course that gave us a broad knowledge for the job of an Armament Engineer. The effective functioning of ejection seats for pilots to use during emergencies occupied a large chunk of the course. The training was geared to connect us with the world of high-tech air warfare. We were both amazed at the availability of better technologies and a positive environment to learn in.
Our training was run by civilian instructors as well as commissioned and non-commissioned officers. Sergeant Davies, from Wales, became very popular with us for his warmth, style and professionalism. We had a few junior Nigerian Air Force officers on our course, as well as several from the Gulf and a British-born Bangladeshi officer on other related courses. To my surprise, I found life in the officers' mess very relaxed. Everyone was respectful to one another, senior and junior officers behaved like friends and the relationship with the civilian service staff was very cordial. There was no formality and no inhibition.
We also had the opportunity to visit other Air Force bases across the country, and with plenty of notes to hand all the BAF officers managed to pass the final exams with flying colours. There was a need for a theoretical knowledge of physics, which allowed me to relax on that front, so I used my time to read contemporary journals and publications on defence matters and other areas of life.
★ ★ ★
Here I was in Britain, once upon a time a world super power where the sun would not set. A land that had produced Newton, Shakespeare, Darwin, Churchill and was an intellectual leader of the world. However, Britain has its dark history as well. In 1757, the East India Company (also the British East India Company that received a Royal Charter from Queen Elizabeth I in December 1600), defeated the ruler (Nawab) of Bengal, Siraj ud-Daulah, who ruled the-then provinces of Bengal, Bihar and Orissa. But Siraj ud-Daulah's defeat was through deception, due to the treachery of his commander-in-chief Mir Jafar. Within a few decades, 'Golden Bengal' was reduced by colonial plunder and depredation to an impoverished land: from being one of history's fabled lands of riches to a vast rural slum.
Britain ruled its empire with an imperial 'divide and rule' policy. It was also once part of the transatlantic slavery trade which dehumanized African people. However, it also redressed some of its wrongs, such as the abolition of slavery throughout the British Empire via an 1833 Act of Parliament (there were a few exceptions, but they were eliminated in 1843). In the early twentieth century, around one-quarter of the world's population was a subject of the British Empire, and until the end of the Second World War it directly ruled many countries; many are now part of the Commonwealth. Britain may have lost its imperial glamour, but it still punches above its weight in the international arena with intellectual dominance and diplomatic skills.
What made Britain great and how she rose so high in the world community often occupied my thoughts. Feelings of envy and amazement reigned at the beginning of my Cranwell period. As a keen reader of history, I knew something about Britain. But I wanted to know more and directly 'from the horse's mouth'. I wanted to see it from the inside. How could a small island country, with a population far smaller than Bangladesh, rise so high? What was the catch? The answer to me was in its people: their vision, ambition, hard work, resilience and sense of pride. In its heyday, the British nation manifested this enterprise, adventure, determination and courage to catapult it to the farthest corners of the planet. It was the quality of leadership in all walks of life; professionalism, adaptability and the ability to create institutions and their sustainability that helped them to direct the course of human history. Far-placed lands like India, Australia, and America became nearer. With English as the lingua franca, and world class institutions such as the BBC and Oxbridge, it became a diplomatic super power; Britain's soft power is still the envy of many nations.
On my free weekends I would travel across this England. Away from my family I had plenty of time to write poems in Bengali, some of which were later published as a book. There is a joke about Bangladeshis that everyone has some poetic juice. 'Why should I be an exception?' I thought. I would make the 135 mile journey to London to see the seat of what had once been the world's first global super power. Apart from visiting Westminster, the popular London shopping areas and higher educational institutions and museums, I also spent time in London's East End: especially along Brick Lane and Whitechapel High Street, where many Bangladeshis had started to live.
The East London Mosque (ELM) in Whitechapel, which was already known to many people back in Bangladesh, was just a small pre-fabricated prayer place at the time, perched on a patch of scrubland adjacent to the Fieldgate Street Great Synagogue and near the Whitechapel Bell Foundry. The ELM's history started in 1910, when it was founded by an Indian émigré in the Ritz Hotel, and so it was the oldest mosque in London. One weekend I came to the mosque and tried to find someone I might recognize (I knew a couple of individuals from Bangladesh who later settled in east London). One, Aziz Rahman (Aziz Bhai), did his MPhil in Physics at Imperial College.
In the mosque I met a few people who were slightly younger than me. They were very hospitable, especially when they learned that I was in England for training, and after the midday prayer invited me to a nearby youth club opposite a multi-storey hospice. The 'club' turned out to be in a basement flat, with an arrangement of table tennis tables. Towards the end of our chat I asked if anyone wanted to play. We kept on talking and started a friendly match. By the time I finished the games I realized it was time for me to leave London. This was the start of my relationship with the group. We exchanged telephone numbers and they invited me to come whenever I was free.
I quickly learned that sport brings people closer together, and from then on the youth club became a focal point of my visits to London. I became close with several of these East End Bangladeshis; they would take me sightseeing in London during my weekend visits. Through this interaction I learned that most of them had come to Britain in their childhood with their parents, mainly from the Sylhet region of northeastern Bangladesh. They were either working in factories or restaurants. During my stay in 1978–1979, and later on in 1981, I would often spend time with these new friends. This sowed the seeds of my future youth and community work over the coming decades.
A quarter of a mile from the ELM, not far from London's economic heartland, was the Brick Lane mosque (Brick Lane Jamme Masjid, or Brick Lane Great Mosque). During the 1970s, the whole area was subject to heavy immigration from Sylhet, many of whom then attended either the ELM or the Brick Lane Mosque, depending in part on their political and religious affiliations back home. Those who founded the mosque on Brick Lane bought and refurbished a synagogue (which had been a Huguenot church before that) as the area's once-dominant Jews continued to move on and out of the area. Brick Lane today is synonymous with diversity and modern London; it is Britain's Banglatown and London's curry centre. Back then it was still poor, and would later suffer from National Front violence.
★ ★ ★
Soon the British autumn was ushering in winter, and watching trees shed their leaves was a whole new phenomenon to me. The days were getting shorter and the chilly air forced us to adopt more suitable clothing. The first day of snowfall was hugely exciting. Even with my thick clothes I was shivering in the classroom. But I still loved the look of the trees, now enveloped by snow. When I got back to my warm room, I spent quite a long time watching the beauty of snowfall from my window.
As 1979 began, the weather took a turn for the worse. There were blizzards and deep snow and we were told it was the coldest winter since 1962–1963. The weather had an impact on consumer spending and hit the economy badly, but it was not the cold or faltering economy that surprised me, but the 'Winter of Discontent' that paralysed almost all of Britain, with widespread strikes by public sector employees demanding larger pay rises. The ongoing pay cap by Jim Callaghan's Labour government was challenged by the powerful Trades Union Congress (TUC), but no agreement could be reached. The situation took a turn for the worst when cemetery gravediggers also took industrial action; this left 150 bodies unburied at one point, with twenty-five being added each day. This caused huge public concern, then to add insult to injury, many bin men (the local authority waste collectors) went on strike and local authorities up and down the country ran out of waste storage space and were forced to use local parks. Reports of rat infestations and bad smells were splashed across the news headlines. The Labour government's inability to handle the situation was one of the main reasons for its defeat to the Conservative party in the following May national election (that brought Margaret Thatcher to power).
Elsewhere, the Iranian Islamic Revolution in February 1979 had reverberations that shook the world. Iranians were already unhappy with the ruling Pahlavi dynasty, but a new phase of the uprising started against Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi in October 1977, with persistent demonstrations by various leftist and Islamic organizations, as well as Iranian student movements. This developed into a civil resistance that intensified in January 1978. From August onwards, coordinated massive strikes paralysed the country. The Shah left Iran for exile on 16 January 1979 and Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, who had been in exile in Iraq and France since 1964, was invited back to Iran by the government. He was greeted by millions of Iranians in the capital Tehran. On 11 February, guerrillas and rebel troops took control of Tehran, bringing Khomeini to power.
The UK general election of 1979, held on 3 May, was another event that caught the world's attention. For the first time a woman, Margaret Thatcher, leader of the Conservative party, became prime minister of the British government; the first of four consecutive election victories. As Margaret Thatcher stepped up to power, our time in Britain was coming to an end. One more BAF Officer, Flight Lieutenant Bashir, had joined us at Cranwell, and Mostafa and I were occasionally travelling to other cities in the north of England. I still harboured ambitions of going back to my physics research, although I did not have any clue how this would ever materialize.
Mostafa eventually became one of my closest friends. His integrity, sense of humour and wisdom were enviable. Even after I had left the BAF in 1982, we remained in close touch. His personality reminded me of a beautiful saying of Prophet Muhammad, may Allah bless him and grant him peace: 'The example of a good and a bad companion is like that of a perfume seller and a blacksmith. The perfume seller either puts the perfume on you or tries to sell it to you, but in the blacksmith's workshop you will either burn your clothes or you'll be blackened by the soot'. I have been blessed with quite a few trustworthy friends like him.
We finished our final exams and completed our course by the end of July 1979, with excellent results. The Base Commander threw a party for all the departing overseas officers, and officers from some other branches joined us. We shared our addresses and promised to keep in touch with one another. Our friendship with the Nigerian officers was deep, though we never knew if we would ever meet again. Overall, it was a jovial atmosphere. We had a few free days before we would catch a flight from London, so Mostafa and I decided to spend a couple of days visiting some nearby seaside towns and a few more days in London. We took a taxi to Sleaford with our luggage and were on our way to London once again. After few busy days of shopping and meeting friends, we were on a Bangladesh Biman plane once again, returning to Dhaka, which when we got there was soaked with summer monsoon rain. After a couple of weeks break with family and friends, the two of us arrived at Jessore Air Base, in western Bangladesh, for our main physical training.
★ ★ ★
We were kept busy with over six months of gruelling physical training, but we were not using any of the skills that we had learned at our valuable course in Cranwell. It was frustrating and our knowledge was getting rusty; we should have attended the course after basic military training, we thought. In any case, life continued: Mostafa got married and my father was also reminding me to do the same. I could find no reason to disagree with him and began inquiring about potential spouses. Our training finished towards the middle of 1980 and both of us were posted to Dhaka Air Base.
It was in the officers mess in Dhaka that I became somewhat settled, with time again to think and reflect about my life and do some forward planning. But life as a junior officer was regimented, with unexciting office work in the morning, lunch at the mess, a games session in the afternoon and then occasional formal events in the evening. It was a stable but boring experience, there were few contemporary books or journals, so I tried to build connections with some of my army and navy friends by visiting them occasionally.
As I was not far away from my village, I tried to visit home more frequently to see my elderly father. My older brother was now deeply entrenched in various community projects; he was running a secondary school that he had helped establish, plus a religious school (madrasah) for children to memorize the Qur'an, and a bazaar was also springing up nearby. He was the main man behind all this! His wife and my father lamented one day that he was doing all this at the cost of his own health and his children's education. I was younger than him by ten years, but I chatted with him one night and implored with him not to ignore his health and family. He was loud and boisterous, and with an infectious smile he laughed off my suggestion as if it was coming from a little boy. After quietening down he asked me in a combative mood: 'Who's going to do all this then? Find me someone.' I thought it was beyond my ability to convince him, and I just ended by saying: 'Please, do not ignore your children at least'. He loved his work, and used to spend hour after hour every day helping others, particularly poor lower-caste Hindus. He continued this for another two decades when he was diagnosed with a killer disease, late-stage bowel cancer. When I went to see him he was the undisputed leader of the region, both Muslims and the Hindu minority, and it was painful to see him suffering. He urged me to support his children when he would not be there. Sadly, he passed away within a month of my return to London.
Apart from the initial charm of living in the officers' mess in a posh area of Dhaka, the capital city of Bangladesh, there was little opportunity to learn and develop oneself further. Some of my friends had already got married, some had left for America and one or two had left their Air Force jobs and were making money in industry or by setting up their own businesses. Without informing the Air Force Board, I began exploring a future in the academic world. Gaining admission to any western university for a PhD in, say, physics was not that difficult, but securing funding was the main obstacle. I asked a few of my friends in Britain to see whether they could help me, and Aziz Bhai worked hard to put me in touch with the physics departments of some London universities. In the meantime, early in 1981 Mostafa and I were promoted to Flying Officers.
During this uncertainty, one afternoon my maternal uncle (Nuru mama) came to see me in the officers' mess. He had a thick envelope in his hand and I remembered I had used his home as my postal address before joining the Air Force. I opened it and saw it was from the King Faisal Foundation (KFF) in Saudi Arabia. I quickly read it, then paused and read it again. Nuru mama observed my facial expression and asked: 'What's in it, dear Bhagne (nephew)?'
I abruptly stood up and hugged him. He was perplexed. 'What's the matter, my nephew?' he asked again.
With excitement and a loud voice, I said: 'Mamma (uncle), I've been awarded a scholarship from the King Faisal Foundation to do a PhD!' He sat silent for a few seconds, then stood up and hugged me tightly. A worrying thought arose and I said: 'But, I'm in the Air Force now and have just been trained in the UK. Will I be allowed to take up this opportunity?'
He advised me to work it out and left me with a positive comment: 'Don't worry, there'll be a way out, inshallah (God willing).'
My mind was buzzing, how could I avail this opportunity? But first I realized that I needed a PhD enrolment from a British university, and so I informed Aziz Bhai of the news and requested his continued help. I also consulted Mostafa and a few close friends on what to do next. We were all junior officers, and we came up with a plan that I ought to talk with the head of the Armament Branch. As I was setting this plan in motion, another surprise was waiting for me: I received an official memo from Air HQ that I was selected to attend a six-week British Army course at Chattenden in Kent, England, which would start in a few weeks. I agreed to attend the course in England and asked the KFF if they could place a hold on my scholarship offer.
Soon, I was back in London again.
★ ★ ★
My six-week stay in Kent was memorable not only for its tough training and long fasts, since Ramadan fell that July, but also for finding my life partner, Sayeda. Fasting was a challenge for two reasons: sleep deprivation, given I had to wake up and eat before dawn (suhur); and day-long physical training during the summer months. As my stay there was longer than fifteen days, I could not call myself a traveller (musafir), which allowed observant Muslims to excuse themselves from fasting. However, with intention and determination, and with God's mercy, I survived. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
I met Sayeda's older brother by accident, but it was a meeting that was to change my life forever. As the journey to London was just over an hour by train, I would visit Whitechapel for a couple of weekends to relax and meet the friends I had made last time. One weekend, I bumped into a well-dressed gentleman in the East London Mosque, which was then still just a hut. I recognized his face as someone I had met in Dhaka, at a mutual friend's house. Firdaws was a few years older than me, but was very sociable and we had a good chat. I discovered that he had come to London two years earlier to do a course leading to chartered accountancy. When he learned that I was living near Rochester, he offered to visit me at the officers' mess, as he often came to Rochester to help his brother-in-law in running a restaurant.
He arrived the following weekend. He told me he hailed from Bangladesh's southern district of Faridpur, but had settled further south in Barisal. We talked on many issues, including our future plans in life, and in that relaxed conversation the issue of marriage naturally came up. He was married with a little daughter and by that time I had also been thinking of getting married myself, and had always been fairly straightforward. So without much thought, I said: 'Firdaws bhai (respected brother), you've now learned something about me. If you come across a suitable girl for me, please let me know.' It was normal at that time to seek assistance about marriage from friends. He thought for a while: 'Yes, I may know someone who you might like!' he warmly replied. 'This girl I'm talking about,' he said, 'has been brilliant since her primary years; she recently sat her final economics exam from Dhaka University and is waiting for the result. Her father is a senior education officer, and her brothers and sisters are all settled in their life after higher education. Most importantly, she's been brought up in an honest family with good religious practice.'
He gave me some more information, before adding: 'If you feel positive and want to know more about this girl, I can inform her family but they will want to know about your background as well.' I gave him some brief details about me and my family. Before parting, he said: 'If you are really serious about the girl please let me know before you return to Bangladesh and I can inform her family.'
'I'll definitely let you know, inshallah', I said.
A few days later I got a call from Firdaws: 'Bari bhai, I thought I would visit you again, but cannot due to my work pressure. I didn't disclose on that day that the girl I mentioned is my younger sister, Sayeda. I discussed with Sayeda and my family about you and they want to see you. From my side, I think you two would probably be a good match. After your return, if you want to see her then just contact my family directly.' I thought it was very positive news.
Once back in Bangladesh, I had two immediately personal jobs in hand: to find someone who could give reliable information on Sayeda, and to kick-start the process of applying for my PhD. Through one of my friends I came to know a college lecturer, of about my age, in Dhaka's Maghbazar area who knew Firdaws. He was from a district in western Bangladesh, but had recently got married in the city of Barisal. I called him one evening and asked how much he knew of Firdaws' family. He responded: 'I know them well; my wife also knows Sayeda very well.' I visited him the next evening and learnt more about Sayeda and her family. It was all very positive and I asked if he would become an intermediary for us. I then went home and informed my father and family of my course of action. Everyone was delighted and I was given the go-ahead to proceed.
What followed from then on was simple: Sayeda and I exchanged pictures, she must have heard plenty about me from her brother, and I asked if she could come to Dhaka and stay in a relative's house. My auntie in Azimpur (in old Dhaka) spent plenty of time with her and gave me a favourable description of Sayeda and her personality. The following day I went to see her and we 'connected' straight away. I felt an immediate bond as we shared information about our lives, our likes, dislikes and ambitions for life. We spoke for hours and both felt we should agree to tie the knot – and straight away, I said. It was a momentous decision and I couldn't sleep that night. The thought of not being alone anymore and a sudden sense of responsibility weighed on my mind. I later learned that Sayeda had spent a similar few nights thinking the same. The rest was a formality that would be sorted out between the families. I informed my father and brother of my choice and asked my father to visit Barisal and meet Sayeda himself. He stayed for couple of days in their house and came back with a smile. We were married on 10 October 1981.
Marriage in Islam is seen as a blessing. Husbands and wives are mentioned as a 'pair' or 'garments to each other' in the Qur'an. When a man and a woman, with their unique and complementary features, join in union it brings two families together. Our marriage has indeed been a blessed one ever since.
★ ★ ★
As I was arranging my marriage, I was also continuing my efforts to enrol for a PhD in the UK. In early September 1981, as I was getting ready for my wedding in October, I received an offer letter from Chelsea College (which became part of King's College a few years later). I consulted my Air Force friends and wrote directly to the Chief of Air Staff (CoAS) pleading for a three year leave, with a firm pledge that on completion of the PhD I would return to complete my service in the BAF. His response came after my short honeymoon was over: my application was rejected. The CoAS was forthright in his response, saying that he was personally willing to give me the opportunity but had to take into account the opinion of my Branch head, who disapproved on the grounds that I was 'indispensable' to the Armament Branch. I was heartbroken, but remembered my father's teachings of reliance on God. Sayeda was calm; she was confident that some good would come from this.
About a week later, at an informal event in the officers' mess, I managed to get near the CoAS and briefly (and politely) raised the issue with him. My Branch head was around and I could see the annoyance on his face. I was still a junior officer, but the CoAS remembered my case, although he could only express his sadness. I realized I would be chastised for this break in protocol and within the week I was told that I would be posted to Chittagong Air Base, about 165 miles from Dhaka on Bangladesh's south east coast, from New Year's Day, 1982. My hopes were dashed and I left for Chittagong with a broken spirit. Sayeda moved in with her parents in Barisal while I tried to keep myself busy: working in the office by day, doing sports in the late afternoon and studying in the evening. On the weekends I would visit Barisal to see Sayeda, or spend time in the city, as I had plenty of friends there having studied at Chittagong University.
Being a hyperactive sportsman I came to the attention of the Base commander, a senior Group Captain. He was very sociable and one evening I raised the subject of my PhD with him. He appeared sympathetic, thought for a while and told me that he would write to the Air Secretary directly to hear my case. I did not expect he would actually do this, but soon after I received an invitation for a meeting in Dhaka. I flew by BAF transport aircraft and appeared before the Air Secretary. To my trepidation, the meeting started with a verbal assault: 'How dare you talk with the Base Commander once the CoAS had already written to you!' I politely explained how important this was to my life, but he did not budge and with a stern tone advised me not to do raise it again. I returned to Chittagong downhearted and briefed the Base commander. He kept quiet; I did not know what to say either.
Within a few weeks, towards the end of April, I was called to Dhaka again. I was surprised when the Base commander told me that he had written to the Air Secretary again and asked me to try my luck. This time I flew to Dhaka with some apprehension and again the meeting started with some tough language. I remained quiet, remembering his earlier command, when he suddenly lowered his voice, looked into my eyes and said: 'We cannot give you such a long leave. You should be grateful that we have trained you twice in the UK, but you are stubborn and breaking protocol. This could easily be a disciplinary issue, but we can't punish you for your ambition. At the same time, it cannot go on like this. The only option is for you to take voluntary retirement and leave us.'
This was music to my ears, but I controlled myself and looked at him puzzled. He continued: 'I'm going to give you until tomorrow to think about it and consult your family; let me know your decision.' I thought for a while and politely said: 'Thank you sir! I'll let you know tomorrow.' I stayed at the officer's mess overnight and called Sayeda. She was calm as usual and simply said: 'I had a feeling something like this would happen; I was praying all along for a good outcome from this saga.' I expressed my gratitude to her, then informed my family and close friends. They couldn't believe it was going to happen!
The following day I went to Air HQ and informed them of my decision to resign. This had never happened before in the Bangladesh Air Force – and I had signed up for at least ten years! Soon the news broke in the officers' circle. I went back to Chittagong and gave massive thanks to the Base commander. The release order was issued and in early May I left the BAF and returned to Dhaka.
★ ★ ★
It took nearly a year to sort out all the arrangements for travel to London. I lost my first scholarship offer, but luckily managed an alternative: in life, when one door closes another opens. I flew into Heathrow on 23 April 1983, and Aziz Bhai had already arranged a meeting with my supervisor, Professor A.K. Jonscher, the following day. The two of us reached the campus near Fulham Broadway in south-west London, and with a broad smile, a full hearty beard and thick glasses, Professor Jonscher welcomed us. We settled in his room and he initiated the conversation with a light joke: 'Bari, thanks, you've now arrived. But why did it take so long? Were you travelling by a bullock cart?' He laughed and so did we. I enjoyed his joke and felt it was a warm welcome; humour really brings people together.
Professor Jonscher was to be my PhD supervisor. He showed us the campus and the laboratory where I would be working; a large room used mainly for postgraduate research in solid state physics. We arrived at the lab during lunch time and about a dozen researchers and couple of technicians, all from diverse backgrounds, joined us around a big table. He introduced me to my new colleagues and with a smile repeated the bullock-cart joke. Everyone started laughing and I was relieved that the elderly academic was so full of life with a good persona, and that the environment there was so informal. After about an hour they all went back to their tables. Jonscher and I agreed to meet on another date and we left the campus for the day.
During our next meeting, when I briefed him about the long gap in my physics career because of my life in the Air Force, Jonscher looked at me sympathetically and said: 'Bari, you have to work hard now. You must quickly revisit the world of physics'.
'You are right, Professor!' I replied, earnestly. 'Please give me couple of months to prepare myself before I start my research.'
He agreed and advised me to talk with a few overseas researchers who would be able to help me. I visited the lab again and talked to a PhD student from Karachi University, Ashraf Choudhury. He gave me a brotherly embrace and took me to his table. He briefed me about the nature of research under Jonscher and our other physicist, Professor Robert Hill. I explained my situation and the need to recover gaps in my knowledge. He assured me that he would help in any way he could and advised me to go through a few books and journals as well as occasional reports published by the Chelsea's Dielectric Group. On my way home I bought a few relevant books and was determined I would start my research on a par with my colleagues in no more than three months. Ashraf kept his promise and helped me as and when I needed in the first few months.
Sayeda joined me towards the end of June; she was in the middle of her pregnancy with our first child, Rima, and I was renting a small flat above an Indian restaurant in South Wimbledon. In the meantime, I had begun my research on the dielectric interface between electrodes and electrolytes in batteries. After spending a few days with Sayeda, and making sure she felt safe at home, I became busier than ever in the lab. My grant was only for three years and I had to finish on time!
Soon the research was becoming increasingly intensive and I felt sorry for Sayeda, as I would leave her at home alone in the morning and return late at night. I even started working in the lab most weekends as well. No doubt it was tough for her, but she proved to be resilient and built up friendships with people from the area and spent time mostly reading; like both her parents she was a bookworm. I could only apologize and call her as often as I could from the laboratory for little chats. She held on to her nerve and prepared for the arrival of our child in late September.
Rima was born on 21 September, a tiny little angel with all her sweetness, innocence and vulnerability. The first touch was ecstatic and she quickly became the centre of our life. The arrival of a child brings a total change to a family: 'The jewel of the sky is the sun, the jewel of the house is the child,' goes a Chinese saying. In Islam, children are gifts of God; according to the Prophet, a woman herself is blessed if her first child is a daughter. A mother in a family is, of course, special to any child. But the role of a father is similarly vital, especially to a daughter. He is the first man in her life and his character, behaviour and humanity in the family subconsciously shapes her self-worth in life. As single-parent families are often a reality in modern times, the burden of parenthood falls on one parent who has to act to fill the gap of another. Rima was special to us, particularly to me, as I was longing for a daughter (a 'little mum!') ever since I had lost my own mother when I was sixteen. Rima radiated joy and happiness in our small world, and it was a unique experience to see a totally dependent little life growing in our arms with her own unique features. Sadly, my father and the rest of our families in Bangladesh could not share our happiness.
It was not easy for Sayeda to look after a baby virtually on her own. I tried to change my routine slightly so that I could spend some quality time at home looking after Rima, and give Sayeda some rest. But she was a woman of steel, and how Sayeda quickly learnt to efficiently multi-task – first raising Rima and then our other three children later on – was inspiring and amazing. If leadership is about vision and imparting that vision to people around you, especially growing children, then mothers are the primordial leaders in human society. Sadly very few societies recognize this treasure within them.
Financially, Sayeda and I had to live within our means, my scholarship funds just about covered our living expenses and I was not allowed any public money, neither was Sayeda. She was a brilliant student and wanted to pursue a higher degree in economics or a relevant subject. But even if I were allowed to work, or Sayeda to attend a course, we could not do so because of my research pressures and her 24/7 role in looking after Rima. It was a big career sacrifice on her part.
Professor Jonscher, who I learnt was a practising Polish Catholic, was delighted to discover that I had a baby girl. When I informed him of the good news he looked at me and said: 'You are very lucky Bari. The start of your research is blessed with a daughter.'
I could not have agreed more.
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The atmosphere in our laboratory was buzzing every day, it was highly academic but still informal. We all felt like and behaved as family members, and with researchers from many backgrounds – overseas and domestic, with faith and non-faith backgrounds – it was a microcosm of the world of physics. The permanent members of the research staff were highly professional: John Pugh, with his bushy beard, was a computer whiz and an excellent programmer; Dr Len Dissado was the brains and a theorist in his area of theoretical physics; Terry Ramdeen was always available to help. Professor Jonscher's PA, the always smiling Josephine Woropay, was motherly and a wizard with her typing and organizing of the whole team. There were often lively discussions around the table, especially during lunch hour, and professors Jonscher and Hill, as well as some guests, would often participate. There were also occasional seminars on our research, and we would take turns to present our findings. It felt frightening in the beginning, but gave us confidence and a good grounding on what we were doing. The Dielectrics Group, led by Jonscher, was well known in the world of physics research and we all felt proud to be a part of the group.
Life was moving fast. In order to finish my PhD by summer 1986 I led a ruthlessly disciplined life. I was on course with my progress and Professor Jonscher was happy as well. During the second and third years I co-authored with him a few papers that were published in international journals, and began writing my PhD thesis at the beginning of my third year. In 1985, the New Year started with huge discussions and concerns within London University about the merger of smaller colleges with big ones to save costs. We learned that Chelsea and Queen Elizabeth Colleges were merging with King's College, and our links with King's Physics Department, in its Strand campus, started growing.
All the while I was studying for my PhD I continued to visit east London, by this time my favourite part of the city. Aziz Bhai and I were helping some young Bangladeshi boys with their GCSE and A-level mathematics and science examinations, and most of them later performed very well in life. A few were involved with a group known as the Young Muslim Organization (YMO), which was originally founded in 1978. As most other members of YMO were Bengali-speaking, this small group was struggling to blend in with the majority. Our time spent voluntary tutoring both the English-speaking boys and interacting with the Bengalispeaking YMO youngsters kept me in touch with the East End and its Bangladeshi people, particularly the East London Mosque. By 1985, the ELM was no longer just a shed, and the first phase of the multi-purpose mosque that stands today had been completed. Through this group I gradually entered deeper into the world of youth and community work in Tower Hamlets. Although I lived in south London, I had quickly become part and parcel of east London, an East Ender-by-proxy, you might say.
I was coming towards the end of my thesis, and submitted the completed work in mid-May 1986. My oral examination date was fixed for July 1986 and I was preparing for the PhD 'viva voce', or defence of my thesis. On 26 May we were blessed with another child, this time our first boy, Raiyan. We were overjoyed and I informed Jonscher of the good news. With a huge smile, he said: 'Congratulations! Now you are completing one PhD with two children!' After some chat about the viva, he looked into my eyes and said: 'Bari, you know Chelsea has merged with King's, but I've decided to move to Royal Holloway College and set up a laboratory there. Would you like to join me?'
I realized that I had not seriously given much thought about what I would do after completing my PhD. I expressed my gratitude and said: 'I'll definitely go with you if you need me. But for how long?' He replied: 'I've funding for three years for two posts.' It was a great relief, I would not have to immediately plan about the future. I learned that the other person who was invited was Enapu Owede, my co-researcher from Nigeria.
In July I faced my viva, which was gruelling, to say the least. There was a natural tension, but I was confident that I would get through. Once the viva was finished, I was asked to wait. Within a few minutes the external examiner and Professor Jonscher came out smiling and congratulated me: 'Dr Bari, you've defended your work very well. We'll recommend your name to the university senate. It's just a formality. You will need to make small changes in some places.' They shook my hands and Professor Jonscher handed over couple of pages to me for amendment. I gave them massive thanks, ran to the telephone booth and called Sayeda to give her the great news. My dream was fulfilled! I gave thanks to God. For the rest of the day, Sayeda and I shared the news with our families in Bangladesh and close friends in London.
After about a month's rest, in August 1986 I started my work as a postdoctoral researcher at Royal Holloway College.
