Читать книгу A Long Jihad - Muhammad Abdul Bari - Страница 9
ОглавлениеWednesday, 6 July 2005
'We've won, we've won!'
The boy looked up, his eyes meeting mine. He frowned, his beetle-brows drawing together, then his curiosity sank without a ripple.
'What's happened?' I called out to the corridor. It was nearly lunchtime and my stomach grumbled loudly.
'We've won, Muhammad. We've won!' shouted Andrew, a thirty-something, crumpled-looking English teacher, 'we've beaten Paris – I've just heard it on the BBC!' He was in a state of near-ecstasy and looked like he was ready to jump into the air, or collapse – or perhaps both. Other teachers began crowding round.
London ... Paris: the fog broke. The Olympics. We'd won the Olympic bid. 'Wow ... wow, well done London!' I shouted with glee. This was something we'd fought for years to achieve: Londoners, and many of us in Muslim organizations, had fought hard to bring the Olympics to our city. Paris had been the front runner but had been pipped at the post. It was hard to believe: the Olympics was actually going to happen right here in London. Not only that, but in the heart of the famous East End, where I had spent so much of my life. I suddenly remembered my student and stumbled back into the classroom with a dazed smile.
'What's happened, sir?' the boy asked, his curiosity piqued again. I gave him the big news. It was almost one o'clock so I finished as quickly as I could and hurried to the staff room. The news had spread like wildfire: the TV showed crowds going wild in Trafalgar Square and the talk on everyone's lips was about our victory. We had won against all the odds, it was a great story indeed.
Defeating front runner Paris by fifty-four to fifty votes had been sweet. Jacques Rogge, the International Olympics Committee president, had made the dramatic announcement at 12.49pm the day before. No city had ever hosted the Games three times (London's last two Games were in 1908 and 1948). My colleagues at the MCB – the Muslim Council of Britain, the body representing 500 Muslim organizations – had used their influence in swinging the votes of several Muslim countries. The Secretary-General, Sir Iqbal Sacranie, and Chair of the London Affairs Committee, Tanzim Wasti, were appointed as Olympic Bid Ambassadors; they spoke with several key Muslim ambassadors in London, arguing with them for Muslim member countries to support the London bid. The MCB also wrote to the Secretary-General of the Organization of the Islamic Conference (OIC) on 5 July urging that Muslim member countries back London in its bid to host the 2012 Olympics because of 'London's vibrant multiculturalism and its positive and active engagement with the city's many different ethnic, racial and religious communities'.
We sent each other excited text messages and calls that evening, congratulating ourselves on our efforts. The MCB congratulated London's bid leader, former Olympic champion Sebastian (Lord) Coe, London Mayor Ken Livingstone and the entire bid team for their historic achievement. 'I send my warmest congratulations to you and every member of the London 2012 team for winning the bid for the UK,' the Queen told Lord Coe.
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Thursday, 7 July 2005
My routine began pretty much the same way every day: Wake up early, do my Fajr (pre-sunrise) prayer, a bit of short exercise, eat breakfast, spend some time with the kids before school and college, then kiss my wife and head off into the East End of London. This day was no different and the morning air was hazy and warm as the rush-hour traffic inched slowly forward. Once I had finally reached the borough of Tower Hamlets, I drove through familiar streets – streets which had once rang to Yiddish calls, and before that to the dialects of Kerry and Donegal – a place which was my 'home from home' when I first settled in the UK.
Tower Hamlets and the East End are a million things to a million different people – 'the Awful East', as Jack London called it – a ghetto beloved of writers, complete with Cockneys who still loved their pie and mash, but also homeless beggars, drug addicts and prostitutes. Yet it was also home to tens of thousands of Bangladeshis, my countrymen and women. As the situation in war-torn Somalia was turning from bad to worse, many Somalis had also made the long journey to the UK and now made Tower Hamlets their home. Soon they were being joined by those from other European countries also attracted to our country: Polish plumbers, Latvian builders, Estonian and Russian IT contractors, and more. The continuous wave of new immigrants and their transient presence – sooner or later they moved on to other parts of London – had been the defining feature in this part of the city for centuries. Nowadays, these new people and the white working-class Cockneys jostled with the City wealth and yuppies that were now crowding in.
Passing through this landscape, I was a roving special needs teacher engaged in behavioural support throughout the borough's inner city schools; a slim figure, middle-aged, often dressed in a suit (which had seen better days), my greying hair dyed to its once-natural brown. Some of the pupils I dealt with were in gangs and came from problem families: boys who had lost fathers, mothers who had lost husbands to addiction, or with other wives 'back home'. They were bright kids who just needed a bit of time to get on their feet – before drugs or prison got hold of them. Today, with the news of the Olympics and optimism charging the air, perhaps that world was now going to change. Even the dust-filled classrooms of the crumbling Victorian school where I was teaching couldn't hide the hope we all suddenly felt. I was still light-headed as I made my way to Tower Hamlets' Special Educational Needs department. It was housed in a rather dilapidated three-storey building near Queen Mary University, but was widely regarded as one of the top such units in the country.
At 10.00am my phone chirped and I looked at the text message on the screen, which was from a close friend. I had to read and re-read it again, willing the words to focus. I stood up and read it a third time: 'News about a few explosions/ collisions in the London Underground, British Transport Police has shut down the entire Underground system.' I was confused. Collisions on the Tube ...? But why more than one? The thought flashed through the back of my mind – not a terrorist attack, surely? But who ...? Without warning, I had a flashback to the afternoon panic at my office nearly four years before; 11 September 2001 was etched into our collective memory. Those attacks had changed the world forever, particularly for Muslims: two Muslim countries were now under US occupation and Muslims in the West had been put under increasing scrutiny. I looked over at my colleague, blankly; she was as puzzled as I was, clearly having seen or heard something too. Before she opened her mouth I read her the text message in a dry monotone. She shot bolt upright and yelled, 'Oh My God!' I flinched, startled, as others looked from across the room. The news began to spread quickly across all floors.
I called home to check that my daughter, Rima, and son, Raiyan, were still there: they were undergraduates and might be up for lectures or still sleeping – I wasn't sure. I was relieved to hear Rima's voice, telling me she had the day off and Raiyan would go into the university in the afternoon. My wife, Sayeda, was working in a local nursery and my other two children were at school, so the family was safe. Sayeda gasped and stifled a scream when I called and told her about the explosions.
I then quickly phoned the executive director of the East London Mosque, Dilowar Khan, in Whitechapel to find out if he knew anything. I was the mosque's Honorary Chairman and had been there when Prince Charles and a Saudi prince visited together in November 2001. In fact, although I was from a different part of Bangladesh than most East End Bangladeshis (who usually hailed from Greater Sylhet) and didn't live in the area, I had adopted the community and they me for many years: during my PhD in the mid-1980s, I had volunteered to teach some young community members science and mathematics; they were now becoming the community's elders. Dilowar's number was busy, so I left a message.
I was walking back to my desk when the phone chirped again: Dilowar was on the other end. He was well-liked in the community, a man who until recently had lived in the same council house for over twenty years, a stocky, kind figure who was familiar to everyone around. He told me breathlessly that there had been an explosion near Aldgate tube station. This was grim news: Aldgate was less than half a mile from the mosque. I told him to get in touch with the local police and other key people in the community. He asked me whether I could get down to the mosque – quickly.
By now there was clear panic in our office. I headed downstairs to Liz Vickerie, our manager and director, and asked if she had heard the news and whether she had any briefing for us. She was famously calm, but right now you could see she was battling fear; she fixed a smile and said she had just heard the news and was discussing the situation with other managers. With a dry voice I asked whether I could visit my mosque. She knew about my role in the big Muslim religious centre nearby but asked whether I could wait – she needed further instructions. I ran back upstairs and tried, without success, to work; the texts and calls kept coming in. Finally Liz called and told me I was free to go.
Sirens and smoke filled the air and the roads were full of confusion; people were standing around and talking, looking furtively at each other, as if to guess whether their neighbour was somehow involved in this chaos. It was not far off noon by the time I reached the East London Mosque. Dilowar was in the London Muslim Centre, the huge glass and steel community complex that loomed over the mosque next door. When we had opened it, on 11 June the previous year, thousands had carpeted the roads outside, praying. With Dilowar was Alan Green, an unshakeable, balding vicar who was head of the Tower Hamlets Inter Faith Forum. Other senior community leaders were crowding around them, anxiety and concern growing as they shuffled nervously. I'd never seen them like this; I guessed my own face probably reflected theirs.
There had been four explosions now and the collision theory had gone out of the window; London was under attack. Three bombs had exploded on the Underground and one on a bus in Tavistock Square, close to the headquarters of the British Medical Association. Explosions had taken place on underground lines between Liverpool Street and Aldgate; King's Cross and Russell Square; and at Edgware Road tube station. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir Ian Blair, confirmed that these were coordinated 'terrorist attacks'. The number of casualties was not yet known. The phrase 'terrorist attack' was very startling. Who would do this and why?
Dilowar took me through to the Centre's foyer, where a number of walking wounded were sitting or standing with shocked, dazed looks. They were visibly traumatized: ashenfaced, soot or burn marks on their clothes; faces, heads and hands often streaked with blood. Volunteers were talking to them, calming them, giving them tea, biscuits and water. It was not much, but it seemed to help. Some were then getting up and walking home; others were being escorted to the famous Royal London Hospital, just a few hundred yards away. I did my best to reassure the wounded.
We came back to the office to discuss what to do. Huddled around the radio and TV set, we listening attentively to the midday news. Facts were dribbling in frustratingly slowly and we were desperate to know more; the number of casualties was still unclear. Sirens continued to wail outside and a helicopter droned overhead. The Prime Minister, Tony Blair, was hosting a G8 summit in Gleneagles, Scotland, and he broke from the summit to issue a statement, calling the bombings a coordinated series of 'barbaric terrorist attacks'.
In the meantime, Alan Green told us that the Bishop of Stepney, Stephen Oliver, was on his way to our mosque. It was a wonderful gesture from a senior bishop and very timely. He came and we sat with him, trying to work out what we should do. Everyone feared that if it was terrorism, this could be 'our 9/11'. We swiftly agreed a public statement, should we need one, saying that: 'We Muslims, Christians and other faith groups stand in solidarity with one another. Whoever perpetrated these heinous acts – they do not represent any community and cannot divide us. Terrorists are terrorists and they do not have any religion.' But would it be enough? I swapped messages with Sir Iqbal Sacranie, the Secretary- General of the MCB, and we voluntarily divided our tasks: Iqbal would coordinate our responses nationally and I would handle London.
The lunchtime prayer at 1.30pm was approaching. But, instead of worshippers, journalists were starting to pour into the foyer and I could see camera crews pointing their lenses up and down the streets outside. I was nervous and tried to convince myself that their interest was purely linked to geography, as one of the bombs had gone off nearby. Or were they sensing that Muslims were behind this? I tried to bury that thought. I was out of my depth, I was just a normal, middle-aged guy who had volunteered for a small but growing band of Bangladeshi people, and was now leading a diverse and expanding Muslim community in the largest city in the country. I prayed silently that Muslims were not involved. If they were, as a community we would start paying for their crimes.
I had quick words with the bishop and we decided to visit the wounded at the Royal London Hospital. It was the least we could do, I suggested. After walking to the hospital, we weren't allowed in to meet the patients, so we talked with the Christian and Muslim chaplains who had been serving them. As we did so, someone came up and whispered to me that there was a large number of journalists waiting outside who wanted to hear from us. I was struck by fear, I had no media training nor any media exposure before. I was just a silent community activist and teacher and at that moment I desperately wanted to be somewhere else. Sensing my trepidation, the bishop laid his hand on my shoulder and said: 'Muhammad, now is not the time for hesitation.' He encouraged me with an assuring smile. He was right.
I made up my mind, asked him to speak first, and walked out into the glare of the spotlights and camera flashes. On that bright summer afternoon, Stephen and I stood side by side in front of dozens of microphones in the open space at the western corner of the hospital. They were journalists from our national news media, TV stations and print media; TV crews from a few overseas countries such as Australia and Japan were there as well. Stephen introduced himself and said how as a bishop of the three boroughs he had been working closely with all the communities, including Muslims, how he valued his friendship with Muslims in the area and how the East London Mosque was contributing towards the social fabric of the ever-changing East End. With a determined voice he concluded: 'We don't yet know what the casualty figure is, but whoever carried out these heinous acts in the transport network of our beloved city today cannot divide our communities. We, as people of faith and no faith, must now multiply our efforts to make sure we remain united.'
Then it was my turn and by that time I had decided what I was going to say. I introduced myself and briefly mentioned how the East London Mosque had been serving all communities and working for a better understanding between the peoples of the East End, where people of diverse backgrounds lived side- by-side and had enriched the area for generations. 'Terrorism is a depraved act of criminality,' I said. 'It has no religion, no nationality. Terrorists are none but terrorists. As proud Londoners and East Enders our job is now to collectively keep peace in our communities.'
There were a few questions on who we thought the perpetrators might be and whether we feared any backlash. I took the questions and expressed my confidence in our police and security services that they would soon find the perpetrators behind the attacks. Whatever the cause or motivation, the carnage in London would fail to frighten or divide us. Stephen added by assuring that London, especially the people in the East End, had always been united against race hate. 'Sanity will prevail,' he said confidently. Stephen thanked me for my performance, though I didn't then realize that this would be the beginning of a new journey – and the start of a very public life for me.
I returned to the mosque and spent the rest of the day talking with people and gathering more information as to the number of casualties and possible implications for Londoners and the rest of the country. The journalists were gradually leaving the ELM complex and the mosque management turned to discussing how best to reassure the local community. I was also constantly in touch with the Muslim Council of Britain office. The Secretary-General had issued a statement that the MCB: '... utterly condemns today's indiscriminate acts of terror in London. These evil deeds make victims of us all. It is our humanity that must bring us shoulder to shoulder to condemn, to oppose and to overcome those who would spread fear, hatred and death.' A Joint Statement from the Muslim Council of Britain and Churches Together in Britain and Ireland declared: 'The scriptures and the traditions of both the Muslim and Christian communities repudiate the use of such violence. Religious precepts cannot be used to justify such crimes, which are completely contrary to our teaching and practice.'
There was one more shock that day. In the late afternoon, one of our very regular mosque worshippers, a very respectable Bangladeshi in his eighties, Jamshed Ali, who was always to be seen in the front row during the congregational prayer, told us that his granddaughter, Shahara Islam, had been missing since morning. The family had been desperately looking for her since she had left for work on the Tube. Neither she, nor the police or any hospital, had contacted the family yet and they were hoping against hope that she was fine somewhere, but as time passed that hope was fading. The news quickly spread among the close-knit Bangladeshi community in the East End. She was later confirmed as the first Muslim victim of what would soon become known as '7/7'. Some of us visited Shahara's house in the early evening to meet the family. They were in a state of shock and the father wouldn't talk with us. We said a prayer for her safety.
By the time I returned home it was about midnight. All of the family were still awake; the normally boisterous children were very quiet. Sayeda and I sat with them for a brief discussion and assured them that everything would be alright, Inshallah. We advised them not to worry, but just to remain a bit more alert. I went to bed with thoughts churning around in my head, but could not imagine what the next day would bring for us.
