folio

Twenty-five today. Twenty-five years a Muslim, that is. It was Tuesday 5th May 1998, right after the Bank Holiday weekend. The previous day I had gone wandering across Holborn, suddenly convinced by faith. As I meandered through Covent Garden, this question occurred to me over and over: “Will you leave all of this behind?”

By the time I returned to my flat opposite Kings Cross station, I had settled on my answer. I felt I had no choice but to respond to that inner call, and take up this path.

I still remember the journey to my college that sunny Tuesday morning. My route was nearly always the same: Grays Inn Road to Cromer Street, onto Judd Street, through the Brunswick Centre, down along Coram Street, right across under the National Hotel, and then straight through the Institute of Education.

The latter cheeky shortcut was not hugely auspicious that day, for completely preoccupied, I got my ankle twisted in the revolving doors on my way out. In fact, limping on in pain from there, I almost considered it a sign: a sign to turn around and go back to my flat, aborting my resolve.

But instead I carried on, around the corner to my university college, to seek out a friendly face with which to share my mind. Later the same day, when the news had reached a few of the brothers, I knelt on the green felt carpet in the tiny first floor prayer room, a storey below my department, and uttered that short testimony of faith.

“I testify that none is worthy of worship except God, and I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God.”

So simple, so unassuming. But with that declaration, I embarked upon the road I have been walking ever since, for twenty-five years now it seems. My wife and soulmate celebrates the same anniversary, as it happens, although our paths wouldn’t knowingly cross for another three years.

I say knowingly, because who knows, for we were both living near Cambridge for a time in 1995, and around the corner from each other in London in 1997, gradually drawing closer until eventually I would wander down her street in West Ealing on my way home to lodgings in Hanwell in 2000. It’s so strange when you think about it.

It’s been an interesting journey, to say the least. Extremely trying at times, I must admit, particularly through the era of barbaric terrorism and barbaric counter-terrorism. Trying on personal levels due to the trials and tests of life. But also rewarding in so many ways, joining with so many faithful companions along the way.

In the early days, my relationship with my family was fraught, but over the years we have all mellowed. Despite their impassioned profession of the Christian faith — my father was ordained in the years after my shahada, joining my mother as the second priest in the family — my parents now commend our devotion to a prayerful life. Perhaps the experience has enriched all of us.

I am not a pious soul. Struggling servant would be a better characterisation. Still, we journey on, trying our best. If I could summarise the path as I understand it today, I would say, “Be kind.” Or: “Be true.” A good conclusion to reach after twenty-five years of trying.