Sunday, 4 April 2021
The garden beneath my window is alive, bursting with that sublime symphony led by the solo robin warbling its sweet song to the felicitous chorus of a charm of chaffinches and a grind of blackbirds. Restless since half-past four, I opened my curtains an ago to watch the darkness drain from the night sky, that orange haze seeping over the crest of the hills across the horizon. I’ve been wide-awake since quarter to six, seated on my windowsill, gazing up the valley away from town, far into the distance to the dense woodland and the open fields beyond. Those hills are calling me now, petitioning me to run to them.
From downstairs comes a curious sound I haven’t heard for nearly a month: the call to prayer on my dad’s tongue, nearly as beautiful as the blackbird’s, the testimony of faith weaving in and out of the stillness of our home. A month ago, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to those tones, pulling my pillow over my head to silence them, but today: today it hits me just how much I’ve missed them. Soon our house is a hive of activity, footsteps on the landing creaking into the bathroom, water splashing into the sink. I count three visits before the silence returns, those muted voices descending the stairs.
It’s another ten minutes before there’s a feeble knock on my bedroom door, though I already know who it is. ‘Go away,’ I tell her, but my sister wanders in anyway.
‘It’s fajr,’ she says, pulling an instant hijab over her head.
‘I’ll do it in my room.’
‘Dad says…’
‘No, just leave me,’ I say, turning her away.
When I’m sure she’s disappeared back down the stairs, I sneak out to make wudu, then straight back again, but I barely manage to lay my prayer mat out before there’s another knock. ‘Dad says you have to come,’ says Maryam, pushing her head around the door.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes.’ She gazes at me, almost sympathetically. ‘He’s waiting for you.’
‘And mum?’
Maryam shrugs her shoulders. ‘I think she’s still cross with you. She’s not speaking to any of us.’
‘Then tell them I’ll pray in my room.’
‘Already did, but he insisted.’
‘Then insist back,’ I tell her. ‘Tell him I’ve already started.’
‘But you haven’t.’ I raise my hands by my ears and nearly say the takbir. ‘Stop being an idiot, Ibrahim,’ she tells me, ‘just come down. Swallow your pride.’
‘Pride? I have no pride, Maryam. They made sure of that.’
‘You know what I mean. Just come and face the music. I think dad’s calmed down a bit. Don’t make him explode again.’
‘Fine,’ I mutter, ‘I’ll come in a minute.’ I have to give my sister a thirty-second head start, because I don’t want anyone thinking she won the argument. Wandering into the living room, I find the rest of my family kneeling on the floor, waiting. ‘Salam alaikum,’ I mutter, surprised that four voices respond with salams of their own. At least that’s something.
‘Do your sunnah,’ whispers Isa in my ear, just as I’m about to drop to his side. Though my little brother winds me up, I can’t be bothered to argue with him now and just do as he says, praying my two rakat.
‘Iqama,’ says my dad the moment I finish.
‘You do it,’ I tell my brother, nudging him, foisting the second call to prayer on him; he should be used to it after the past three weeks. So here we are, standing behind dad leading the prayer at last, like we used to before his first meltdown at the beginning of March, listening to his beautiful recitation of surah Al-Fatiha. Only now does it strike me how much I’ve yearned to hear his voice again, and somehow it draws emotions from deep within, causing me to weep. Immediately afterwards, he recites all thirty-four verses of surah Luqman in his flawless Arabic, marred only by that thick northern accent, ever-present despite two decades away. Three weeks ago I would’ve been impatient with his long prayers, but this morning I don’t want it to end. There’s a pause when he finishes the last verse, just before he goes into ruku, his hands placed on his knees. We’re almost one again: we bow when he bows, and prostrate when he prostrates. In the second rakat, he recites the first surah more quickly, then follows it with surah Ash-Sharh, short and sweet, only for him to elongate his final prostration so much that I begin to worry that he’s given up his soul for good.
Resting on his worn burgundy prayer mat after the prayer, his back reclining against the base of an armchair, he begins making dhikr, his voice only a whisper. Watching him, I follow him in it, counting out praise on each segment of my fingers with my thumb, though I can’t keep up with him. Finishing, he raises his palms high in front of him to make an inaudible dua, between him and his Lord alone. When he finally turns around in his place to face us, his eyes are down, as if he’s both embarrassed and utterly ashamed for yesterday’s outburst. Though he faces us now, it seems he fears capturing our eyes, and gazes elsewhere, anywhere but at us.
‘About yesterday…’ he stutters awkwardly, ‘I…’ He stops and seems to bite his lip. ‘I was…’ he begins again, only to grind to another halt. He sighs aloud, apparently frustrated by a tongue that won’t submit to him. Momentarily he ceases altogether, closing his eyes, his lips murmuring a quiet bismillah, then another loud breath, only to try again. ‘I want to apologise to you all for what happened yesterday,’ he says finally, nodding. ‘It was… inexcusable. No excuse. I’m sorry for shouting. For losing my cool.’
‘Your dad had a panic attack,’ mutters mum from behind me. ‘Forgive him.’
‘No,’ he says, ‘that’s not… it’s not an excuse. I know I… I know I’ve been… I know my behaviour the past few weeks has been… truly… unacceptable. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry. Sincerely.’
At last he glances up, but not at me. His eyes meet my mum’s behind me. ‘I’m sorry for what I said yesterday,’ he tells her, his voice breaking, tears in his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean it. I was just… angry… upset. But…’
‘I forgive you,’ she replies, silencing him.
‘And, Ibrahim…’
‘No!’ The interruption comes from my mum, raising her voice. ‘No, not yet,’ she says, ‘Let me say something first.’ Glimpsing back over my shoulder at her, I shrink back at the sight of her indignant eyes. ‘What you did yesterday,’ she says, staring at me scornfully, ‘I haven’t forgiven you yet. I’m not as quick to forgive as your dad. I thought I was going to lose him yesterday. I’m glad it was only a panic attack and nothing serious.’
I can’t bear to see her face like this, and bury my eyes in the carpet instead, pins and needles pulsating right through me, worse than in the midst of that traffic jam on the motorway. Mum’s anger is unyielding, even if she must now address my spine alone.
‘Maybe you’re thinking to yourself, “Was what I did really so bad?” Yes, you’re probably telling yourself, oh, “I had good intentions.” And no doubt you did. But that’s not good enough, Ibby. I’ve spent the past two decades protecting your dad from his past. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, because part of me protecting him was keeping it a secret from you. So, perhaps I share a portion of the blame. For never telling any of you what an atrocious past we had. For never telling you why we cut all ties with our hometown. For not explaining why we’ve never been back. Yes, that’s my fault.
‘I can’t expect you kids to understand. We’ve given you everything you ever wanted. We tried our best to make you happy. We spent a fortune on tutors so you’d pass your eleven plus and get a place at grammar school. We stretched ourselves to make this a happy home for you. And look how spoilt you are, with those views over the countryside. With a room to yourself, each of you. With gadgets and gizmos, and everything you could possibly need. Life’s good for you three.
‘But it wasn’t always like this. And that’s why I’m struggling to forgive you, Ibby, because I remember exactly what it was like. What you did on Friday could so easily have unravelled absolutely everything we’ve worked towards for twenty years. What could I possibly be talking about, Ibby? Freedom, Ibby. Safety, Ibby. Security. Peace.’ She stops. ‘Look at me, Ibby. Turn around.’
Shuffling in my place, the cramp in my knees and shins biting hard, I gaze back at her, only for her eyes to reach all the way into my soul, sending a quiver straight through me.
‘There’s something all three of you need to know. Growing up, your dad had none of those. Freedom? No. Safety. The complete opposite. Security? None at all. And I lost your dad three times back then. I’m not going to lose him again. What you kids don’t realise is that your dad is my soulmate, and I’ll do anything and everything to protect him. I’ll stop at nothing. He’s mine, and I…’ Tears pour down her face now. ‘And I want to keep him. I’m only sharing him with you grudgingly. Before he’s your dad, he’s my soulmate. You have to understand that.
‘So don’t any of you, ever, do anything like that again. Don’t ever think you know best. Don’t you ever think your parents know nothing and you can just do as you please and go wandering into our past like it was a day at the beach. It wasn’t. It was utterly horrendous. None of you goes wondering about your grandad, thinking you must look him up. None of you goes thinking, “Oh, I think I’ll track him down online.” You don’t do it. You leave it. You push that thought from your mind. You don’t wonder about your dad’s relatives. They’re gone. You leave them where you found them: in those whispers in your head. You know surah An-Nas; you read it every day. Seek refuge in Allah from those whispers. I’m not going to tell you the things that man did to your dad. It’s enough for me to say he’s dead to us. You don’t need to question me. You just know from what I’m saying that what he did was utterly horrific.
‘None of you gives out our address to anyone, or posts information about us online, or shares our phone number. You don’t need to question me why. It’s enough for you to know that we left everything we knew behind to build a new life here. You don’t do that unless there was something very bad you needed to get away from. That should be enough for you.’
There’s a pause now, long enough for us to all to begin to feel uncomfortable, the room completely silent. ‘As for your dad’s mother… your granny.’ She pauses again, crying. ‘I’m not going to say anything about her,’ she says, but she glances over to my dad and takes to gazing directly into his eyes. ‘Except to say that your dad is unfair to himself, perpetually beating himself up for the demise of that relationship.’ She stares at him intently. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she tells him, shaking her head, ‘She should’ve been there for you, whatever happened. She threw you away, not the other way around. You always did your best.’
When she’s finished saying this, mum gets back to her feet, her eyes still set upon her beloved. ‘And with that,’ she says, walking over to the door, still broken, ‘I’m done. You can say whatever you want to say now. Go ahead. Just leave me out of it.’
This, I suppose, is my mum’s version of a meltdown: her feet thump on each tread of the stairs, the floorboards squeak above us and then her bedroom door bangs closed. Now all is quiet. Looking at me, dad sighs wearily, then glances at Maryam and Isa. ‘Your mum’s right,’ he mutters, nodding his head. ‘But…’ No, he has no words to follow those sentiments. I just watch as Maryam crawls forward closer to him on her knees, then leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. I watch how he pats her on her back. She always was his favourite child. ‘Just forgive me for yesterday,’ he mutters uneasily.
From her place beside him, Maryam stares back at me, her eyes communicating with mine. ‘Forgive me too, dad,’ I say, ‘I didn’t mean…’
‘I know. I know you had good intentions.’ He gazes at me. ‘I’m sorry for the past three weeks. I’m sorry for shouting at you so much. It was…’
‘If it’s over now, I forgive you.’
‘Inshallah,’ he replies, smiling at me. This is the first smile any of us have seen on his face for a month. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘you can all give me a hug.’
I won’t say it’s a very comfortable embrace. It’s more like a rugby scrum at school, but now’s not the time to complain about my leg cramps. Wrapping our arms around him, we manage to hold our form for at least a minute before Isa feels the need to extract himself, followed by his sister. So now it’s just the two of us, father and son, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching the morning sky grow brighter, our lips sealed.
All this time, I’ve believed the reason my parents have zero digital footprint is because they were the last generation to experience a childhood without the internet. If you search for my dad’s name, you’ll get two and a half billion results, including pages and pages about his famous namesakes in sport and the arts. But concerning my dad: absolutely nothing at all. Search for my mum, and it will return three million results against her married name and two million against her maiden name, but still nothing about her at all.
Neither of them use Facebook or LinkedIn, Twitter or Snapchat, Instagram or Flickr. They have no blog or website, no ancient Myspace or DeenPort account. Somehow, they’ve managed to remain invisible, unknown to all. It turns out this was entirely deliberate. It turns out that when they hammered into me that I share only the bare minimum on social media, and be careful who I add as friends, they were already leading by example. I thought it was because they’re old and out of touch; turn out it’s because they live in fear.
‘I’m sorry dad,’ I whisper into his ear.
‘I’m sorry too,’ he replies.
‘What about mum?’ I ask. ‘Will she ever forgive me?’
There’s no answer to that question, it seems. At his side, I take in the shape of his cheeks, the colour of his eyes, his pallid skin; it’s funny being related to this man. Mum and I are supposed to be people of colour, but it’s my dad who’s multi-coloured, forever shifting from white to pink, or blue to purple, and yesterday, a world record: a dark beetroot. Even in the sun, he barely tans, but instead turns bright red, only to fade back through pink to a yellowish white. I know he suffers from melanin envy, but he can’t have it all.
‘Maybe if you make her breakfast in bed,’ he says all of a sudden, surprising me, ‘Inshallah, she’ll come round.’
‘Shall I?’
‘Well that’s what I’d do,’ he tells me, smiling.
Leaving him, I tiptoe into the kitchen to ponder my menu for mum. Eggs Benedict, halal style? A smoked salmon and mango chutney bagel? Pancakes with maple syrup? Hot croissants with freshly squeezed orange juice? Yorkshire Puddings dripping with honey? A true bidʻah if ever there was one! No, but with my abilities, it’ll be none of these. I crack some eggs into a frying pan to make her an omelette instead, and make her a cup of tea, slice some fruit and butter some toast, smothering it with jam.
‘Good luck,’ says dad as I pass him with my tray in hand.
As I begin my ascent of the stairs, the word on my own tongue is bismillah, as if pondering the divine will prevent my tea from spilling overboard, or protect me from my mum’s unceasing wrath. ‘Mum,’ I whisper, knocking timidly and pushing in, ‘I brought you…’
‘Leave me, Ibby,’ she replies, showing me her back.
‘I made you omelette. The way you like it.’
‘I don’t want it,’ she says, pulling her blanket over her head to shut me out.
‘Please, mum,’ I insist, shuffling around to the other side of the bed, hoping to catch her eyes. Setting the tray down on her bedside table, I slide down the wall to crouch beside her, seeking that cute face of hers, intent on piercing her force field. I know this furore of hers can’t last.
‘Mum,’ I try, pulling the blanket from her face, ‘please, just…’
‘Oh, Ibby,’ she moans impatiently, glancing at my cynically, pulling herself upright. She’s still cross with me, but at least she lets me place the tray in front of her. She doesn’t exactly look impressed, but starts slicing up the omelette anyway and at last pushes a piece past her lips. ‘Sit down,’ she says, gesturing towards the space beside her with her upturned fork.
Momentarily, she glances over at me, my back pushed against the headboard. ‘I can’t eat this toast,’ she says finally, passing it along, ‘Too sweet. You have it.’
‘Sure?’ I ask, but she only nods.
‘That wasn’t bad,’ she tells me when she’s finished, ‘apart from the bits of shell. I’ve taught you how to crack an egg properly.’
‘I know. I panicked.’
‘Well you better practice some more, before we marry you off. Can’t have our son serving his beloved a crunchy fried egg.’
‘What about your tea?’
‘Oh, come on, Ibby, you can’t go wrong making a cuppa,’ she says, lifting it to her lips to taste it. ‘Okay, I take that back. You can. What on earth did you do?’
‘Dunno. Just…’
‘Let it steep before you add the milk. Sorry, but this tastes awful.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter dejectedly. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’
‘Sometimes, Ibby, but not always. Do it properly next time.’
‘Do you want me to make you another?’
‘No,’ she says determinedly, ‘I just want you to tell me you understand why I’m so upset.’
‘I do.’
‘Do you really?’
‘Yes, of course. And I’m sorry. I… I won’t ever do…’
‘You better not,’ she says, staring at me resolutely, her gaze fixed on my face.
‘So…’ I whisper, when finally she glances away, ‘So will you forgive me?’
‘How many times have I forgiven you already, Ibby?’
‘I dunno,’ I say, shrugging, ‘maybe about three thousand, five hundred times.’
‘Sound about right, Ibby. And what do I always say?’
‘Allah has mercy on those who are merciful…’
‘So show mercy,’ she says, ‘Yes, so I’ll have to, won’t I?’
‘I won’t let you down again,’ I promise her.
‘Oh, you will,’ she replies, glimpsing at me, ‘it’s what kids are for.’
‘And parents,’ I smile, but mum looks shocked when I say this.
‘Did we let you down, Ibby?’
‘That’s how I feel,’ I mutter, but saying so only seems to draw an awkward impasse down on us, until I regret letting those thoughts out at all. ‘Or am I wrong?’
‘No,’ she murmurs eventually, ‘maybe you’re right. If we did, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay, mum, I forgive you too.’ Turning my body towards her, I hold out my hand. ‘Friends?’ I ask her, seeking hers.
See, I knew my mum’s heart would have to melt eventually. She can’t help smiling back at me, though I know she really doesn’t want to, for she enjoys being cross with me. But, no, it’s futile and she leans over to land a kiss on my cheek instead. ‘Friends,’ she nods, rolling her eyes at me, as if I’m both crazy and insufferable.
