The Suffering Children

We children of divorce do tend to dramatise the trials and tribulations of our own divorces. We see the reflections of our own parents when we look in the mirror, inherited failure, a fault-line through the generations in the fabric of the nuclear family and of course, we project, project, project.

Keeping all this in mind, it’s easier to get some perspective. When a woman in Kashmir tells me of the family she used to have and that now lies buried in the rubble that was her village, her generations, past and future, severed at a stroke, the child inside me gets a well-deserved slap.

Of course some of this is self-pity. Blogging is the best vehicle for global self-pity for ordinary people like me. If I can’t be a pop-star, or a novelist, then I’ll damn well blog it all.

I’d like to say I think of my children first, all the time. That would be a lie too. It’s not just about my children. It’s about what is right. What is fair. What is society. What is civilisation. What is respect. What is family. Putting one’s children first is one of those daft ideas that has got us in the mess we’re in today, where everybody’s kids is free to dump on any grown-up they want without fear of reprisal. Sure, we must protect against child abuse, but we should protect against society abuse too.

I sometimes feel a flicker of what the frightened racists feel when I’m on a bus and I see some youths putting their feet up on seats, women sitting next to them too scared to do anything about it. The media with its constant outpouring of fear-mongering and hatred has the passengers terrified of reprisal. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t do anything. That’s the best way. I want to shout “They might do that where you come from, but we don’t do that in this country”. Except that we do. And then I shut up. But not always. I did something different recently and I rather surprised myself.

Nothing changes if we stick to our ever-detached circles. What is there left of the country in which every individual is disenfranchised, escaping in their iPod to a music stream that cannot be shared with anyone else? Do we just blame foreigners and be done with it? Would we really be massively different if we kicked all the foreigners out?

Two youths were being a little loud on the bus the Friday before last. I had my daughters with me. These lads, in their mid to late teens, you can’t tell, they’re all so big nowadays, even the foreigners, came and sat next to us. Then they put their feet up on the seats. I kept my mouth shut. Then, one of them put his feet up on the seat directly in front of me. Something snapped. I heard myself talking.

“Are you Muslim?”

Their demeanour changed instantly. They were no longer loutish youths. They were children in the face of authority. Either that or they were curious.

“Yes - Assalamoalaikum”

“Wa-alaikum-assalam. My name is Shahid. What’s yours?” I extended my hand. They very gingerly, one by one, told me their names and extended their hands.

“Do you have any idea just how disrespectful it is to put your feet up on the seat opposite me? Do you realise that this whole country is watching us? Now I know that this doesn’t seem like a big deal to you, and I know that other people do it too. I’m only talking with you because you appeared to be Muslim, I just took a guess”

The boys were unnerved. I was calm, but they couldn’t tell what was coming next. Of course, the thing is, neither could I. It was all improvisation. I wasn’t thinking of Jules in Pulp Fiction when I opned my mouth. Jules would kill people. I wanted to make a good impression. The latter is actually harder to do.

“We have to set high standards. Other people see what you’re doing, but they don’t say anything. I am telling you, because you might not have been told this before, but it is a bad habit. As Muslims, you should conduct yourself with grace at all times”

I didn’t tell these boys that I have been guilty of some disgraceful behaviour myself, but that’s by the by and I’m changing. Have been for some time. One of the boys seemed to soften and started to speak.

“Actually, my uncle’s an Alim, we hang out with gangster style boys, but it’s hard to choose which way to go. I know the right way and I know that will be better for me in the future”

“Well, tell me what you did for Eid?” I asked, encouraging him to open up.

“We hired a car. It was phat. We do it every year if we can”

“Now, I’m going to give you some Eidi” - I pulled £20 from my wallet, which of course, wasn’t emblazoned with the legend “Bad Motherfucker”, because I am certainly not that, but in retrospect, Samuel L. Jackson’s character ‘Jules’ trying to shepherd Tim Roth’s loser in the seminal “Pulp fiction” is what I’m reminded of. I handed it to the boy.

“No, no, we can’t, we can’t. It’s enough of an honour for us that you shook our hand”. Well that took me by surprise. These boys were supposed to mug me. Here they were talking about honour. And maybe we’re so scared, that we don’t realise just how human everybody else is, just how much people want to do and be good, but just how frightened they are of walking that path.

“I am old enough to be your uncle. I would consider it most disrespectful if you didn’t accept”. Fear (of the type reserved for a parent, not a potential gangsta wannabe with a gun) flashed across their faces and the boy closest to me took the note and proffered much thanks.

The boy furthest away was chatting into his mobile and without thinking put his feet on the seat again. I slapped him playfully on the leg. He laughed and quickly put his legs down. “It’s just a habit, I’ll have to learn to stop it!”

We exchanged some light banter and then eventually got off at the same stop. They shouted out at my daughters “You know, you’ve got a really wonderful dad!”

My daughters said quietly “We know”

I had opened my mouth and nobody got upset.