The Victory Boys. Jamal Orme
Accepting that there was no way around the punishment, Ibrahim had wanted to cut his little brother’s hair, but his mum would only trust him with the garden hedge. And, of course, Junayd had put in an extra couple of shifts at the restaurant, for which Saleem had honoured his pledge of a fiver. Junayd had showed such enthusiasm that he wasn’t sure whether he was being paid for his chopping, peeling and washing up; or for his acting skills.
The Batemans were quite understanding and forgiving. A little too much so, thought Imam Munieb.
‘I remember what it was like to be your age,’ said Mr Bateman. ‘It’s a shame that yard’s so small, too. You could do with a bigger spot for a good game of football.’
‘Yes, but of course the mosque is not a place for football,’ interjected the Imam. ‘I am trying to explain this to the boys so they learn to be more responsible and to see how their actions can affect other people.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ replied Mr Bateman unhelpfully. ‘They’re a good bunch of lads, this lot. They just need to learn to shoot straight.’
After that, madrasa sessions reverted to their more familiar and established form. The boys yawned their way through them, only chancing the occasional hushed conversation when they thought they could get away with it. Enthusiasm for learning the Qur’an dwindled, as did any willingness to ask questions. Or to see the relevance of madrasa to their lives in a twenty-first century seaside town. Once more Imam Munieb began to find little pleasure in the sessions; except in the hope of his rewards for delivering them.
***
‘These boys, nothing touches them,’ Imam Munieb complained to his wife, over dinner, one evening. ‘I can talk and talk, but they don’t hear me. Or if they do, I don’t think it touches their hearts.’
Salamah tried to console him.
‘It’s the same with the girls, you know,’ she said. ‘So many people don’t feel the beauty of Islam. It’s not the children’s fault – they’re only picking up on the messages they’re getting. Even the Sunday madrasa is part of that – once a week the doors swing open, the children tramp in – over to you, sister.’
‘It’s true,’ agreed the Imam. ‘Two weeks ago, one of the fathers came to me. He demanded to know how the boys could break a window when they’re coming to the mosque to learn their Islam. I said “I am glad you realise how much we need the parents to help with the madrasa, to supervise all of the children.”
‘Did he come last week? What do you think?’
Salamah smiled sympathetically.
‘Do they think that Islam is a part-time course?’ Imam Munieb sighed deeply. ‘Ya habibti … we need these parents to take the matter seriously!’
He looked at his wife, hoping she might offer a solution.
‘It’s a test,’ she said. ‘A test for all of us.’
‘I have been trying,’ said Imam Munieb, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps I’ve been trying the wrong things.
Imam Munieb’s mind was a whirl of problems and deadends. He prayed to Allah to renew his patience, to keep him steadfast, and to show him how he might genuinely improve the situation for his community.
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