A small demo against the Gaza genocide outside the closed Allders department store

Anyone remember the “Chav craze” of the early to mid 2000s? Early on in this blog’s history I wrote a piece called “Cursing the Darkness” which looked at websites dedicated to slagging off the poorly dressed kids who hung around some town centres; a site called ChavTowns allowed people to describe the ‘chavs’ in their town, or any town they liked (that site, and its parent site ChavScum, have long since disappeared). Croydon, the town in south London where I grew up, had an entry which described its main shopping centre as a “pikey temple” (using a racial slur for travelling people and lumping the two different types of people together), full of McDonalds and Burger Kings (which was inaccurate although there is a McDonalds, as there is in most town centres). All the websites which sprung up at that time, with names like Glasgow Survival, Sheppey Scum and Chatham Girls, are now defunct but the craze nowadays is YouTube videos focussed on everything that’s wrong with a place now compared to its golden age 40 or 50 years ago. 50 years ago, Croydon was a thriving retail centre which had a fairly new shopping centre which was busy on a Saturday and had few or no empty units. Nowadays the mall in question is a sad sight, with dozens of empty units, only a handful of big names still trading there, and whole sections cordoned off because of unsafe structures or leaky roofs. But who do the YouTubers blame? Immigrants, of course.

Croydon has been a diverse place as long as I’ve been alive. It’s South London. Old-timers will insist it’s Surrey, but it’s been part of Greater London since 1965 and was Surrey in name only before then (it was a county borough, i.e. county and district in one as were many big towns and cities). The southern part of the borough were always affluent and white; the north had big Black and Asian communities with the shops and places of worship that go with that. While Croydon’s affluent south was and remains “true blue” Tory, the north is nowadays a safe Labour seat and the central seat is marginal. Sadly, times have not been kind to Croydon, especially central Croydon. The borough put all its eggs in the retail basket, allowing an extra shopping centre to open the other side of the main shopping street from the Whitgift Centre, the bustling mall shown in the 70s footage. As well as Allders, a homegrown department store on six floors which had been around since the 1860s and at one point was Britain’s third-biggest department store behind Harrods and Selfridge’s and was the centrepiece of a nationwide chain, it had a House of Fraser, a Debenhams and an M&S, and was expecting a John Lewis to follow once Westfield opened up one of its shopping centres there. Then online shopping happened, and department stores suffered because although they offered “retail therapy”, people who just wanted to buy stuff found it easier to order it online, where you didn’t have to hunt through concession sections but could simply search for the garment you wanted in the size and colour you wanted. Then the 2010 Tory government happened, stripping local authorities of funds; then Covid happened, which resulted in the hotels some councils had invested in becoming unviable. Westfield and John Lewis never showed up; Allders and Debenhams went out of business or moved online, and Croydon council went bankrupt.

The videos, however, hold up Croydon’s woes as a sign of how Britain has declined, or been taken over by immigrants, or how society has gone to the dogs since some mythical golden age rather than as a result of the decline of the High Street more generally. One video included footage of the Whitgift Centre in the 1970s and pointed out that women in Croydon still wore skirts in the 70s and weren’t feminists. Mostly, however, the focus is on the apparent preponderance of Black and Asian people in Croydon now compared to in the past. Footage of groups of young Black men just hanging around (especially at night), various people (never white) acting ‘crazy’ with the suggestion that they are immigrants, a guy praying in an island in the middle of an empty dead-end road at night. Basically, people minding their own business, but because they’re not white, that’s scary. Then there is footage of areas with a lot of ethnic shops and Black and Asian customers going about their business, and that too is presented as a sign that they’ve “taken over”.

Having grown up in Croydon, I know there’s a lot to like about it. The town centre with its ugly concrete mini-skyscrapers has been widely derided since the 1960s but it is probably one of London’s greenest boroughs, with enormous acreage of public parks, some of it only walking distance from the town centre and most of it within an easy walk from anywhere anyone lives and an easy bike or bus ride for pretty much anyone else. Back in 1999, when I arrived back from spending two months of the summer in Cairo, I came across a letter in the Croydon Advertiser, opining that “the whole rotten apple needs condemning”; I wrote back saying that anyone who thinks Croydon is bad should spend some time there, where it’s hot all year round and it has a fraction of Croydon’s (let alone London’s) park acreage (they printed it). Most of it is every bit as safe as any other town of its size; there is the odd violent incident, but this doesn’t make it an “urban jungle” or “stab city” — the incidents make headlines precisely because they are not common. I once told an American friend that there had been a record number of stabbings in London that year, and the number was a fraction of what happened in her city (and as the average person cannot get hold of a gun, shootings are rare).

As for comparing it to the Bronx, that is also ludicrous because the Bronx is one of New York City’s five boroughs (London has 31) and roughly a sixth of the land area of New York City with a population of nearly 1.5 million (compared to Croydon borough’s population of 385,000), and while it does have a rough reputation, that stems from some of its housing projects in the south while the borough as a whole is very diverse, with richer and poorer neighbourhoods and it includes a zoo and botanical garden (which includes a tract of ancient woodland) and several universities. So if you lumped Croydon in with Sutton, Kingston, Merton and Richmond (where London’s botanical garden is located), it might merit that comparison. To call Croydon “the Cronx” because of a few stabbings and what you consider too many brown faces is an ignorant, racist slur on both places.

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Condemning them as ‘sectarian’ is only adding to the clamour that they have no place in the west

A poll suggests that most British Muslims identify more with their faith than with their nation. The head of the Saudi-backed Muslim World League counsels British Muslims to talk less about Gaza and more about domestic issues. Labour MP Tahir Ali is criticised for campaigning for a new airport in Mirpur in Pakistan-controlled Kashmir; he claims the criticisms have led to “Islamophobic” attacks. After push-back, the BBC changes a headline describing converts to Islam as “reverts”, a term some Muslims use to suggest that Islam is the natural state of humankind.

Just a taster of debates about British Muslims over the past week. At the heart of each of these controversies is the question of how Muslims should relate to western societies, and western societies relate to them. For some, the answer is easy. On the one side, many claim Islam to be incompatible with western values and that allowing Muslims to settle here has led to what they regard as the degeneration of western societies. On the other are those who insist there is no issue, and those who raise concerns are bigots. Both are wrong. There are issues about Muslims and integration that need discussing, but those issues are rarely as presented in these debates.

Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a letter of up to 250 words to be considered for publication, email it to us at observer.letters@observer.co.uk

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When Hamid takes a balloon ride at the Eid picnic, an accident throws all his beliefs into doubt.

[This is part 1 of a two-part story. Part 2 will be published next week inshaAllah]

Too Poor for Tacos

The Eid-ul-Fitr picnic was jumping. Hamid found a spot at a concrete table and sat. The weather was fantastic for Sacramento – sunny and cool – and the park was packed with Muslims. It was a gorgeous spot with mature trees. There were food trucks – the usual shawarma and burgers, but also mini pancakes and smashed tacos, whatever that was, as well as games and rides. Overall, Hamid had to say the organizers had done a fantastic job, mashaAllah.

Parades of women passed by. Teenage Pakistani girls eating snow cones, Arab moms with babies in strollers, Afghan aunties sitting in a circle beneath a tree, chatting. African-American families in elegant, brightly colored clothes. Men standing in the sun, discussing politics and the government’s economic policies.

Hamid opened his messenger bag and took out his musallah, as well as the banana, blueberries, and chips he’d brought from home. There was no way he could pay the crazy prices these food stalls charged. He was a graduate student and teaching assistant. His salary was dirt. Well, alhamdulillah, he didn’t want to deny any of Allah’s Blessings. But still, he was poor. No other word for it. When you’re poor, you know it.

Litter

Someone had left trash at the table, and he took a moment to collect it, along with some used napkins on the ground, and take it to the trash can. Littering at such events was par for the course. It angered him. But he told himself that some of these folks came from countries with inadequate sanitation systems and had never learned to dispose of trash properly. He remembered, from visits to his native Afghanistan, how urban waste was dumped in the streets. They needed to learn how things were done here.

He ate the banana and started on the chips. There were a thousand conversations happening around him, blending into a sound like bongo drummers banging away randomly. A tall Latino brother wearing a turban carried an armful of cold cans of Dr. Pepper, trying not to drop any. Three teenage Afghan boys walked by, and one used a curse word. Hamid hesitated, considering whether he should jump up and grab the boy’s arm and tell him that was not how a Muslim spoke. But the boys were walking quickly, and were soon gone. No matter. He knew the boy’s father and could speak to him later.

The Vanguard

A recent African-American convert wore a thobe, kufi, and keffiyeh. Hamid knew him, he was a video producer, smart and easy to talk to. It was funny how many of the converts dressed more like “Muslims” than the Muslims. More Arab than the Arabs, more Afghan than the Afghans. In a way, Hamid admired them. He had often thought he should dress more traditionally to such events, but some part of him was embarrassed.

But the converts were all heart, they didn’t care what anyone thought. If they had worried about other people’s opinions, they wouldn’t have become Muslim in the first place. They attended all the masjid classes, and some even traveled to the Muslim world to study the deen. They were the vanguard of Islam in America. The future leaders, the beacons. The converts were the spiritual successors of the sahabah. Not the immigrants, nor the second generation like himself. The converts.

He imagined he would marry a convert one day. Who else? Certainly not one of his own people. Afghan women were so materialistic. They were all about the gold, beautiful dresses, Mercedes SUV,s and McMansion in the suburbs. Sometimes, he felt that his people had lost themselves in the transition to the new world. He remembered from his visits to Afghanistan how deeply kind people had been. Not only his cousins, who treated him like a king, but even ordinary people like the barber, shopkeeper, or taxi driver. All had been courteous and generous.

By comparison, the Afghans here in Sacramento often seemed petty, rule-bound, and overly concerned with each other’s doings.

Hamid had no gold or Mercedes SUV, and maybe never would. He was a botany major and would probably work for a food processor when he completed his studies. Or maybe as an agricultural consultant. Or perhaps for the State of California, if he was lucky. It was a decent profession, but not the kind that made a man rich.

Who wanted such a superficial woman anyway? No, give him a convert sister! Once again, they were all heart. Those sisters didn’t care how much money he had. They wanted a man with deen, iman, and a good heart.

A Connection

Oh, what did it matter? The only woman he’d ever loved had been stolen away by his own twin brother, Ali. His former brother, with whom he had no contact and never would. The snake, the traitor. They might share blood, parentage, and even a genetic code, but Ali was the worst kind of backstabber. They hadn’t spoken in two years, and as far as Hamid was concerned, Ali could get sick and die, and he wouldn’t attend the funeral.

A woman with three kids sat across from him at the picnic table. They had some of the smashed tacos, which did not look appealing. One of the kids, a little boy, eyed Hamid’s baked chips and said, “I want chips.”

Hamid poured out the rest of the chips onto the boy’s plate. The boy beamed and began gobbling them down. The mom muttered a quick thanks, but her tone was flat, and it occurred to Hamid that maybe she didn’t want her kid eating chips for lunch. Embarrassed, he packed up his stuff and went to a corner of the park, where he set down the musallah and prayed Asr.

It was during the salat that he had the sudden feeling that Ali was here. Goosebumps rose on his arms. This happened sometimes. He and Ali were identical twins, and yes, Hamid was aware of all the mysticism and nonsense regarding twins, but in this case, this one particular thing was true: he often knew when Ali was near.

He finished the salat and stood. He was tempted to leave. He absolutely did not want to see Ali, and even less to see Hala, the woman Hamid had loved, and who Ali had stolen and married. He did not hate Hala, but seeing her was a reminder of what he could have had. When it came to his opinions about Afghan women, Hala was the exception to the rule. She was unselfish, generous, and sweet-tempered.

To be honest, he wouldn’t have minded seeing his nephew and niece. But there was no way to engineer that without seeing the parents as well.

Chips of Turquoise

He peered about with a feeling of dread in his stomach, looking for Ali, Hala, and the kids. The park was large and crowded, and he did not see them. Only then, however, did he notice that at the north end of the park, bordering the Sacramento River ravine, a group of men and women were setting up a hot air balloon. It was still in the process of being inflated. Wow! He’d always been fascinated by balloons, zeppelins, and blimps. He’d dreamed of traveling to New Mexico one day for the annual balloon festival. Now, there was one right here in front of him. SubhanAllah! He didn’t care how much it cost, he would go up in that balloon!

He began walking across the park, threading his way around awnings and vendor stalls. As he did, he noticed people occasionally staring at him, and sometimes even doing doubletakes. He was used to it, especially in Muslim gatherings. He’d been told he had classically Afghan looks, with a square jaw and long nose, and thick eyebrows, and just over six feet in height. But that wasn’t why they looked at him. After all, he wore jeans and tattered sneakers, and a wash-worn “Free Palestine” t-shirt. He was no icon of good looks.

No, it was his eyes that caught people’s attention. Like some Afghans, his eyes were light, and in his case, they were almost ice blue. So blue they looked like chips of turquoise. Contrasting with his olive skin tone, the eyes caught a lot of people off guard. Hamid found it annoying. He was a curiosity to them. Not a real person with feelings.

Big Magician

He came across a magician doing an act. Hamid studied the spectators, who were mostly kids, for any sign of his niece and nephew. Nothing. He began to relax. His presentiment of “connection” had been wrong before. It might have been nothing more than the breeze coming off the river, blowing on his neck and arms, that had stirred up the goosebumps.

Curious, he watched the magician, a beefy Caucasian man in a purple suit with a curly purple wig. The guy was huge, like a lumberjack. He could have been doing a strong man act rather than magic. He lit a long match, then said, “Like Allah protected Abraham from the fire, He will protect me!” Flourishing the match, he lowered it into his mouth.

What the heck? Hamid thought. Isn’t that semi-blasphemous? He looked around, wondering if anyone else thought this was weird, but the crowd of kids and teens loved it, applauding and cheering.

The hulking magician said, “Just as Eve was created from Adam’s rib, I will bring a woman out of my own body.”

Okay, Hamid had to see this. The magician began to clutch at his ribs, as if in pain. A bulge grew in his side beneath his suit. This was wild. Suddenly, a cloud of purple smoke rose from the stage, obscuring everything. When it cleared, a small woman in a purple abayah and hijab stood beside the magician, looking around in wonder, as if newly born.

“Eve is born!” the magician proclaimed with a flourish.

A Horse Can Be A Horse

Hamid laughed out loud. It was entertaining, he had to give the man that. But definitely weird. Grinning, he walked away. Before he got to the balloon, he encountered brother Omair, a founding member of one of the three masjids participating in this carnival. He greeted him and gave him a quick hug.

“Have you seen this magician?” Hamid asked.

Omair shrugged. “I know. He is a new Muslim. Very recent convert. He promised us that every part of his act would relate to Islam in some way. We didn’t know this was what he meant.”

“Not everything has to relate to Islam you know,” Hamid remarked. “A magician could just be a magician. A horse can be a horse. It doesn’t have to be an Islamic horse.”

Omair looked around. “Are there horses?”

“No. I’m just saying.”

Behind them, the magician said, “Just as the Prophet Moses’s hand came out shining white, watch my hand!”

Omair raised his eyebrows.

“You should definitely do something about that,” Hamid said, and walked away.

Fifty Dollars for Two Minutes

There were no kids in the line for the balloon ride – only teens and adults were allowed, apparently. Which was fine with Hamid. Yet, the line was long. In fact there were three separate lines that merged at the front. The ticket cost a full $50. The ticket seller explained that the ride would last two minutes, not counting ascent and descent.

Fifty dollars was a lot of money, and two minutes seemed very short. But this was a lifelong dream, so he paid and waited in line. As the balloon went up for the first time, its reflective red and blue surface caught the afternoon sun. It looked like a star rising over the river valley. It was enchanting. Hamid found himself grinning widely.

The balloon went up, came down, and went up again. It was held in place by three tether ropes that reeled out on winches as the balloon rose, and retracted as it descended. Hamid noticed that the ride operators only allowed two to three passengers per trip, plus the pilot. If a passenger was alone, they had to share the trip with a stranger. That was fine, he didn’t mind.

He also realized that it would be more than an hour before his turn came. To pass the time, he took out his phone and began studying a PDF on the use of ionized water rinses in the postharvest handling of fruits and vegetables. It was something his team was working on in the lab, and could potentially be profitable for the university if they could develop a marketable product.

Rules and Accidents

He shuffled his feet and moved with the line like an automaton, and when he next looked up from his phone he was near the front of the line. Outside the balloon’s perimeter fence was a sign that read:

Safety Rules

1. No children.
2. Follow the pilot’s instructions.
3. Do not touch the burner or control lines.
4. No pushing, shoving, or horseplay.
5. Do not lean out or sit on the edge of the basket.
6. Do not bring large bags, sharp objects, or loose items that could fall or interfere with controls.
7. No smoking.
8. Stay quiet during ascent and descent so pilot can communicate with ground crew.
9. No intoxicated passengers allowed.
10. Hot air balloons are inherently dangerous. By riding this balloon, you accept all liability for any harm that may result, including and up to injury and death.

Darn. No large bags? Well, there was nothing in his bag but a notebook and pen, a book on postharvest practices, and a box of blueberries. He could leave the bag beside the fence and pick it up later. If someone stole it, he would be unhappy but not devastated.

Rule ten gave him pause: injury and death? Laying it on thick, weren’t they? Yes, as someone fascinated by balloons, he was aware of the infamous Alice Springs accident of 1989. It claimed 13 lives when one balloon struck another’s basket during ascent. The descending balloon deflated explosively and fell 1,000 meters in 51 seconds.

There had been other incidents, one of the most recent being the catastrophic accident over Egypt’s ancient city of Luxor in 2013, that took 19 lives. Investigators found that a fuel leak had caused an explosion, sending the flaming balloon plunging into the Nile River. The crash exposed lax safety standards in Egypt’s balloon tourism industry.

But this was Sacramento, not Egypt, and there was only one balloon here, so no one to crash into.

A Dream Gone Awry

His turn came. The balloon hovered several feet off the ground. Hamid handed over his ticket, climbed up a set of metal stairs, and greeted the pilot, a lean, fortyish woman with gray hair and blue eyes. She looked strong, experienced, and strict. She reached out a hand and helped Hamid into the basket. It swayed slightly beneath his feet, and he put a hand on the wall of the basket to steady himself. The wall was only five feet high, presumably so passengers could have a clear view. Hamid’s stomach turned over, and he thought he might be sick, but he pushed it down. This was his dream.

Thrilled in spite of his stomach’s misbehavior, he studied the balloon’s burner, which was suspended above his head, and the control handle that hung from it, as well as the other miscellaneous controls. He was not paying attention as another man stepped into the balloon.

“Alright gentlemen,” the pilot began. “My name’s Jean. Face me, and let’s go over the safety rules.”

Hamid turned and saw the other man who would be sharing the ride with him. His heart turned to ice in his chest. His eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. The other man in the basket with him was his brother, Ali.

Seeing Ali was like looking into a funhouse mirror that distorted reality and sent back an altered image. In contrast with Hamid’s casual American clothing, Ali wore a beautiful traditional Afghan outfit consisting of a long blue linen shirt, baggy pants, jeweled shoes with curled toes, and a black Afghan hat. Where Hamid had a goatee, mustache, and a bush of curly hair, Ali was clean shaven, with his hair cut short and sharp. Their features, though, were exactly the same. The same olive skin, square jaw, and blue eyes so light they might be holding a piece of the sky.

He raised his hands, waving them back and forth. “No, no, no,” he said. “Not with him. Get someone else. I can’t ride with him, it’s impossible.”

An Ultimatum

The pilot’s eyes narrowed as she looked back and forth between the two brothers. “You look exactly the same. Is this some kind of practical joke? ‘Cause I’ll tell you, I have zero patience for nonsense, and I will kick you both out of this basket before you can say, ‘Heaven help me.’”

Hamid turned his back to his brother, looking only at Jean. “It’s not a joke. Yes, this is my twin brother, but we don’t speak. I cannot ride with him. Let him go next and bring someone else, or let me get out and go next.”

Jean set her jaw. “I run this craft, not you. If you want to get out, that’s fine, but you will go to the back of the line. In fact, why don’t you go ahead and get out, and don’t bother getting back in line. I won’t fly you.”

“I have no problem riding with him,” Ali said.

Hamid felt his mouth go dry as he realized he was about to miss this chance to experience his dream. Licking his lips and swallowing his pride – and it was bitter in his mouth – he said, “I’m sorry. I’m fine too. Forgive me. There’s no problem.”

A long moment passed as Jean considered. Finally, she nodded, glaring at Hamid. “Fine. But not another word of nonsense from you.”

Hamid nodded quickly. “Of course.”

Only Takes One Idiot

“Alright. Now, I’ve been flying these things since y’all were learning to walk and chew gum at the same time. So trust me when I say: it only takes one jackass to kick a hole in a barn door. Don’t be that jackass.

Keep both feet planted, hands inside the basket. If you feel unsteady, sit. No leaning or climbing. You won’t like this next one, but keep your phones in your pockets. There are a lot of people down below. Phones go flying a lot faster than you think, and a falling phone could seriously hurt someone.

This is the burner. Do not touch it. Yes, it makes fire. No, you can’t try it. If you feel heat or hear the roar, that’s me doing my job—don’t panic.
See this red cord? That opens the top vent and lets hot air out. Also not yours to pull.

We’re tethered to three points. The ground crew will keep us stable, and we won’t go higher than seventy feet.

Last thing: this basket is small. Be polite. Keep your elbows in and your temper down. This is not the place to settle scores.”

Again, she narrowed her eyes at Hamid and Ali. “You good? Alright then. Let’s fly.”

Jean pulled on the burner cord. There was a whooshing sound as a tongue of flame shot up from the burner. The envelope – as the skin of the balloon was called – snapped full, and the balloon began to rise, nice and easy.

***

Part 2 will be published next week

 

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

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The post Hot Air: An Eid Story [Part 1] appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

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