The Invisible Muslim by Whiteman Medina Tenour; & Medina

Author:Whiteman, Medina Tenour; & Medina
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: C. Hurst and Company (Publishers) Limited
Published: 2020-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

7

THE STRANGERS, AT HOME

MUSLIM AND BRITISH IN THE UK

THERE IS A CAVE IN Willesden Green, North London. Between the heap of shoes at the doorway and the technicolour kufic Arabic wall hanging at the far end is a world outside of space and time. On its blue walls is emblazoned the Rumi verse, ‘Your heart is the size of an ocean: Go find yourself in its hidden depths.’ A smorgasbord of Muslims with origins as disparate as Jamaica, Somalia, Nigeria, Morocco, Iraq, Pakistan, and Elephant and Castle roll up to attend jumu’ah prayers and talks on spirituality, the ninety-nine names of Allah, and marriage, imparted by the Sudanese Sufi Sheikh Babikir. Rumi’s Cave also hosts art events, workshops, craft fairs, iftars in Ramadan and afternoon teas. The outreach project of the charity Ulfa Aid, it has a sister project, Rumi’s Kitchen, which offers free food for the homeless and needy.

The first time I visited Rumi’s Cave, it was packed to the rafters with people squashed together for an Eid celebration. A familiar face from Spain smiled at me from the other end of the room. My heart started racing as my eyes roved around the congregation—at last, here was my tribe! A gloriously multicoloured band of seekers, people of my own generation as well as those older and younger. Peppering their chats with alhamdulillahs and mashallahs, references to hip-hop or hadiths. Weaving their way to this luminous hub and taking a bit of its glow back into the city, like camels carrying water from the oasis for the long, parched journey ahead.

There was an open mic night coming up. I hadn’t performed music for years, jaded after nights singing to drinkers who weren’t there to have their thoughts provoked, and wary of the emotional crash that happens after the applause fades. Besides, a female Muslim solo singer and guitarist doesn’t usually go down well with more conservative Muslims, so finding Muslim-friendly venues to play in is virtually impossible. But at Rumi’s, I sang a few of my songs and was reminded of how performing makes me feel so present. This was my kind of audience, one that listened in cross-legged silence to my carefully crafted lyrics, that knew I wasn’t singing out of longing for Dave up the road who broke my heart, but for the Divine.

I had never experienced such a feeling of unity—of belonging—in the UK, even though this was the country where I grew up and should therefore have felt most at home. This was a family whose closeness wasn’t genetic, connected instead by threads woven sideways by heart wefts. The sheikh gave his khutbah (talk or sermon) sitting on the carpet, even kissed my little son’s hand when we came in, effusively welcoming everyone without any of the unease about gender mixing that so often accompanies Muslim gatherings. One evening a few of us had a jam session, a marvellous medley of freestyle grime, dancehall patois, R’n’B vocals and acoustic guitar. At one point I got up just to bounce up and down the carpeted room in glee.

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