Worlds Apart (19 page)

I decided to reach out to Nabila, an old acquaintance I’d met at a company launch years back. We connected
straight away as her family were from Pakistan and Muslim, though she was Shi’ite and I Sunni.

She sounded pleased to hear from me and invited me to a Muslim women’s event in east London. I was ecstatic. This was just what I needed: to build my own community, as Mum had done at home.

A
strange, musty smell filled the air as I sat down and joined the girls in the small, dingy room, situated above a parade of shops in Bethnal Green. They were a mixed bag; Bollywood hair, boy haircuts and hijabs. I couldn’t figure out what united them, apart from religion, of course.

There were eleven of us; three committee members sat at the back, enveloped in headscarves. We took turns to go to the front and talk about our adventures.

The most interesting topic was about life as a lesbian in Pakistan. The girl who spoke about it wore heavy, black-rimmed glasses, dungarees and Dr Martens boots. She paced the front while she talked, fists punching the air. I wondered how her boy haircut went down with her family. She told us of her time in Pakistan with her girlfriend and how they almost got caught in the act at her grandmother’s house.

I felt a sense of belonging again. They were like a second family, like the one I’d had in the army. I was eager to get up there and tell my story. I envisaged surprise and respect for stepping into the army world, fascination about the double life I’d led with my family and pride about my patriotism for England.

But I was still bruised by my ordeal with the army. Liz was right: they break you down, mould you to their desire, chew you up and spit you out. I’d spent endless hours wondering where I would’ve been if I hadn’t joined.

Nabila too had her story: married to a Hindu and becoming an outcast. She was a slight lady with spellbinding hips that swung like a pendulum. Her striking features comprised of almond-shaped eyes, thick eyebrows and shiny black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. As always, she wore traditional clothing, regardless of the wintry weather; cotton shalwar kameez and flip-flops. She winked at me when it was my turn to go to the front.

I got a few encouraging smiles as I made my way to the front and gave my story about the army, portraying the positive aspects of my experience.

A hand went up.

Relieved by the interaction, I stopped to let her speak.

‘Which army?’ the girl asked.

I was confused by her question. Did she think I was in the Pakistani Army?

‘This one…’ I replied.

I waited for more hands to go up, glancing at Nabila, who began clapping. A few women followed suit which led me to finish and sit back down.

The evening ended with a trip to the local kebab shop, which was brightly lit with neon ceiling tubes. The men behind the counter wore tall paper hats, showing their teeth as we walked in. I could tell the place served good food because it was full of Asians. I was the first to order and took my shish kebab to a shiny plastic table that was nailed to the floor. I noticed the others taking their time at the counter and began eating slowly, wondering how I could get more involved. It felt like my teenage years all over again, trying to engage with the Pakistani girls in the community.

Nabila broke from the cluster and joined me.

‘So when’s the next meeting?’ I asked as she sat across from me.

Nabila looked down at the kebab in her hands. ‘Really sorry, Az … the committee leaders don’t want you here again.’

I looked over my shoulder, noticed that the others had taken another table, and tried to push the hurt away.

‘Why?’

‘Because you were in the army and supported the Iraq War…’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I wanted to go over and strangle each one of them but instead turned my anger onto Nabila. ‘Don’t you think they are supporting the war by living here … paying tax to fund it?’ I could hear my voice rising. ‘Why introduce me to these morons?’

Nabila flushed red but I didn’t care, I was hurting too. I stood up proudly and headed to the door without a backward glance, but deep down I was crushed. My friends had dwindled and I couldn’t afford to lose any more, but it was too late.

The evening ended with a phone call from Becky with the terrible news that John Sullivan, who had recently left the army to work for a private security firm, had been killed out in Iraq. It felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. A memory floated to the surface: John sat across from me at a table in a greasy spoon having a mug of tea. It was the last time I had seen him. He talked about loving the outdoors, which I imagined his girlfriend probably hated. Though I sympathised with John, my heart went out to his girlfriend. These blokes live and breathe the outdoors, away from the central heating, as John put it, then they disappear for months on end abroad on army
training. I take my hat off to every wife and partner of a soldier – I for one couldn’t do it.

‘When’s the funeral?’ I asked.

Becky gave me the details but said she couldn’t attend so I got names of people travelling down from London to Godstone in Surrey, where the funeral would be held.

The next few days were a wipe out. My stomach churned every time I thought of John, which was quite often. How could he be dead? He must be out there somewhere, putting up a tent. A part of me was trying to find excuses not to go to the funeral as I wasn’t looking forward to seeing those faces again from the barracks. I lay awake at night wanting to share the grief with someone but instead closed my eyes and did a special prayer for John.

On the day of the funeral I met a couple of lads at Paddington Station. We grabbed a table on a train heading to Godstone. The lads sat across from me yapping non-stop to each other about leaving the army to make more money. I wondered if John would still be alive if he hadn’t left the army. It’s tough enough for any soldier to adapt to the outside world, having been institutionalised for so many years in the military and not having to think about everyday civilian duties such as bills, travel expenses or food shopping. Add to that the contrast of entering a workplace that is not set up as robustly as
the military’s chain of command, management process and funding. The private security firms didn’t have the same backing as the government; if a soldier got shot, the government came down hard on the enemy, but if an ex-soldier got shot, the private security firm had no clout. This was why the enemy would rather kill an ex-soldier than a soldier, given the choice. The figures of soldiers dying did not therefore reflect those ex-soldiers who were killed working privately on assignments on behalf of the government. The MOD had handed out the contracts thick and fast to these firms and new start-ups. As a result, it had led to rapid expansion, jeopardising management infrastructure to support the men who were active in foreign countries on dangerous territory.

The church in Godstone was packed. I wedged myself between two burly men, their wives on either side holding their hands for support.

I spotted John’s mum coming in; a timid-looking lady. Her eyes were lifeless. Her cheeks hollow, skin red and lips cracked. What could anyone say to a woman who’d just lost her child? The confusion and anger she must be going through, I thought, especially knowing that her son was doing a dangerous job, must have been overwhelming.

They say the grieving cycle takes a month to get through, which is about the same as the forty days Muslims are given to formally mourn for the dead. After
today, the rest of us would go back to our normal lives, but for John’s parents the death of their son would leave a big hole in their hearts.

A few familiar faces dressed in dark suits and ties were amongst the crowd. My eyes skidded to Briggs. He still scared the hell out of me.

Then I looked over my shoulder and spotted my colonel sat at the back alone. I decided to go over afterwards to tell him what had happened with the training and how angry I was about it.

But then I suddenly realised how wrong I was. It would be easy for me to take this unwelcome news as a downward plunge and allow it to have a negative impact on my life, whereas as a result of all I had experienced and endured, I could successfully rebuild a new life. The army had taught me a lot; discipline, teamwork, connecting with people from all walks of life and, most importantly, I’d learnt a lot about myself.

I stared until I caught the colonel’s eye. We exchanged a smile then I turned back as the service began. Tears streamed down my face. I sniffed loudly. It didn’t matter because the sound of the organ drowned out the noise. Regret kicked in. I should have stayed with Becky after that weapons class, during which we got kicked out, and challenged the decision. I should have asked questions even if I might have been given no answers.

I wanted to know why the training was initiated in the first place, why it had stopped, and where we would be now if the training had continued.

My thoughts raised other poignant points. Would the bar be lowered for women on the frontline? How differently would feminist groups, who perceive the army as an old-fashioned, sexist establishment, react? Would British Muslim communities be curious to know how I was received in the army and why I did the training?

All positive initiatives, such as this had been, demonstrated a big leap forward by the British Army on religion, ethnicity, gender and international liaison. Moulds were broken and mindsets changed.

I stood on my tiptoes and spotted John’s parents in the front row of the church. No parent expects their child to go before them. How do atheists cope with death? I wondered. Do they believe their loved ones just deteriorate in the soil, that there is no afterlife or chance of ever seeing them again?

A women holding a child around her waist joined them. I stared at the child, trying to find some resemblance to John. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to grow up without a father. I appreciated the stability that two parents provide and wondered if I would have turned out different if I’d been brought up by single parent.

The man beside me offered me a Kleenex mini-pack. I looked up into his puffy, red eyes and started crying again, uncontrollably, putting my head on his clean blazer arm and sniffling into it. He didn’t mind. I didn’t care.

The ceremony finished and I wanted to find my colonel. There was so much to ask. Gently I weaved through the people as everyone headed out to the burial. The colonel was a very tall man so he shouldn’t be hard to spot, I thought. I stayed behind for one final scan, but with no success.

Gutted, I followed two lads out. They were discussing the family decision not to have a military funeral. John’s father didn’t want to have anything associated with the military as part of his son’s funeral, though a few of the men had tried to persuade him otherwise. I could see where the father was coming from: this was about his son, not the military.

I stepped forward to join the queue of people shaping up to pay their final respects. The coffin was lowered into the ground. I shuffled forward, scanning the close vicinity for familiar faces.

A lad holding a sandy beret walked to the head of the coffin, bent down and bowed, then dropped the beret inside.

I looked away, hoping there wasn’t a big drama. They
may oppose the father’s wishes, I thought, but they had to respect them.

It was my turn. I walked over and knelt down, staring into the six-foot-deep hole. The beret had now slipped down the side of the coffin. The shape of the box made my stomach lurch. I couldn’t believe John was lying inside about to be covered with dirt. I couldn’t think of anything to say, stood up, blinked my tears and walk away.

Later we all crammed into a coach which took us to a community hall. I didn’t recognise anyone on the top deck. It reminded me of the minibus that used to take us to the Brecon Beacons, except these guys were wearing suits. I wish I had left when the colonel did, as I couldn’t see much conversation going on between me and this lot and I would probably end up standing on my own like a lemon.

The community hall was crowded and it felt like more people had joined. I walked through small clusters of people chatting amongst themselves, not sure where I was going. A few looked in my direction, then looked away.

No familiar faces, then suddenly I caught a woman’s eye. It took a few seconds, then it came back. She was an officer, on female selection; one who’d left on week three.

She stood amongst a few men from our unit, chatting away. I became self-conscious and intimidated because she was with people and I was on my own.

I headed over and she smiled as I approached her side.

‘Hello,’ I said, relieved that she recognised me. I tried to sound casual but it came out serious and loud.

‘Is Becky with you?’ she asked.

Why did everyone think we were joined at the hip? I recalled Captain Wood nicknaming us ‘Tweedle Dee’ and ‘Tweedle Dum’.

‘I’m trying to find John’s parents.’

‘Over there somewhere.’ She pointed across the hall at a partition wall where a small crowd were walking slowly around, looking at photographs that had been pinned up.

I didn’t want to see any photos of John – too painful.

‘So what are you and Becky up to now?’

I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea what Becky was doing, though I had heard through the grapevine that she was becoming a successful motivational speaker, rubbing shoulders with television producers.

I felt like a failure; to have not seen something through to the end was something my father would never allow.

The woman was still looking at me, sipping her wine, lips curled up. I felt embarrassed. I wanted to leave, but first I had to find John’s parents.

‘Excuse me.’ I pushed through the crowds as politely
as possible, making a beeline for the photo wall. A few familiar faces watched me with poker faces. I’d ignored them.

As I approached the photo wall, I found it hard to stop the flow of tears as John smiled back at me. Memories of the training came flooding back, all the good ones of John and I sharing moments together. I wished I’d spent more time with him and regretted the times I’d ignored his requests to engage.