Forwards and backwards

The students come to learn about and experience God’s creation in a simple way, and speech therapists and physiotherapists visit the centre to give the children the specialist help that they need.  It seemed a forward-thinking idea: these children are usually and sadly considered an embarrassment to Muslim society. And so I happily got involved. 

It was challenging to teach the syllabus to people who can’t talk. Whenever it was my ‘day’ to teach, Amaani (4) accompanied me. She enjoyed being able to get the answers all right: after all, the answer was usually ‘Allah’, or ‘One’.  Adam the Prayer Bear greeted them at the start of each session: children would squeeze his ear and he would respond to them with ‘Assalamu Alaikum’. Or they could squeeze his foot or his arm, it didn’t really matter - Adam would always respond amenably, first in Arabic and then in English. The Imam seemed to like him too. When it was time to talk about animals, Amaani and I came equipped with Prophet Noah’s ark (or at least, a toy version). Those who could talk, named the animals. Those who couldn’t, didn’t. They happily lined up the animal shapes, two by two, putting them into the ark through its various doors and windows, and whizzed them all out again at great speed.

But then the Imam and I started to clash. I knew none of the students could read their first language, English, in any direction. I therefore questioned the need for these students to learn to read Arabic – in its distinctive script and from right to left. The Imam was unequivocal: reading Arabic was Shariah (Islamic law). Yet I felt I had to disagree: I had understood that there weren’t any Islamic obligations on children- or adults-who don’t have full control of their mental faculties. The imam didn’t want to take any risks and declared that Arabic reading must form an integral part of the syllabus. 

The second issue was my particular choice of teaching aid for a topic on farm animals: a clearly contentious book entitled ‘Karen and the lost kitten’. The complex storyline involves a tiny finger puppet kitten encountering pictures of the different animals whilst looking for its mother. The children and adults took turns to reunite the kitten with its mother, and those who could talk moo-ed and neigh-ed as appropriate. I should have known puppets would be haram (forbidden): in fact, the Imam believed any eyes anywhere (except on live animals or people) were haram. I wasn’t sure why Adam the Prayer Bear was exempt though: perhaps he was just too cuddly. I was unceremoniously sacked. 

I took my services elsewhere, to my children’s school.  The school had been asking for someone to come and explain a little bit about Islam to the children; it was part of their diverse life skills curriculum. The children were all five years old and sat expectantly cross-legged on the floor.  It was a novel experience to talk with children who had absolutely no negative preconceptions about Islam. I asked them what a Muslim was. ‘Someone who’s kind,’ one boy shouted. ‘They help the poor,’ responded another. ‘They show respect,’ proffered a little girl, whom I knew had just learnt the word the previous week in class. ‘They pick up rubbish’, said a fourth child. I asked if anybody was Muslim, fairly sure that my son Asim (5) would be the only child to stand up. Asim remained firmly seated. Instead, a wide variety of children stood up, clearly wanting to identify with this impressive list of qualities. Of course it was possible that they were all Muslim, but I knew many of the parents and it did seem unlikely. Fortunately, the teachers didn’t seem to mind either way. Eventually Asim stirred, and promptly demonstrated a Muslim prayer to the rather surprised children.  

I showed the children the Quran. They looked visibly stunned that the back of the book was actually the front and it could then be read ‘backwards’. Asim got up and haltingly read a few letters of the alphabet from a beginner’s book. The others empathized: they were struggling to read themselves, and Asim was learning to read in two directions at once. ‘Wow!’ said one. ‘That’s amazing,’ contributed another. ‘The Muslims are crazy,’ declared a third. 

At the end, a girl enthused: ‘I just loved learning about Muddle.’ Perhaps she meant Mecca? Or Ramadan? Or Adam, a Sesame-Street style Muslim character who appeared on their television screen? I’m glad she liked it, whatever it was.

Are the Muslims crazy? We often seem to take one step forwards and two steps backwards. Or – maybe - we are simply muddled.

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