Home sweet home?

As soon as we boarded the plane to London, the sheer quantity of negative newspaper articles about Muslims hit me. Fortunately, the children were all too busy inspecting the aeroplane kiddie gift bags to notice the screaming headlines of planned beheadings and the incongruous photo of a woman in niqab making a ‘v’ sign. I am sure they would have been gruesomely fascinated, if a little perplexed.

When we landed, life resumed a reassuring normality. We were in England as the snow fell and the country seized to a halt, as it always does. The children happily played in the 5cm of snow with their cousins, oblivious of the total chaos the snow had brought to both economy and society. I think all of us appreciated being accepted by our friends and family for who we are without having to be on our best behaviour all the time – exhausting for adults, let alone children. But conversely, when in public. being an ‘obvious’ Muslim, I felt under unspoken pressure to regulate the children’s natural exuberance - although I clearly didn’t succeed, as even the passport control officer asked us ironically: ‘Have they always been this shy? It was wonderful to see old faces again in our hometown: Safiyya particularly appreciated being treated like a hero at her former primary school when she popped in for the afternoon – I have never before seen her so excited about attending school (and probably never will again). And the children adapted easily to once again having a large variety of food available, imported from around the world –I noticed the South African apples for sale, although of course only the high-quality blemish-free ones are offered to the discerning (fussy?) British market.

We then attempted to go to France, to see the children’s Nonna who was in the mountains in rather more than 5cm of snow. I say ‘attempted’ as my husband lost his passport somewhere between checking in and arriving in France. Both of us are pretty aware of the security situation, especially involving young(ish!) Muslim bearded men. The French customs official in Geneva remained friendly but categorical that my husband would be denied entry. He was sent on to the immigration desk, and then a policeman arrived on the scene. Asim was enthralled: ‘The Policeman is going to take Daddy to jail’, he said excitedly, with not a hint of sadness, and added: ‘and I do like his gun’. Much to Asim’s disappointment, Daddy reappeared after 45 minutes, with no prison sentence and unscathed by the experience. Then there was a breakthrough: he was informed his passport had been found and was travelling independently on the next flight. So the three children and I headed through passport control, realising that the noise levels that seemed to surround us everywhere we went were not conducive to a peaceful resolution of the issue, and left Daddy to manage all on his own. And he emerged just 20 minutes later, having been happily reunited with his British passport. We both felt there are not many countries where you could rely on the integrity of a stream of people to convey such an important document quickly, efficiently and without any individual requesting any extra money – we felt quite proud to be British!

Once in the mountains, we ensured there was little sign of ‘visible separation’ that British politicians seem so concerned about: all hijabs and beards firmly hidden under a plethora of hats and scarves. It was slightly disconcerting that amongst all the paraphernalia we were carrying, I lost another key item, a particularly warm and furry hat, with a rather strange French brand-name: ‘Mad Bomber’. When we went back after just a few minutes to retrieve it from where I knew I had dropped it, we found that a snowplough had shovelled it up into one of the many massive heaps of snow. No doubt it will be hailed as evidence of some ‘Al Qaida’ plot in 20 years time when all the snow has melted due to global warming. But in the meantime, digging for the hat was a great –and free- outdoors activity that occupied the children for many hours at a stretch.

It was a strange feeling to be returning back to South Africa. The captain of the aeroplane was very upbeat about it. After welcoming business people and holidaymakers to the sunny city of Johannesburg, he added: ‘And to all those of you lucky enough to live here, welcome home.’ I wonder why the captains don’t ever tell us how lucky we are when we return home to England from overseas. But the children find being up in the sky is far more exciting than landing and living in any one country anyway: after all, you might get a free kiddie gift bag.

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