Worlds Apart Read Free

kids do it when they were in trouble, but that didn’t stop my heart from pounding.
    ‘You know why you are getting this,’ the imam would say. Then he would tap the end of the cane in the centre of my palm to ensure a good shot, then raise it to the ceiling and strike down, full force.
    The first strike of the cane set my skin on fire. Tears streamed down my face but no sound came out of my mouth, as it would only earn me an extra one. The second strike numbed me. Every kid in the room was staring at me; some smirking, some trying to look sorry, and some amazed at my stupidity. The pain and broken skin would soon go away but the humiliation stayed. I couldn’t tell anyone at home; challenging an imam’s actions was unheard of, especially in my mum’s world.
    To make matters more challenging, we had to learn the Koran in Arabic, the holy language, which meant we didn’t understand the words. I couldn’t understand the logic behind why it was done this way. I would get through it much faster if it were translated in English – and there was the added benefit that I would understand what I was reading.
    I wanted to leave but there was no shortcut. My parents wouldn’t allow me to leave until I finished reading the whole Koran in Arabic.
    ‘You are not a full Muslim until it’s completed,’ Mum’s blanket expression would be.
    ‘What was that supposed to mean?’ I wanted to retort. ‘I don’t understand what a Muslim is because I don’t understand what I’m reading!’
    The months dragged, the girls in my group moved on to join the bigger girls and receive a copy of the Koran, while I still stayed at the beginners’ area struggling with the alphabet booklet.
    My daily routine started well in the mornings with school, which I enjoyed, but by 3 p.m. my heart palpitations kicked in and I started to dread the evening at mosque. I would get home from primary school, eat a butter sandwich Mum had made from the scarce ingredients in the fridge, grab my scarf and booklet and off I’d go.
    I couldn’t speak to my siblings about it, especially my sister. She was ten and the golden girl, recently awarded a prayer mat by the imam at the same mosque for winning a religious competition. Mum was cooing to everyone about it and, to my dismay, this created a benchmark for me.
    I despised my sister’s intelligence, religious articulationand all the attention she got from Dad because of the good school reports she was getting. The older we got, the more she blossomed, while I remained small, dark and skinny, which was regarded as unattractive in the Pakistani community. I was sick of being in her shadow, but had a feeling this was just the start.
    My brothers were teenagers by now and occasionally took me out to play. It pleased Mum no end that they showed an interest in their little sister and encouraged me to get some fresh air.
    They’d park their home-made go-kart at the top of a big hill and put me inside, then give it a big push. Mouth open, eyes bulging, I flew down. As the cold wind hit my face, I screamed the Lord’s Prayer recited at school assembly, which then morphed into a couple of letters of the Arabic alphabet: ‘Our father in heaven … lead us not into temptation … Bismillah … Allaaaaaaah Wakhbar!’
    Somehow I’d survive, after I’d hit a bollard and went crashing at an angle.
    Another game my brothers played with me was called ‘bundling me up in a sleeping bag’, which was usually played when Mum and Dad were out. At first, I used to panic in the dark confined space, as the air became thin and I was unable to breathe. The smell of cheesy feet and my voice echoing in my earsbecame all too much. However, over time, I learnt to remain calm, take only snippets of air until one of my brothers untied the knot and allowed my lungs to fill up with oxygen. Soon I got sick of them and wanted to play on my own.
    The caning at the mosque was getting me down. It became a regular occurrence, not giving my