‘You stupid boy!’ he shouted.
The boy’s eyes were wide with terror. I gasped as the teacher raised his hand high above his head.
‘No, please don’t!’ the lad pleaded. He cringed and raised his arms protectively.
I winced and shut my eyes as the imam brought his hand down hard, giving the boy’s head a vicious swipe. The slapping sound made my stomach somersault with fear.
The boy cried out in pain, and when I opened my eyes he was spread-eagled on the floor.
‘Sit up!’ the imam barked loudly.
The poor lad tried to pull himself back up but he wasn’t quick enough. The imam brought his hand down again, this time on the boy’s back. He yelped in pain, like a puppy that had just been stepped on.
I looked over at the other boys, at my brothers, and waited for someone to say something, but no one did. Instead they all kept their eyes down, pretending to read their prayer books.
I wished I was brave enough to grab the imam’s hand and try to stop him, but he was a stocky, scary-looking man and I wouldn’t have dared. Instead, I sat there like a coward, with all the other children, and I stared hard at my prayer book. My hands were shaking so much that the book trembled and I was scared that if the imam saw them he would start on me.
‘Don’t look, Nabila. Just keep your eyes down,’ I told myself.
But I couldn’t help looking up at the boy, who had now pulled himself into sitting position. He was clutching his back and had tears in his eyes.
‘Now read!’ the imam instructed, pointing towards the boy’s prayer book.
The boy nodded and pretended to read, but there were tears rolling down his cheeks. I could see them dripping onto the pages and I was shocked because I’d never seen a boy cry before. My brothers would argue and fight but they never cried; crying was for girls. I felt embarrassed and sorry for this boy. I wanted to go over and see if he was okay but I didn’t dare move. Like the others, I was frozen to the spot.
On the way home that night, I asked my brothers about the boy.
‘The imam beats him all the time,’ Habib told me. ‘He’s slow. He gets things wrong and it makes the imam angry. And when he gets angry, he beats you.’
I saw an entirely different side to that imam who had been so nice to me on my first day.
‘Don’t worry, he won’t beat you,’ Saeed continued. ‘He never hits girls.’
I breathed a sigh of relief. That was something at least.
‘Have any of you been beaten?’ I asked.
They all laughed as if sharing a special joke between them.
‘Yes,’ Habib replied, ‘we’ve all been hit by the imam. But usually he just gives you a quick slap around the back of the head. That’s why you must be good, Nabila. If you’re not good you will be punished.’
I was terrified and decided that going to the mosque was even worse than going to see the headmaster at school; at least he didn’t hit you.
‘What do people’s parents say?’ I asked.
Habib stopped in his tracks and turned to me. ‘That’s the whole point, don’t you see? They send us here to learn. If you don’t learn, you get punished. If you are punished then they think it’s for your own good. Everyone has to do what the imam says. All Muslims do. It’s just how it is.’
‘But it’s wrong,’ I insisted. Mum sometimes slapped the boys round the back of the head but they were just little slaps. She wouldn’t hit them hard enough to knock them over. If she was really cross she’d slap me on the back of the legs, but she wasn’t as strict with me as with the boys so that didn’t happen very often.
Habib nodded his head. ‘Maybe, but the imam is powerful. Everyone’s frightened of him, even the parents. You must always do what he tells you.’
After that, I saw more and more beatings. Boys were pushed, shoved, scolded and slapped for not learning their prayers or just for getting them wrong. Thankfully, that particular imam didn’t stay long. He left and over the next couple of months our classes were taken by lots of different imams. You never knew who would be waiting to greet you with the customary handshake when you arrived at the mosque. Maybe it’s because it wasn’t a very smart or prestigious mosque but they couldn’t seem to find anyone who would take over on a permanent basis. At least the replacements weren’t violent like that first one, but still I worried each time we got a new one in case he would be rough.
The novelty of going there soon wore off and it became somewhere to fear rather than enjoy. It didn’t seem fair that after the school bell rang and all the other children were going home for a relaxing evening we had to go on to yet another, tougher school.
When I’d been there for a couple of months Habib and Saeed stopped going altogether. Habib had come to the end of his studies, while Saeed just made up his mind that he’d had enough. He’d always been a rebel and when he turned fourteen he decided he didn’t have time for this nonsense any more. I was sure he’d get into trouble but my parents knew they couldn’t force him to do anything he didn’t want to do, so nothing more was said.
Now I walked to the mosque with Tariq and Asif, but before long an incident occurred that meant Tariq had to leave as well.
One evening he was caught talking when he should have been reading his prayer book. He was still so busy chatting that he didn’t even see the imam approaching silently from behind. The slapping sound as the imam whacked Tariq across the head was so loud that it echoed around the room and made everyone look up from their prayer books. Tariq reeled forwards, almost hitting the wooden floor. I gasped because I knew Tariq. He was tough and fearless and I was sure he’d fight back.
The imam stood there waiting for my brother to cower and apologise, but he didn’t. Instead, Tariq got to his feet and squared up to the bully. The teacher was stunned. Tariq was tall for his age and had the build of a man. He refused to move but just stood there, looking the holy man defiantly in the eye. No one pushed Tariq around.
The children sat open-mouthed as they watched events unfold in front of them. They’d never seen a child standing up to an imam before!
Suddenly, the imam lurched forwards and slapped Tariq again. The slap was hard and was meant to make him sit down, but Tariq hit back with a punch that caused our teacher to fall to the ground, where he landed in a shocked and dishevelled heap.
The imam struggled to his feet and glared at Tariq, demanding that he sit down. Again, Tariq refused. He was furious, and I knew from past experience that he would fight to the bitter end if he had to.
The teacher glanced at my brother and then back at the rest of us. We quickly lowered our heads, pretending to read, because we didn’t want to be next. The imam knew he’d been shamed in front of us all by a young boy. Tariq was only twelve years old but he was stronger than the imam and the man realised he was beaten. He pointed weakly towards the door and told my brother to leave. Suddenly, our teacher looked very old and pathetic. He looked like the school bully who’d just been beaten up by a new and stronger boy. That boy was my brave brother. My heart swelled with pride.
Tariq shot the imam one last look of disgust before grabbing his shoes and slamming the mosque door behind him. He’d had enough of the beatings. He left that day and never came back again.
I thought the imam might call my parents to tell them what Tariq had done, but he didn’t. Maybe he was embarrassed to have to admit he was beaten by him.
I missed Tariq at the mosque because, of all my brothers, he was my protector, the one who made me feel safe. With him around no one would mess with me, but now that he wasn’t there I felt more vulnerable. I still had Asif, of course, but I wondered how long it would be before he grew tired of this horrible place. I had already grown to hate the mosque;