We sent each other excited text messages and calls that evening, congratulating ourselves on our efforts. The MCB congratulated London's bid leader, former Olympic champion Sebastian (Lord) Coe, London Mayor Ken Livingstone and the entire bid team for their historic achievement. 'I send my warmest congratulations to you and every member of the London 2012 team for winning the bid for the UK,' the Queen told Lord Coe.
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Thursday, 7 July 2005
My routine began pretty much the same way every day: Wake up early, do my Fajr (pre-sunrise) prayer, a bit of short exercise, eat breakfast, spend some time with the kids before school and college, then kiss my wife and head off into the East End of London. This day was no different and the morning air was hazy and warm as the rush-hour traffic inched slowly forward. Once I had finally reached the borough of Tower Hamlets, I drove through familiar streets – streets which had once rang to Yiddish calls, and before that to the dialects of Kerry and Donegal – a place which was my 'home from home' when I first settled in the UK.
Tower Hamlets and the East End are a million things to a million different people – 'the Awful East', as Jack London called it – a ghetto beloved of writers, complete with Cockneys who still loved their pie and mash, but also homeless beggars, drug addicts and prostitutes. Yet it was also home to tens of thousands of Bangladeshis, my countrymen and women. As the situation in war-torn Somalia was turning from bad to worse, many Somalis had also made the long journey to the UK and now made Tower Hamlets their home. Soon they were being joined by those from other European countries also attracted to our country: Polish plumbers, Latvian builders, Estonian and Russian IT contractors, and more. The continuous wave of new immigrants and their transient presence – sooner or later they moved on to other parts of London – had been the defining feature in this part of the city for centuries. Nowadays, these new people and the white working-class Cockneys jostled with the City wealth and yuppies that were now crowding in.
Passing through this landscape, I was a roving special needs teacher engaged in behavioural support throughout the borough's inner city schools; a slim figure, middle-aged, often dressed in a suit (which had seen better days), my greying hair dyed to its once-natural brown. Some of the pupils I dealt with were in gangs and came from problem families: boys who had lost fathers, mothers who had lost husbands to addiction, or with other wives 'back home'. They were bright kids who just needed a bit of time to get on their feet – before drugs or prison got hold of them. Today, with the news of the Olympics and optimism charging the air, perhaps that world was now going to change. Even the dust-filled classrooms of the crumbling Victorian school where I was teaching couldn't hide the hope we all suddenly felt. I was still light-headed as I made my way to Tower Hamlets' Special Educational Needs department. It was housed in a rather dilapidated three-storey building near Queen Mary University, but was widely regarded as one of the top such units in the country.
At 10.00am my phone chirped and I looked at the text message on the screen, which was from a close friend. I had to read and re-read it again, willing the words to focus. I stood up and read it a third time: 'News about a few explosions/ collisions in the London Underground, British Transport Police has shut down the entire Underground system.' I was confused. Collisions on the Tube ...? But why more than one? The thought flashed through the back of my mind – not a terrorist attack, surely? But who ...? Without warning, I had a flashback to the afternoon panic at my office nearly four years before; 11 September 2001 was etched into our collective memory. Those attacks had changed the world forever, particularly for Muslims: two Muslim countries were now under US occupation and Muslims in the West had been put under increasing scrutiny. I looked over at my colleague, blankly; she was as puzzled as I was, clearly having seen or heard something too. Before she opened her mouth I read her the text message in a dry monotone. She shot bolt upright and yelled, 'Oh My God!' I flinched, startled, as others looked from across the room. The news began to spread quickly across all floors.
I called home to check that my daughter, Rima, and son, Raiyan, were still there: they were undergraduates and might be up for lectures or still sleeping – I wasn't sure. I was relieved to hear Rima's voice, telling me she had the day off and Raiyan would go into the university in the afternoon. My wife, Sayeda, was working in a local nursery and my other two children were at school, so the family was safe. Sayeda gasped and stifled a scream when I called and told her about the explosions.
I then quickly phoned the executive director of the East London Mosque, Dilowar Khan, in Whitechapel to find out if he knew anything. I was the mosque's Honorary Chairman and had been there when Prince Charles and a Saudi prince visited together in November 2001. In fact, although I was from a different part of Bangladesh than most East End Bangladeshis (who usually hailed from Greater Sylhet) and didn't live in the area, I had adopted the community and they me for many years: during my PhD in the mid-1980s, I had volunteered to teach some young community members science and mathematics; they were now becoming the community's elders. Dilowar's number was busy, so I left a message.
I was walking back to my desk when the phone chirped again: Dilowar was on the other end. He was well-liked in the community, a man who until recently had lived in the same council house for over twenty years, a stocky, kind figure who was familiar to everyone around. He told me breathlessly that there had been an explosion near Aldgate tube station. This was grim news: Aldgate was less than half a mile from the mosque. I told him to get in touch with the local police and other key people in the community. He asked me whether I could get down to the mosque – quickly.
By now there was clear panic in our office. I headed downstairs to Liz Vickerie, our manager and director, and asked if she had heard the news and whether she had any briefing for us. She was famously calm, but right now you could see she was battling fear; she fixed a smile and said she had just heard the news and was discussing the situation with other managers. With a dry voice I asked whether I could visit my mosque. She knew about my role in the big Muslim religious centre nearby but asked whether I could wait – she needed further instructions. I ran back upstairs and tried, without success, to work; the texts and calls kept coming in. Finally Liz called and told me I was free to go.
Sirens and smoke filled the air and the roads were full of confusion; people were standing around and talking, looking furtively at each other, as if to guess whether their neighbour was somehow involved in this chaos. It was not far off noon by the time I reached the East London Mosque. Dilowar was in the London Muslim Centre, the huge glass and steel community complex that loomed over the mosque next door. When we had opened it, on 11 June the previous year, thousands had carpeted the roads outside, praying. With Dilowar was Alan Green, an unshakeable, balding vicar who was head of the Tower Hamlets Inter Faith Forum. Other senior community leaders were crowding around them, anxiety and concern growing as they shuffled nervously. I'd never seen them like this; I guessed my own face probably reflected theirs.
There had been four explosions now and the collision theory had gone out of the window; London was under attack. Three bombs had exploded on the Underground and one on a bus in Tavistock Square, close to the headquarters of the British Medical Association. Explosions had taken place on underground lines between Liverpool Street and Aldgate; King's Cross and Russell Square; and at Edgware Road tube station. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir Ian Blair, confirmed that these were coordinated 'terrorist attacks'. The number of casualties was not yet known. The phrase 'terrorist attack' was very startling. Who would do this and why?
Dilowar took me through to the Centre's foyer, where a number of walking wounded were sitting or standing with shocked, dazed looks. They were visibly traumatized: ashenfaced, soot or burn marks on their clothes; faces, heads and hands often streaked with blood. Volunteers were talking to them, calming them, giving them tea,