Khurrum Rahman: Our love turned us into pariahs but we never backed down
NB: Yet another example of how love is the basic human emotion that breaks all boundaries. This should make us think: why are (some) parents and the guardians of 'tradition' so invested in strangling love? What are they afraid of? Love represents selflessness and beauty to the lovers; but danger to the self-appointed proprietors of 'the community'. And even when they allow it, they demand conversion - why should love require religious conversion? Is not that a means of obtaining surrender; a banner of conquest? Why is it required at all? Did not the lovers fall in love despite their different religious (or caste, or national) backgrounds? We fall in love with a person, not a community.
It would seem that entire communities are more addicted to mutual suspicion and hatred than they are to the message of human love - which after all, was also created by the Almighty (if you believe in one). Humanity is sick. We prefer to remain sick because to acknowledge love implies an acceptance that our favourite communal stereotypes are fatally mistaken. If all Muslims are ogres, why did your child fall in love with one? If all non-Muslims are kaffirs, why did your child forget this whilst choosing to love a kaffir? And why should you want your son-in-law or daughter-in-law to change their religion? Was the person not a good human being when your child fell in love with her or him?
These love stories are tiny messages that can heal us - if we wish to be healed. My warm regards and best wishes to Rajinder and Khurram, and all others like them. DS
It would seem that entire communities are more addicted to mutual suspicion and hatred than they are to the message of human love - which after all, was also created by the Almighty (if you believe in one). Humanity is sick. We prefer to remain sick because to acknowledge love implies an acceptance that our favourite communal stereotypes are fatally mistaken. If all Muslims are ogres, why did your child fall in love with one? If all non-Muslims are kaffirs, why did your child forget this whilst choosing to love a kaffir? And why should you want your son-in-law or daughter-in-law to change their religion? Was the person not a good human being when your child fell in love with her or him?
These love stories are tiny messages that can heal us - if we wish to be healed. My warm regards and best wishes to Rajinder and Khurram, and all others like them. DS
When Khurrum Rahman, a Muslim, and
Rajinder, a Sikh, fell for each other at school, they became pariahs overnight.
But the disapproval, threats and even violence only served to cement a bond
that has lasted 24 years
The year was 1993. I was 17, and heading for the sixth form at a new school in Hounslow, west London. I wasn’t expecting it to change my life. Looking back, I struggle to remember a white face there. It was a sea of brown, where Muslim, Sikh and Hindu students mixed easily: it seemed a surprisingly harmonious environment. Beneath the surface, though, cultural tension lurked, particularly between the Muslims and the Sikhs. All I had to do was keep my head down and my mouth shut. I didn’t want any part in the school politics.
I remember the girls.
They all seemed to wear black leather jackets and black platform shoes and they
listened to R&B. Rajinder was different. She wore flowing flowery skirts
and a faded jean jacket with scuffed Dr
Martens boots and listened to Guns N’ Roses. I had
never met anyone like her. I was not one of those
cool types who could approach a girl and ask her out; my deep-seated fear of
rejection saw to that. However, peer pressure is a powerful thing. My friends,
her friends, hounded me until, at 12.40pm on 11 November, I was standing in
front of her, mumbling and stumbling my way through those six terrifying words.
“Will you go out with me?”
Word spread quickly. A
Muslim boy and a Sikh girl amid the cultural tension and confusion. First the
whispers started, then friends we held dear distanced themselves. Even some
teachers pulled us to one side to deliver a warning, masked as meaningful
advice. Wrapped up in each other, we shut it all out, brazenly walking through
the playground holding hands. We fell for each other quick and hard without a
thought of the impact we were having on our communities.
At the end of the school
day, we would go our separate ways. Rajinder would routinely be ignored on the
bus and I would walk the mile home with cars slowing to give me the eye. I was
being watched carefully. A few months in, the curtains on the veiled threats
were pulled back. It started with phone
calls. I would scramble to the landline in fear of my parents answering and
smile my way through the threats. The “older lot”, as they were affectionately
known, colourful characters about whom I had heard many gang-related stories,
came out of the woodwork and turned up at my house; let’s go for a walk. Rather
than having my parents find out about my relationship, I would agree readily.
On one occasion, I was
bundled into a phone box, a kitchen knife touching my skin, as half a dozen of
the older lot queued impatiently outside. On another memorable occasion, having
recently passed my driving test, I was driving my mum’s cherry red Nissan. My
rear windscreen exploded at a junction and people with furious faces, armed with
bats and bars, circled my car. I put my foot down and led them on a merry dance
around the back streets of Hounslow, losing them somewhere en route to the
police station.
I never blamed them. I
never doubted their intentions. In their own misguided way, they were trying to
protect one of theirs from one of us. Like a typical teenager, I thought I was
invincible. I never gave in to them. She meant too much to me. We continued in
the same vein, the threats and intimidation slowly dissolving as our opposers
found other battles to fight. Two years into our
relationship, we were walking aimlessly. Rajinder stopped at a bridal shop
window and pointed at the mannequin wearing a white bridal gown. “That’s what
I’ll wear,” she said, before pointing at the mannequin wearing a black tuxedo.
“And you can wear that.” We had never before talked about where our
relationship was heading, but that seemingly innocuous comment made us face
issues that we had long been avoiding. It was time our parents found out.
They would be unhappy.
We understood that. But it turned out to be so much more. We hadn’t realised
that the effects of our actions would take such an emotional toll on our
families. They had dreams for our future: plans, visions and hard-earned money
from relentless overtime set aside for a path that we would never take. My
father, a man of few words, was stoic. His silence articulated what words never
could. My mother, emotionally intelligent, searched desperately for a solution
that wasn’t there. Her father, immensely proud, watched all that he held dear
crumble around him. Her mother was strong, honourable and fiercely protective
of her family. Each was behaving in accordance with their beliefs and
ideologies as the criticism of our communities tightened around us.
It never felt like us
against them. It wasn’t as romantic a notion as that. We finally understood the
impact we were having on those closest to us. “Why can’t you be happy for us?”
was never going to cut it. We couldn’t blame them for their thinking, which was
embedded long before our existence and which they had hoped to pass on. We
never begrudged the way they felt. Simply, we had shattered their world.
There wasn’t any way
we could mend what we had caused. It was worse for her, I know it was, for the
sole reason that she was a girl. From all corners she was taunted and told in
no uncertain terms that she was being used. That I, a Muslim boy, would never
fully commit to a Sikh girl. But I did. We did. Rajinder and I married. It didn’t
change a thing. We achieved nothing other than proving a poor point. We needed
our families. We needed their acceptance. I can’t tell you
exactly what changed. I think time played its part. Something adjusted and our
tilted world straightened out. Over the years, a bond that had fractured was
slowly mended. Through commitment and never giving up on one another, our
families became part of our lives again.
Through it all, my
wife and I have never been apart, never considered the alternative. We have been
together for 24 years and married for 18. As I write this, she is next to me,
invading my space on the footstool and snacking noisily on masala
chai and low-fat crackers licked with Nutella. Upstairs, my beautiful
boys, six and one, sleep soundly. They celebrate Eid, Diwali, Christmas and
everything else in between. They lead a culturally enriched life – the best of
both wonderful worlds. Both sets of grandparents dote on them. As a result of
our marriage, there may be times where they face hardship, but we are raising
them to be strong-willed, open-minded and to question everything.
Tonight, we are
visiting my in-laws for dinner. Tomorrow, my parents are coming to ours for
Sunday lunch. They are now fully immersed in our lives. The phone calls are
frequent, the text messages often. Sometimes it gets too much. But we wouldn’t
have it any other way.
https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/dec/02/our-love-turned-us-into-pariahs-but-we-never-backed-downsee also
