MUSLIM MOTHER AS ARCHETYPE OF PROTECTION (1/3)

Walking into my classes of female Muslim learners (mostly Somali and Sudanese but also Yemeni, Bangladeshi, Pakistani, Syrian, Kurdish, Egyptian, Somaliland) was like walking into a massive hug.

There’s chatter, some of it’s earnest – a child has fallen sick, and elder has died, and some is playful – where did you get your bracelet? There’s laughter and teasing. Sometimes there are full-on whoops and belly-laughs as gossip gets traded under the cover of a mother tongue. A few learners arrive late in a storm of handbags and sparkly phone cases, others sidle in, flushed with remorse and entreaties for forgiveness. Others, quite randomly it seems because it’s not Eid today, have decided to bring pastries or sambosas and want to know where the microwave is.

Some learners wave me over imperiously the moment I enter. You must help me with the homework. I DO NOT understand any of it, one wails, waving her handouts in my face.

I didn’t know we had homework, another interrupts. Can I make you a tea? And I’m sorry, I have to leave early for an appointment today.

The flood gates have opened.

Can I leave my phone on – I’m waiting for a call from the housing office.

Samira says she’ll be late because she’s waiting for the boiler man.

My in-laws are visiting from Lahore so I couldn’t do my homework.

My daughter’s got a temperature. I’ve just come to pick up today’s worksheets.

They mock and tease and sigh and protest at each others’ excuses, fighting my corner for me.

All of life is here and I am very happy to be in its midst. I’m drawing on their goodness and their joy (joy from a group of woman who are mostly very poor, have been mocked and vilified in the press and on the streets outside this classroom, who live in a country in which they are mostly, not welcome.)

But nevertheless. The joy is there. It rolls and rumbles and shrieks around us.

And I’m drinking it in.