Mushrooms after Warm Autumn Rain
By William Barylo.
When I became homeless in 2015, I didn’t worry much, thinking: ‘Surely, the Ummah will have my back.’ How wrong I was!
I came to the UK in 2013 and got quickly immersed in the universe of ISOCs and humanitarian charities which, along with any mosque I would go to, would preach on repeat: ‘The Ummah is like one body!’ Everywhere I went, the Muslim community was presented to me as a paragon of cross-cultural solidarity, a home away from home. ‘As long as you’re Muslim, you’ll never be left alone. Muslims will be here for you because we’re all brothers and sisters.’
And that was true in France, where I became Muslim in 2008. Solidarity didn’t stop after the hugs at the mosque. If you were struggling for money, you could ask the uncle managing the kebab shop around the corner and surely – by virtue of your shared faith – he would give you a part-time role in his kitchen. This was how it worked, regardless of whether you were West or North African, South Asian, White, Black or like me, Polish.
In 2015, when the charity I was working with ran out of funds and, on the same day, my landlord raised the rent of my Harlesden room from £500 to £700 per month – which I couldn’t afford, having no job nor money to spare – I didn’t worry too much. I was on the way to finishing my PhD in Sociology and with a decent amount of work experience in admin and research roles, I thought: ‘Surely, I’ll be able to find another role with another Muslim charity.’ I started applying and reaching out to friends, all while couch surfing.
Little did I know that my origins would pose a problem in a country – England - which, in 2015, was one year short of voting to exit Europe on the back of a smear campaign against legal and qualified Eastern European migrants. I couldn’t have previously imagined that this sentiment would have appeared among my beloved Muslim ‘community’.
‘We would hire him, but he’s got the wrong passport.’ ‘His beard is too long’ (I had a goatee at the time). ‘He prays five times a day, that’s too intense.’ ‘He’s too quiet.’ ‘He’s got the wrong parents.’ ‘He’s the wrong kind of doctor.’ ‘He’s like those dodgy immigrants who build you a shoddy driveway and run away with the money.’
These are the comments I received from some major players in the Muslim charity sector, (also echoed by potential marriage partners of my age.) Soon enough and short on time, I resigned myself to my situation, visited Shepherd’s Bush market and bought the biggest bag I could find. Into it, I packed my whole life and would eventually squat in an abandoned house in South London for two years. It took me years to accept and understand the dissonance between what was preached in mosques, ISOCs and charities and the realities of being this eternally ‘New Muslim’ – a strange being who doesn’t tick the right boxes for anyone.
During those two years, however, my lifeline was a small community hub called Rumi’s Cave. Not a mosque, not a café, not a home and not a workplace (but perhaps all of these). It is one of the very few hybrid spaces that would welcome people from all walks of life, cultures and beliefs. This is where I made my most solid friendships to date and eventually found the person who would become my wife. Fast forward to summer 2017, now married, with a job and a roof above my head – outside of London - I was still in search of community.
The past 10 years in the UK have felt like walking across an arid desert where nothing grows. The most wonderful people and initiatives I’ve come across were often those struggling the most with resources and support. While Islamophobia has pressured many in the Muslim diaspora to prove themselves as valid citizens through economic success, modern individualism has thrown many into a soulless race for money, fame and power. However, the culture of sharing and holding space for others is not dead. We may still find oases in the social desert, like the Cambridge Crescent.
With the construction of the Cambridge Eco Mosque, I got involved in a professional capacity and my work trips became an excuse for me and my wife to take the car to Cambridge. Until one day, we stumbled upon the Cambridge Crescent Whatsapp group and attended some events including iftars. For the first time in years, I felt I could just be myself and meet other people who have been through similar struggles. It’s a joy to see people from various walks of life and cultures in one space, couples with their kids as well as elders. Our network of friends has grown like mushrooms after warm autumn rain, to the point that we’ve started seriously contemplating a move to Cambridge. I don’t want to romanticise it and say it’s the ‘village’ I was looking for all along – but it comes close. And there must surely be some truth in what everyone says in the North and South of the country, that, as unexplainable as it may seem, ‘there is baraka in Cambridge.’
