the contribution of expatriate Bangladeshi professionals and improve the educational and socio-economic conditions of the Bangladeshi community in Britain, and in other European countries. For me, it was an ambitious collective effort to add what we had already been informally doing in the East End on a very limited scale since 1983 (with the mosque's more talented youth members).
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In the summer of 1989, during Rima's school holiday, Sayeda and I decided to perform Hajj (the main Muslim pilgrimage to Makkah). We were both excited with the thought that we would be God's guests. Every able-bodied and financially solvent Muslim needs to undertake this spiritual as well as physical journey once in his or her life, to fulfil religious obligations and also to use the time in the holy places for deep personal reflection and introspection. In our case, the main stumbling block was where to leave our two young children, Rima and Raiyan, for two weeks. There were a few offers from close friends, but eventually we were assured by one nearby, and with full reliance on God we left the children in their house and took a flight from Heathrow.
Hajj, the fifth pillar of Islam, is the largest yearly human gathering for a divine purpose on Earth. It is the collective human expression of the Oneness of God, tawhid. It is also a manifestation of unity among believers; a physical, emotional, mental and spiritual journey by believers passionate and devoted to retrace some of the rituals of Prophet Ibrahim (or Abraham) and his wife Hagar. It is for those lovers of God who are in need of His closeness and acceptance. With the allwhite, two-piece unstitched simple attire for men, Ihram, it brings pilgrims to the same level of equality and demolishes human artificiality and arrogance. Once pilgrims are in the holy precinct, in the midst of a sea of human beings of different colours, cultures and languages, they feel spiritually and emotionally uplifted and overwhelmed – no matter what their background is or where they come from. The few days in Makkah, Mina, Arafah and Muzdalifah are etched into pilgrims' minds and hearts. They have the opportunity to immerse themselves in the intense and irresistible love of God and levitate on His limitless mercy, forget their transient existence on Earth and to make a change for good.
From hard-core sinners to the elevated pious, if one comes to Hajj with pure intentions then the experience is similar. The African-American Muslim minister and human rights activist, Malcolm X, was one such pilgrim who wrote from Makkah about his own feelings during pilgrimage:
Never have I witnessed such sincere hospitality and overwhelming spirit of true brotherhood as is practiced by people of all colors and races here in this ancient Holy Land, the home of Abraham, Muhammad and all the other Prophets of the Holy Scriptures. For the past week, I have been utterly speechless and spellbound by the graciousness I see displayed all around me by people of all colors.1
It was unusually hot in Makkah that summer, with temperatures rising as high as 48°C. The scorching sun above the clear skies made the hot air stifling and the pavements were difficult to walk on with sandals. But the feeling of closeness to God in the precinct of the Kaaba (house of God) gave us a spiritual lift that words could not express. The sight of the Kaaba itself with my own eyes was pure joy and literally made me forget the world outside. It was an exceptional reminder of the willing submission and sacrifices that Ibrahim (Abraham), his wife and son made for God 4,000 years ago. Hajj is a journey towards God, and this global assembly of humanity brings believers of all backgrounds into one place, to purify them and cleanse them from the garbage of our base desires in life. Alas, once they return to their normal life the spirit and message of Hajj are soon forgotten by many Muslims. Sayeda and I prayed for goodness for ourselves, our children and parents, families, community and all the children of Adam.
After completing the rituals of Hajj in Makkah, we travelled to Madinah (where the Prophet Muhammad had once lived with his Companions) with Firdaws, Sayeda's elder brother, who had introduced us both and was at that time working in Jeddah. The Prophet's City, or City of Light, had a serene and soothing atmosphere; people were more hospitable and approachable. I had learned about this difference in Hajj literature and from people who had performed Hajj before, but it was a unique first-hand experience. After a couple of days in Madinah, we went to Jeddah for another couple of days and returned to the UK refreshed and energized. The reunion with our children was exceptionally memorable. For the next few weeks, the memory of Hajj often made me unmindful; though life gradually returned to normal.
After our return from Hajj, I felt more inclined than ever to stay in the UK, but the decision and practical steps towards this were not taken until towards the end of the year.
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After these decisions and our Hajj experience, I was torn by two options: to find a teaching or research job in a university and move up the research ladder; or to secure a teaching job in a school or a further education college that would allow me to have a better connection with the community. Sayeda was insistent I took the first option, my extended contract at Royal Holloway College would come to an end early in 1990. I sounded out Professor Jonscher and was disappointed to learn that he could not secure any new funding. However, he agreed to extend my contract until July, and from then on I was on the lookout for a university research post. Most jobs were outside London, temporary and not particularly well-paid. By this time, a few of my close friends had just finished their PGCE (teacher training qualification) and had begun teaching in secondary schools. They advised me to follow the same path so I made up my mind to go for it and take a PGCE, but I had to do a lot of convincing with Sayeda. I sat with her and gave all my reasons, including my growing passion for community work, and thankfully she relented and gave her blessing.
In the summer of 1990 I returned to King's College, this time on the Waterloo campus, to start my PGCE (Secondary Science) teaching course. It was a new experience in the world of England's statutory education system. Many things were new to me – the admissions process, the examination systems, school governance, types of schools, pastoral care, relationship with parents and career advice. Educational philosophy and classroom management, especially in inner cities, were other areas that I had to quickly grasp. Just like starting my PhD, I had to learn things very quickly to be on par with others who had gone through British schooling. However, the course was enriching and very useful; I thoroughly enjoyed it. When it came to choosing a school for teaching practice, I ended up at Tiffin Grammar School for Boys in Kingston upon Thames, which was actually quite close to my home. I did not know the school, but one of my course friends remarked: 'Man, you're lucky! You've got one of the best schools in the country!' I felt happy and thanked the staff.
Founded in 1880, Tiffin was a selective boys' school that became a grammar school under the Education Act 1944. It then changed from being voluntary-controlled to being grant-maintained in 1992; today it is an Academy and educates more than 1,000 pupils each year. It had always been a high-achieving school and students were selected in year 7 through competitive exams. It had strong A-level teaching facilities, and once I started teaching I was really impressed with the high standards, the behaviour of the boys and the dedication of both teachers and parents. The head of Physics was particularly happy to have a senior physicist teaching in his department for a few months. He put me mostly in the upper school and A-level teaching. We became good friends and he taught me valuable skills to make learning physics easier, as well as fun for young people.
Despite my enjoyable time at Tiffin, I wanted to know how an inner city school worked. Through one of my research projects in the PGCE, I had the opportunity to observe some Bangladeshi pupils in a secondary mixed school in Elephant and Castle. I visited the school for a few days, observed how they behaved in classrooms and talked with them. There was a sharp contrast compared to the Tiffin experience, and I realized that education was far from uniform in British schools. Over the next few years, as I moved into teaching low-achieving children, I was keener than ever in helping the disadvantaged ones.
As the PGCE course came to an end, most of my peers received job offers in various schools. My stumbling block was that I needed a new work permit, as the one for my research job at London University was expiring. It was
