that day. In the late afternoon, one of our very regular mosque worshippers, a very respectable Bangladeshi in his eighties, Jamshed Ali, who was always to be seen in the front row during the congregational prayer, told us that his granddaughter, Shahara Islam, had been missing since morning. The family had been desperately looking for her since she had left for work on the Tube. Neither she, nor the police or any hospital, had contacted the family yet and they were hoping against hope that she was fine somewhere, but as time passed that hope was fading. The news quickly spread among the close-knit Bangladeshi community in the East End. She was later confirmed as the first Muslim victim of what would soon become known as '7/7'. Some of us visited Shahara's house in the early evening to meet the family. They were in a state of shock and the father wouldn't talk with us. We said a prayer for her safety.
By the time I returned home it was about midnight. All of the family were still awake; the normally boisterous children were very quiet. Sayeda and I sat with them for a brief discussion and assured them that everything would be alright, Inshallah. We advised them not to worry, but just to remain a bit more alert. I went to bed with thoughts churning around in my head, but could not imagine what the next day would bring for us.
ON A CLEAR LONDON afternoon in early September 1978, two young officers of the Bangladesh Air Force (BAF) landed at Heathrow airport in a Bangladesh Biman (BB) jet. With the severely short haircuts typical of most armed forces servicemen, they looked pale but carried themselves confidently. As they approached passport control, they handed their passports and documents to the customs official, who stamped them and wished them, 'a nice time in the UK, officers'. Thanking her in return, they strode off with their characteristic military stride and headed in the direction of luggage reclaim. This is the brief story of my first arrival in Britain, one of humanities' great melting pots.
I grew up in rural Bangladesh, where a broad minded Hindu teacher in my village primary school had inspired me, with tough love and care, to discover faith in God. In my small village there existed only Muslims and Hindus, and during my secondary school education a saintly Muslim teacher influenced me to become a 'bookworm' and nurtured an enthusiasm for the spiritual dimension of Islam. My parents, especially my spiritually-rich father, and these two teachers, helped shape my childhood with thoughtfulness, respect for others and broader horizons. But I was only exposed to South Asian people during my college and university life.
In London, for the first time in my life, I suddenly encountered a mosaic of humanity from my very arrival at Heathrow. I was both amazed and exhilarated by the experience, I had never seen such diversity, with people of all colours and languages around me. I looked at Mostafa, my fellow officer, and exclaimed: 'Did you ever see so many types of people, Mostafa?' He shook his head. We both were amazed and uplifted, despite the long tiring journey. From that day onward it became my personal article of faith that God's human garden is all the better for being multi-coloured.
Outside, a junior staff member from the Bangladesh High Commission was waiting to receive us. He led us to the underground station to catch a Piccadilly Line train towards central London. It was a totally a new experience, travelling underground for the first time. I had heard and learnt about riding on 'the Tube' from reading and talking with others, but 'seeing was believing'. Feeling bemused as the train broke out of the tunnel, I could see London's clear blue skies, cars moving around and children playing. Realizing we were new to London, our host tried to run a mini-commentary whilst we kept quiet and soaked it all in. My train of thought was travelling just as fast as the Piccadilly Line train.
It was only a year before that I was unsure I would even join the Air Force, as I prepared to become a physicist. But failing to secure a teaching or research job in either Bangladesh or abroad I had to think of other avenues. Some of my friends, who had been trying hard to move to America for higher education with teaching assistantships, had already left. I was probably too complacent, thinking I would easily get a job and could then secure a scholarship to go abroad. But one day I suddenly realized that I was jobless and would not be able to pursue my academic ambition. So I decided to join the Bangladesh Air Force ... and now here I was in London.
My job in the BAF was something of an accident. When I kick-started my search for a commissioned career in any of the three services, I caught sight of an advertisement by the BAF for two commissioned officers in the Armament Wing; and they were looking for graduates with a Physics or Engineering background! There was an additional incentive: the advert mentioned that after a short basic training the two successful officers would have to attend an overseas course in the UK. I decided to test my luck.
I was well aware of the need for both physical fitness and mental agility for any commissioned post. A hyperactive childhood and a rather free-thinking nature gave me confidence in both. The selection process was long and arduous, and as I made my way through the selection stages I found myself uplifted and growing in determination. After a gruelling final few weeks – the long oral, IQ and personality tests as well as physical tests by the 'Inter Services Selection Board' (ISSB) – two of us had crossed the final hurdle. Once the news of my success was announced I felt ecstatic, and so did Munshi Golam Mostafa, the other candidate and by that time my new-found friend.
We were given two weeks of basic physical training before our commissioned officer status could be approved and so the two of us travelled to the officer cadet mess in Dhaka on 20 August 1978. The short training was as gruelling as it could be and my physical agility was tested to extremes. The thought of a secure job in the Air Force, and also the course in the UK, kept us going. Two long weeks finally passed and we received our Pilot Officer's insignia on 5 September. We became proud officers of the BAF and were reminded of our status and obligation to the country.
As the train reached our final destination in Gloucester Road and we were led to a nearby hotel, my mind jumped back to the present. Here we were, in London now, I thought, but I never had the slightest idea that one day I would settle in London and call it my home.
★ ★ ★
The following day we took a train from King's Cross to Sleaford in Lincolnshire. A taxi was waiting for us at the station to take us to the big airfield at Cranwell, around five miles away. Cranwell was essentially a training base, and we were allocated rooms in Trenchard Hall Officers' Mess (THOM), which for about a year would be our home in this new land. We organized the room, settled in and relaxed for the rest of the day. In the late afternoon, we went to an anteroom for tea. A Bengali-looking officer in uniform entered, and although we had not met before we immediately realized he was Flight Lieutenant Mahbub Malik from the BAF. He had arrived some months previously for another course. We stood up, straightened and gave him a BAF salute along with the Muslim greeting of peace, Assalamualaikum (peace be upon you). With a broad smile he embraced us, but advised us not to be that animated with senior officers in the officers' mess! We had a good chat and learned some basic tips for life at Cranwell. Over the next few months, until he left, he was to be a great help and friend to us.
Life followed a strict routine at Cranwell. There was no physical training, and there were designated batmen for individual officers who would bring morning tea to the room and help them organize their uniform and polish their shoes, prior to starting academic classes or practical training. After the day-long lessons, life in the officers' mess was pretty relaxing. We were provided with high tea in the big ante-room after office hours, which was an opportunity to meet other officers, chat or read papers and journals. There were quite a few designated rooms for indoor games or watching TV, and dinner was served early. During the late 1970s halal food was not easily available, but this was not an issue, as some of us easily became vegetarians or pescatarians; egg and fish were often available, too. There was a reasonable-sized gym, with
