the times | Monday August 10 2020 1GT 7
life
Mohsin Zaidi today,
as a child and before
his matriculation
ceremony at OxfordI was shaking and noticeably
upset. It was a sight
with which my dad was
unfamiliar. The strong son
he knew had vanished. My
mum’s cries from the kitchen
became the backdrop to what
I was about to say.
“Dad.. .” I paused to take
what felt like might be my
last breath. Ever. “Dad,
there’s... there’s something I
have to tell you.. .”
I explained that I had let go
of my faith, although what I really
wanted to say was that it had let go of
me. I told him that during our
pilgrimages to Syria, I’d prayed for
things to be different. I told him that
when I got into Oxford I thanked God,
but asked that it be taken away. I told
him that my “problem” had led to my
falling apart. An American woman
who was first my counsellor and now
my friend had saved me from doing
something stupid. My voice shook as
the words tumbled out of me.I looked out of the front room
window obsessively. I wanted as much
forewarning as possible. And then
there it was. A car approaching, two
headlights drawing closer and closer,
before it stopped and the lights were
switched off.
My nerves had become leeches
crawling over my skin, sucking dry
my resolve. I couldn’t use the letter,
I had to face it, say it out loud.
I went to the door. As I greeted
my dad, he looked over my shoulder
and asked what my uncle was doing
there. Behind him, my mum had
come to the end of the road, no
longer able to contain her anguish.
She let out a scream. If she tried to
speak, the words were unintelligible.
Abbass took her into the kitchen.
My dad, dumbfounded by her
behaviour, wanted to follow, but I
stopped him, gesturing him instead
into the living room.
Uncle Tier explained to my dad
that I had something to tell him. I
asked him to check on my mum.I told my Muslim father I was gay
I arrived home to find Mum sitting
on the sofa, her head bowed. I’d
become accustomed to her avoiding
my gaze. We were becoming strangers
to one another. I was her son in
name, but any love for me seemed
reserved for the dutiful boy she once
knew; nothing was left for the man
I was becoming.
“The mosque is talking about it...
about you, they... they know,” said
Abbass. Voices of self-righteousness
were trying to force me to engage with
the scariest thing I would ever have to
do before I was ready. My mum still
did not raise her head, unable to face
the shame, to face me.
There was chatter in my local
community about the fact that I was
attracted to men. The starkness of it
was humiliating. I imagined them
taking satisfaction in the demise of the
mosque’s momentary wonder child.
Oxford was now meaningless. I went
upstairs to call the counsellor that the
university had assigned me years ago.
I couldn’t let my dad find out from
someone else, I told her. The only
thing worse than having a gay Muslim
son had to be finding out about it from
someone at the mosque. She said that
it was OK to be scared. I was petrified.
When I went back downstairs,
Abbass and my mum told me they
did not think we should tell him. I
could see the fear on their faces and I
knew that we did not have to tell him.
I had to do it.
Finally it was agreed: I’d tell my
dad in a couple of weeks at Easter
weekend. Not because it had any
spiritual significance, but because itwas followed by a public holiday,
giving him time off from the post
office if he needed it.
The day before Easter Sunday,
I decided instead to write him a letter.
I tried reading it to my mum and
Abbass, but wasn’t able to get through
it. Abbass took the sheet of paper from
me and read it out loud. I felt so
completely exposed I left the room.
When I came back he was at the part
where I confessed that I had cried
every day, that I had thought about
killing myself but decided that a gay
son was better than a dead one.
Abbass had tears running down his
cheeks. Reading that letter together
was the most support I had ever
received from them.
It was Easter Sunday and my
parents were going to the mosque
in the evening. I would face my dad
when they came home. Uncle Tier
agreed to be there because of the
unspoken fear that Dad might turn
violent. When Mum and Dad left I
took the chance to pack some items
in case I was thrown out of the house.
Abbass walked in and watched me
putting clothes and books into a
rucksack. “At least you get the bigger
room now,” I said.Finally I looked him in the eyes and
said: “Dad, I’m gay and I didn’t choose
to be this way.” They were the truest,
most honest words my mouth had
spoken, yet they were not enough.
If only I were able to make him
reach into me and feel my debilitating
pain. Yet words were all I had at
my disposal. They polluted the air
and, I was sure, the rest of my life,but in that moment in the first seconds
afterwards I felt like a person born in
captivity that had taken his first breath
of free air.
My dad was wearing a scarf around
his neck that he hadn’t yet had a
chance to remove. He pulled it across
his face to muffle
the groans. Within
seconds my mum,
Abbass and Uncle
Tier were in the
room. My mum
and dad were both
weeping and there
was something
touching about
seeing them holding
on to each other. I
couldn’t recall seeing
them behave so
tenderly towards one
another. My mum
was shouting in
Punjabi: “How could I
tell you? How could
I tell you? I didn’t
want it to hurt you.” I
looked over at Abbass
and Uncle Tier for a
lifeline, but they were
frozen, braced for the fallout.
I pulled forward the coffee table
and sat on it, facing my parents.
I said I was sorry. Their heads
remained buried in each other.
After calming my mum down,
my dad finally spoke. “I still love
you just the same,” he said. He
got up and hugged me. “Mohsin
has his bags packed upstairs, you
know,” Uncle Tier said.
“No! No, no. You are not going
anywhere. You are my son and
I love you. I will support you
in any way that I can,” he said,
pointing a finger at me.
He took my mum’s hand
and led her up to their room.
He needed to speak to her alone.
I could not begin to imagine what
they might say to each other. It had
felt like the longest day of my life
and it was over.
I walked into my bedroom. I glanced
at the packed bag waiting for me on
the floor. I’d survived. If I could
survive this, I could survive anything.
Or so I thought. The following week,
a witch doctor arrived at the house.
Extracted from A Dutiful Boy by
Mohsin Zaidi. Published by
Square Peg on August 20.
© Mohsin Zaidi 2020My mum could
not contain her
anguish. She let
out a scream
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I was shaking —
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had vanished