Mustapha and Sian
When Mustapha was taken from his home in the Middle East he was a frightened little boy. The journey across the oceans to Ireland on the Libyan vessel had been traumatic. Heavy seas had constantly rocked the boat making him feel sick from dawn until dusk. They had not been allowed to leave the small cabin in which they were stowed. There was no porthole in the steel walls to see the sunrise; he only knew it was night time when his sister switched the light off. The cabin, which was deep in the bowels of the ship, was plunged into darkness so deep that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face when the light was extinguished. The men that brought them food and water were from all over the Middle East and North Africa. Most of them stank of body odour and diesel oil. All of them leered at his sister when they entered the cabin, making rude comments in strange languages that he couldn’t understand. The words were alien to him but the expression on their dirty faces translated the sexual intention behind them.
The fresh air that he breathed as they disembarked, when they finally arrived in Ireland, was the best he’d ever tasted. They were met at the docks by two Irishmen. The men had gruffly introduced themselves as friends of their brother Yasser, and led them to a black Range Rover. He did not understand their accents, at the time, even though his knowledge of the English language was perfect. They travelled across Ireland in silence to the port of Dun Laoghaire. There they were handed tickets for the ferry that would take them across the Irish Sea, to the Welsh port of Holyhead.
Mustapha spent the entire three hour ferry voyage outside on the viewing deck. The memory of the long voyage from Libya was still too fresh in his mind. He never wanted to venture below decks on a boat ever again. The ferry approached the Island of Anglesey, from the Irish Sea, and he watched Holyhead Mountain come into view. It stood like a giant monolith on the horizon. Mustapha stood leaning over the rails staring at the craggy coastline, the waves crashing against the huge sea cliffs that formed the base of the mountain. One giant rock stood away from the cliff wall, it formed a small island that was alone in the sea. Perched on top of the small island was a white building with a high white tower; on top of the tower was a huge revolving light. He could see a little suspension bridge, which joined the island to the base of the mountain. There was a narrow stone path, which snaked up the cliff face into the distance.
“Look, Yasmine,” he’d shouted excitedly. “I can see a lighthouse. Isn’t it beautiful? This is where I want to live, Yasmine, by the sea in a lighthouse!”
Unfortunately, it had not quite worked out as the young boy wanted it too. When they arrived at their destination, and disembarked from the ferryboat, friends of Yasser, that had been sent to meet Mustapha and Yasmine, were waiting at the ferry port of Holyhead. They had driven them across the island of Anglesey onto the Welsh coast road and then north to the town of Warrington in England.
Mustapha and Yasmine were taken under the roof of the local Mullah and integrated into the small Muslim community there. Mustapha knew almost immediately that he was not like these people. Their lives revolved around religion but he did not share their conviction. He was constantly battling with his guardians about listening to pop music and enjoying his newfound love of football. He especially enjoyed watching Liverpool Football Club play; Yasmine often took him to Anfield, their stadium, to watch them play. They would lie about where they were going to their surrogate families because football was not seen as a suitable pastime for devout Muslims. A friend at school had given Mustapha a Liverpool Football Club replica team shirt to wear. He was so excited that he ran all the way home to try it on. His guardian had beaten him, and destroyed the football shirt.
After consulting with the other elders in the community, his guardian decided that it was time that he knew the truth about why he had come to this country. After prayers one afternoon, he and three other young men his age were taken to a small anti-room. The room was at the back of a community centre. Once there, they were told the stories of great heroes from the Jihad. They had been lectured about the struggles in Iraq and Afghanistan. The Mullah told them about groups of Muslims all over the world that were physically and spiritually at war with the West. Mustapha was shocked to hear of his brother`s past. It was revealed to Mustapha that his brother Yasser was the leader of a group they called Ishmael’s Axe. They showed them a video, which contained speeches from Bin Laden, and footage from the attacks on 9/11. There was also a brief clip of his brother cutting the heads off men that were wearing tracksuits. This attempt to turn young boys into young extremists failed miserably. Mustapha rebelled completely, even refusing to attend prayers. They tried separating him from his sister in an attempt to isolate him and break his will. When this failed they sent him from the community. Mustapha was to be exiled from the Islamic community, but not wanting to anger Yasser Ahmed, the Mullahs asked Mustapha where he wanted to live. The wish that he made as a boy on the ferryboat journey from Ireland to Wales had finally come true. He would live near the seashore, by the lighthouse that he had fallen in love with years before. He told them that he wanted to live near the ocean and he decided that Holyhead would be perfect. After looking at several apartments, which were available to rent, he chose the caravan-park because of the views. He could walk from his door to the cliff edges in less than a dozen paces. The sea bewitched him. The coastline that Mustapha chose to live on was only a short twenty-minute walk, along the Pordafarc Road, to the small town of Holyhead. The town centre was built around St. Cybi`s church, which was built inside one of Europe’s only three-walled Roman fortresses. The fourth wall was formed by the sea. Mustapha realized quickly that Holyhead had only a few Asians living there. The local’s stared at him if he went to the small town centre shopping. The site of a stranger was gossip enough, but an Asian stranger was big news.
In an attempt to integrate and find friends, Mustapha found a local Liverpool FC, fan club. He found the address on the internet and discovered that the members met at a bar in the town centre. Mustapha eventually plucked up the courage to go and join. The initial shock of a Middle Eastern man walking into the Welsh Fusilier pub had soon worn off and he was welcomed into the group and soon made new friends. The club organized coach tours that made the two-hour journey to Anfield, the home of LFC. The group watched the games that were played too far away to travel to, on a big screen in the pub. It was here whilst watching one of the away games with his friends, that he met Sian. She had saved his life.
The day that they met Mustapha had gone to the bar to order some drinks for his friends. He approached the bar and felt an uncomfortable gaze coming from the man that was standing next to him.
“Are you letting Pakis in the bar now, Gareth? What’s the world coming to? That will devalue the price of my house if you let Pakis in the pub.” Jarrod Evans said to the red-faced proprietor, Gareth. Gareth was scared of Jarrod but then so were most people that lived in Holyhead.
“Jarrod, there`s no need for that kind of talk and I don’t want to hear any racist nonsense in my pub. Is that clear?” The landlord tried to sound as assertive as he could but he only succeeded in annoying Jarrod further.
“Fuck you and your Pakistani mate then, Gareth. If you don’t like it, then why don’t you come around here and do something about it?” Jarrod shouted making the whole bar become silent.
Jarrod was notorious for starting fights. His reputation in Holyhead was as a troublemaker. The problem was that he was as hard as nails. No one messed with Jarrod. In a small town like Holyhead reputation was everything. Jarrod had once been involved in a fight outside a local nightclub, when the police were called. A police dog handler had been deployed to the incident and he tried to arrest Jarrod at the scene. By the time police backup arrived, Jarrod had already knocked the police dog handler unconscious. Jarrod had also bitten the ear from a large Alsatian police dog. No one messed with Jarrod after that. At the time of the incident he was just seventeen years old.
“I am not a Pakistani.” Mustapha said quietly trying to calm the racist down.
“You are not a what?” Jarrod hissed through clenched teeth, moving toward the small Asian man in a threatening manner.
“I said that I am not a Pakistani. My name is Mustapha, but everyone calls me, Musty. I’m from Iraq.” Mustapha stepped forward a little and offered his hand in a gesture of friendship. At this point most reasonably intelligent people would have calmed down and backed off. Jarrod was neither intelligent nor reasonable. He had spent some time at Borstal as a young man. Borstal is a young offender`s prison and they had a brutal reputation for delivering discipline to its inmates. When sentenced to a spell inside Borstal the inmates had to complete an assault course daily, as part of their physical training regime. Jarrod had twice broken the course record time for completion during his sentence. Two months after his release from prison word had spread around town that another local lad had beaten the course record, whilst serving a sentence for burglary. Jarrod had gone ballistic. He got drunk, and then smashed a window in the shopping centre that belonged to the town chemist. When the police arrived, he was sat waiting for them; it had taken four officers to cuff him and put him into the van. He had to make sure that he was arrested, so that he could go back inside the Borstal prison to regain his record. He was quite prepared to serve more time in prison, just to remain the top dog holding the prison record. Jarrod was not the sharpest tool in the box.
“Leave him alone, Evans and back off,” Sian interrupted. She was watching the incident from a few feet away. Sian was well aware of Jarrod`s history, as she had attended the same high school as Jarrod; he had always caused trouble even back then. Sian liked to relax in her spare time and loved watching football games with the men in the pub. Although she was not in uniform today, everyone knew that she was a serving officer in the police force. She was very popular with the inhabitants of Holyhead but she also had a formidable reputation of her own.
“Fuck off you ginger bitch. Why are you sticking your oar in? What are you protecting him for? Don’t you know that Paki`s hate pigs?” Jarrod turned quickly toward Mustapha and pulled out a vicious looking blade. Sian`s intervention had left him no option now but to defend his violent reputation. Sian had been given her new pepper spray gun just that morning; The Guardian Angel had been deployed to the security services to be used for just such an event. Sian didn’t think that she would ever need it while she was watching a football game but Jarrod had a knife. She reached into her bag when Jarrod pulled out the blade.
“Gareth, I think you should call the police station now!” She instructed the landlord who was already on the telephone. Sian had known Jarrod Evans for many years and she knew that it would be pointless trying to reason with him. She stepped in front of Jarrod, pointed the Guardian Angel, and pulled the trigger. Jarrod collapsed choking, in a blubbering heap onto the floor. He dropped the knife as he thrashed around like a drunken break-dancer. The people in the bar started cheering and shouting words of encouragement to Sian.
“Nice job, Officer. It`s about time somebody shut him up!”
The local police arrived and carted Jarrod off to his favourite jail cell. Mustapha watched, feeling a little embarrassed, as Sian told the local officers what had happened. The police left the bar leaving Sian and Mustapha together in the doorway of the pub. Sian turned to face Mustapha.
“I hate it when people call me ginger, he always called me that at school,” she laughed. “Let`s go and watch the end of the game. You can buy me a drink for that!” Mustapha had spent the rest of the football game spellbound by this beautiful policewoman with auburn hair. Sian in turn was attracted to this quiet dark skinned man, especially his piercing olive green eyes. It wasn’t long before they became friends and lovers.