Freedom

Bilal had an
important role in the workings of Manchester International Airport; it
was his job to patrol the public areas with a cleaning trolley from
which hung an assortment of mops, brushes and buckets. He was a trusted
employee, which meant that he had been given the additional privilege
of cleaning up the departure lounges, for which he wore a large badge
allowing him in and out of passport control. Bilal often spent his meal
breaks in the prayer room. Designated for nervous passengers to consult
their personal sky pilot before entrusting themselves to the uniformed
variety, this room was usually empty except for when the PIA departure
for Lahore was imminent. Lately Bilal had been praying more and more,
and had started to cultivate a serious beard.

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style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt">He had been given the name of a slave,
but this slave had been a man of honour; one of the first to believe
the message of the Prophet, and his name lives on into eternity.
Allowing a slave to have faith was dangerous, thought Bilal; it was
like handing him an assault rifle, there was no telling what harm he
might do. Best to give him a uniform and a large badge to make him feel
important, and to tell him he's free to go home as soon as he's spent
eight hours cleaning up other people's crap. And what crap it was too;
half-eaten bacon rolls, half-drunk cans of lager abandoned when the
"wait in lounge" message flashed to "go to gate ?", half-read men's
magazines featuring girls in swimsuits with come-hither eyes; the
women's equivalents, promising a primrose path to perfection, whether
in kitchen, office or bedroom. Each day he had to handle this filth,
but what could he do; he, like his namesake, was a slave, but to the
salary cheque. Often he saw deportees making their unwilling departures
from a land which didn't want them; some were from his own country, but
others were North African or Middle Eastern, with a sprinkling of
blacks. The vast majority, he reckoned, were his brothers in Islam.
Flanked by firm-handed minders, many of them stared enviously at Bilal
pushing his servant's trolley as they were hustled towards a waiting
aircraft.

 

It was Friday, the day of prayer, but Bilal had little
time to pray; there was a European air traffic controllers' strike in
progress, and the main airport concourse was heaving with angry,
frustrated passengers, though the shopkeepers were happy as would-be
travellers made unplanned purchases of food, drinks and magazines to
while away the hours. Bilal had to stay landside as the mess piled up
remorselessly, and received ungracious comments as he attempted to
manoeuvre the trolley between the rows of slumped bodies and piled
luggage. Then he saw a sight which pierced him with pity; another
deportee, but this time a young woman. She hung her head with
embarrassment, for her headscarf had slipped down, allowing all to gaze
upon her frightened features; her arms pinioned between two immigration
officers (one male, one female), she was unable to rectify her
appearance as she was humiliatingly marched towards passport control.
Bilal suddenly seethed at the way in which her honour had been
slighted, and swung the trolley on an intercept course.

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So-called professionals who are trained to anticipate
trouble develop a sense of building animosity, and the male minder
turned and scanned the crowds as a deer might scan a thicket for a
crouching leopard, but his view passed straight across the cleaner,
dismissing any possible threat. Big mistake: the last thing he felt for
some time afterwards was Bilal's long-handled brush crashing into his
skull, and he toppled, gushing blood from a head wound. The woman
immediately reached into a pocket and drew something; it might have
been a gun, but it was merely a pager; any message she might have
relayed was lost as the brush smashed its way across both the pager and
her opening mouth, and she too went down in a welter of blood and white
teeth. The girl about to be deported shrank back against the corridor
and pulled her scarf about her, convinced that the mad brushman would
assault her next. But she had nothing to fear; Bilal put down the
sticky brush and approached her. He gently pressed something into her
hand; a ten-pound note and his cousin's business card; he would see
that she received sanctuary.

 

style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 0pt">"Go, my sister," he urged. "Don't run;
get a taxi to Stockport and ring him from there."

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The girl scuttled off and melted into the crowd which
now encircled the horrific scene. Bilal stood, alone and composed,
against his trolley. The two immigration officers lay groaning on the
floor; they would need a doctor and a dentist respectively, but Bilal
knew that the British National Health Service would sort them out. He
also knew that, although British police officers are generally unarmed,
this is not the case in the airport. He waited for the blaze of gunfire
which he supposed would end his life and usher him into paradise as a
martyr and stood, for the moment at least, the freest man in the
world.