Free Minaret: A Novel by Leila Aboulela Page A

him much. I know he didn't think a lot about me, not because he didn't love me but because I was a girl and Mama's responsibility. He had detailed, specific plans for Omar's future, while I was going to get married to someone who would determine how the rest of my life flowed. I am glad Baba didn't live to see what happened to Omar. Or even to me.

    There's the sound of rushing water and I realize that I am alone in the wudu area. I am staring at my wet feet, facing a gushing tap. I close the tap and, not finding any paper towels to dry myself, walk upstairs, leaving damp footsteps on the carpet. The lesson has already started; everyone is sitting in a large circle. Um Waleed in sitting on her knees, which makes her a little hit higher than the others; her voice is clear and loud. She is someone else now, someone I love, my teacher, specific in everything she says, sharp and to the point. The Qur'an is open on her lap; she pulls her scarf over her forehead, and pushes back strands of hair that have escaped. She is in her element and she doesn't look alarmed any more.
    I take a copy of the Qur'an from the shelf and Shahinaz shuffles sideways and makes room for me. She is breastfeeding Ahmed and, with a free hand, helps me find the correct page, points to the verse Um Waleed is now discussing. The Tajweed class is my favourite. I learn how to pronounce the letters correctly, when to blur two letters together, when to pronounce the n in a nasal way, for how many heats to prolong a certain letter. This concentration on technique soothes me; it makes nee forget everything around me. Um Waleed is a qualified teacher, with a degree in Sharia Law. Many of the sisters say that her other classes on Law and History are more interesting - they generate a lot of discussion and the sisters, especially the young British-horn ones and the converts, like to discuss and give their opinions. But I become fragmented and deflated in discussions; I never know which point of view I support. I find myself agreeing with whoever is speaking or with the one I like best. And I become anxious that someone's feelings will get hurt, or worse take serious offence, as sometimes happens, and stop coming to the mosque. Here in the Tajweed class, all is calm and peaceful. We practise and practise until we can get the words right. I want to read the Qur'an in a beautiful way.

    After the class, I have a new energy. Shahinaz's baby is awake and I hold him, my hand supporting his head. I talk to him, nod and smile. He rewards me with a lopsided twitching of his lips; he is only six weeks old, too young to smile.
    Shahinaz carries him when we all pray Isha. She puts him down on the floor whenever she bends down and then picks him up again. I stand next to her and I realize in the middle of the prayer that I don't know who is next to me on the other side, whose arm is brushing my right arm, whose clothes are brushing my clothes. I pull my mind hack and concentrate.
    Outside the mosque, the night air is cold and crisp. Shahinaz offers me a lift. `It's late for you to he going home on your own.'

    I shake my head. I think of their car. Shahinaz and her husband in front, Ahmed in his baby seat at the hack plus the other three children - it will he a crush.
    `I'm not on your way.'
    She protests but the children demand her attention. I leave her and walk to the bus stop. Cars swish fast on the relatively empty roads, taxis brake at the traffic lights with that peculiar whistling sound that London taxis make. The first bus I take is the old-fashioned kind with the permanent open door and a conductor. He is glum but I feel safer in his presence and in the knowledge that I can hop out at the traffic lights if I need to. The second bus has no conductor. I show my bus pass to the driver and the doors swing shut behind me. I stifle the feeling of being trapped. At the next bus stop, three young men stagger in. I know just by glancing at them that they are not reliable, they are