Worlds Apart (22 page)

That week, however, I also got the unfortunate news that in one of the main marginal seats in Dudley North, the Muslim candidate, Afzal Amin, had been accused of plotting with the EDL (English Defence League) and had been secretly filmed doing so.

However, in spite of all of this going on, I had to focus on myself and was mulling over what Ashley had said about meeting Simon Danczuk. I emailed Simon’s office and arranged to meet for coffee the following week at Portcullis House in Westminster.

I sensed that at the beginning of our meeting, when I asked about the topical issues surrounding Rochdale
(Cyril Smith, the sex-grooming scandal) and how it had been as an MP tackling them over the past four years, Simon was a little guarded. We then started talking about the current elections, the introduction of the smaller parties – UKIP and various independents – and how they would affect the vote. I think he soon realised that I was no threat. This wasn’t about politics per se, but purely a discussion about Rochdale and its people. One useful thing I did take away was that he didn’t think that the Lib Dems, who were very close behind Labour in the last election, would do so well this time.

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

‘I’m out every Sunday morning for four hours knocking on doors. Last election, every twenty doors I knocked on, more than half would say they would vote Lib Dem. This time round, I’m lucky if I get one out of the twenty saying they will.’

This was interesting news, as these votes would need to go somewhere and perhaps this was the strategy for us.

Simon also told me about another piece of news that had just hit the headlines that morning. He had been publicly criticised by the outspoken columnist Katie Hopkins for raising the Pakistani flag with the local community as part of a yearly tradition. Hopkins had come out and said that he was supporting the very men
who had raped white girls. I later tweeted in support of the Labour MP and described Hopkins as ‘culturally uneducated’.

Simon and I shook hands at the end and I thanked him for his time. He stood up and was about to leave, then stopped and said, ‘By the way, I looked at your profile online. I think you’ll make a good politician.’

I decided I liked Simon. Not only was he helpful, but he also went out of his way to spend time with me talking about Rochdale. How many MPs would do that with their opposition?

W
hen I first went back to Rochdale, I thought it would be like it was when I was living in London as a student; instead it was completely different. I saw the town with a fresh pair of eyes, and I looked at the people in a different light. This was no longer the community that I had grown up in, where I was afraid of receiving a racist comment as I walked down the street or worried that someone was going to give me a dirty look for walking around on my own and report me to my mum. No, I was an adult this time, and this time I was coming here to help these people. I felt a sense of duty and protection towards them.

I had heard nothing back from Baroness Warsi’s office, so decided to have some posters made up with just my photo on them, and I contacted a couple of my parents’ old friends to see if they knew of any shop fronts that I could put the posters up in. I imagined cloth houses, butchers’ shops and off-licences in Asian areas. Also, if I did it myself, it would be my opportunity to tell them what I could do for the people of Rochdale.

There were just six weeks to go before the elections when the news broke of a Rochdale family, with children, that was arrested on the borders of Turkey as they were making their way into conflict-stricken Syria. It turned out that a Labour councillor, Shakil Ahmed, was the father of one of the men being held at the border. The councillor said he thought his son was somewhere else, but I had a feeling that this would still cause a backlash against the Labour Party. However, Simon Danczuk rescued the situation by telling the press that the family that had run away would not be allowed back in Rochdale. He had a number of Muslim backers beside him when he made this announcement, and what pleased me was that the imams were finally speaking out in public, condemning ISIS and what they were doing to Muslim people. It has taken many years for this to happen. Also, the Muslim council had been on television many times to talk about the effect this organisation was having on
innocent people and its brainwashing of young British Muslims.

T
hings were now cranking up. The emails from local Rochdalers were flooding in, especially now my leaflets had been delivered to over 30,000 Rochdale houses. Unfortunately, I got news from CCHQ that I was to cancel my interview with the German TV company. They didn’t say why, but I thought it might be to do with the Afzal Amin scandal and ‘how far will we go to get the Muslim vote?’. Ashley thought it would also highlight the sex-grooming issue in Rochdale.

Heading back to Rochdale once again, I decided to stay on the outskirts and see the countrified side of it. I was at a lovely B&B 2 miles out of the centre, on the hilltops overlooking the town. One of the main events on this visit was a hustings with the other candidates – seven in total. I’d never done anything like this before and I was nervous as hell. No matter how much I read the papers and watched Sky News, I didn’t feel ready. The set-up for the event was for each candidate to give an opening statement, which would be followed by seven questions from the public.

I tried to cover as many topics as possible in
preparation – the EU, the NHS, environment issues, immigration, Rochdale facts and figures. I knew it would be Sod’s law that they would ask me questions on the only topics I hadn’t covered.

A few days before, I had received an email from an imam in Rochdale requesting a meeting. I arranged this for just before the hustings event and asked Ashley to come with me. ‘It shouldn’t take more than half an hour,’ I told him. I had tried in the past to reach out to these religious leaders but couldn’t get close to them – no doubt because I was a woman – and finally one had reached out to me. Even being able to speak to one imam was very useful. UKIP had selected an Asian man as its candidate and I was sure this was so that he could muscle in with the imams. Simon was already well connected with the religious leadership, which I thought had contributed to his last election victory for sure.

The imams were so important as they held the power in the Muslim community. I recalled what my father had said during the war on terror, when US intelligence services were working with the government. He said that power of the people is with the imams, not the government, and that politicians were barking up the wrong tree. Rochdale has a Muslim community that makes up around 13 per cent of the area’s population, while the average in Britain is less than 5 per cent. I’m led to
believe that the Muslim vote in Rochdale could make up around 6,000 votes. That’s not too far off the total number that the Tories received in the 2010 general election.

Ashley and I arrived on time but the shop front looked closed, and all the shops around it either had metal shutters or boarded-up windows. I looked around at Ashley with a surprised look, but it apparently came as no surprise to him. He called the imam to find out where we should go specifically and we were directed to a backstreet car park. A bearded man wearing traditional shalwar kameez came out from one of the back entrances to greet us.

He took us upstairs, through a rabbit warren of tiny corridors and then finally to a room where we were greeted by eight men with beards and hats. The whole set-up was not what I was expecting. I thought we were going to have a quick chat over a cup of tea with this chap, but this looked like a very well-organised meeting. There was a table already set up with chairs for everyone and there were even snacks laid out.

It took me back to my mosque years and reminded me of the bearded visitors to the house who wore big hats, and, of course, my Bangladeshi imam. They may have reminded me of my childhood, but this was a completely different situation; no caning, no sinning, no ganging up with my parents to chastise me – we were now on the same level. I had hesitated earlier at the idea
of putting my headscarf on, and realised I was still programmed to cover my head when entering a room full of men. But if I did this here, would I come across as a subservient parliamentary candidate?

The meeting began with introductions. The man at the head of the table introduced himself as the treasurer for Golden Mosque; the next along was the head of the Rochdale council of mosques; then a few more treasurers of different mosques in Rochdale. It suddenly dawned on me that I had 6,000 votes sat in front of me. Now it was my turn, and I gave them my usual spiel. I was nervous and I could tell they sensed it.

I cut myself short just before I got to my army life – I didn’t feel it would help me here and, if anything, it might have sent the whole conversation the wrong way. Then the questions started coming… What were my views on the Palestine/Israel conflict? If elected, how could I see myself working with a Labour council? How would I deal with the growing concern of Islamophobia and racism in Rochdale? Why is the government hunting down Muslim schools and not Catholic ones? Why is Eric Pickles sending out letters to imams about extremism and not to the vicars or priests? Why do we need to be earning £18,000 to be able to bring someone over to this country and not £12,000, which is the minimum wage? I tackled the questions as best I could, but realised that, in all the
swotting I’d done that week, I’d hardly touched on the policies they were interested in hearing about.

These imams were well-read, extremely intelligent and, my God, they knew their politics. I think it would have been easier yomping my Bergen across the Brecon Beacons than being interrogated by these chaps. They were running circles around me.

They were interviewing all the candidates, they told me, as they wanted a change. They hadn’t got what they were promised in the last election. That’s when Ashley chipped in and said that the only alternative to Labour was to go with the Conservatives. I had to keep reminding myself that the last time the Tories even came close to winning this town was over fifty years ago, and so the only strategy I could hope to make work here was to ask the people to vote for the person, not the party. National politics will be what it is, but you have to choose the person you think will listen to you and who will make the necessary changes to your local area.

The imams expressed how racism had increased since the sex-grooming scandal and that they felt unsupported. The media was not helping, they said, and if they were going to vote for me, I’d better be media-savvy enough to represent them.

The meeting ended with a group photo, and, by the time we finally got away, we had been at the meeting
for almost two hours. We had to hurry to avoid being late to the hustings. I’d only had a couple of slices of toast that morning, but I would have to wait until that evening for food.

My original plan was to arrive at the hustings a little early so I could mingle with the locals, and now I only had four minutes to do so. I had hardly got through the door when the UKIP candidate pounced on me, shaking my hand and introducing himself with a big smile. I moved on quickly and went to say hello to Simon Danczuk. I had to battle through his fan club to get to him, at which point I asked him how he was and how he was feeling about the event.

The top table had seven seats representing each of the party candidates: Conservative, Labour, Lib Dem, UKIP, Greens, an independent and a religious representative. I was the only woman.

Finally, we were told to take our seats. (I put two folded-up fleeces on mine and sat on top of them to ensure I was at eye level with the men.)

The event was hosted in a church, and, before we began, the vicar came and stood in front of us, facing the crowd. He invited everyone to ‘join him in a prayer’ and I closed my eyes and did so, remembering my mother’s words that a church, just the same as a mosque, was also God’s home. I thought about my parents and wished
they were here today, sitting in the crowd and giving me support. Would they be proud that I had come back home to help the community? I wondered. After the prayer, the place felt peaceful and I felt relaxed.

The vicar opened the event by saying that they had decided not to invite the National Front candidate. Before he could finish his sentence, however, four men jumped out from the back of the crowds holding placards with ‘Vote National Front’ on them. They began shouting at the vicar and I swallowed hard as I thought back to the thugs who had chased me through the school grounds that time I skipped mosque when I was a kid. I may have run away from you then, I thought, but not any more.

The audience looked shocked, scared and concerned for the vicar as he tried to calm them down. I looked over at the other candidates, who all seemed to have retreated from the protest – most of them were looking down at their paperwork or writing notes. I looked across at the UKIP chap and he was laughing!

I admired the vicar for standing his ground, fearless. I kept my eye on their step as they got closer to him, ready to get up and put myself in between the two sides if things got physical. Thankfully, the police turned up within minutes and escorted them out – but they weren’t leaving quietly.

Fifteen minutes later, the church was quiet again.
The vicar decided we should have another prayer and asked us to join him. I closed my eyes and my mind flashed back to all the canvassing dramas I had experienced. There was the man who almost punched me as he blamed ‘my party’ for the death of his brother, who had committed suicide because of his debts. The one who spat a cheese and pickle sandwich in my face as he told me he would rather vote for the National Front than for the Tories. The couple in the estate who set their dog on me when I got tired of people cutting me off mid-sentence and carried on talking over them. (The dog did the trick and since then I have never canvassed in an estate on my own again.)

The most productive door-knocking experience I’d had was a with a bloke who had vowed he would never vote for the Tories because they were all ‘posh boys who don’t understand how the other half lives’. ‘I do,’ I replied. ‘I’m working class, and have experienced poverty, but I broke the cycle because this country gave me the opportunities.’ It was the first time I saw change in someone’s eyes, like they’d just cleaned their glasses and could see me properly now. It was the longest I’d stood at a doorstep and had a heart-to-heart with someone.