Seeking Paradise

By Mary Ali

This is the story of Iman, a story of a woman who grew up in the countryside in the troubles of 1970s Northern Ireland. She goes to England to qualify as a dietitian in the 1980s.
Twelve years later, her world is turned upside down. She leaves a world of comfort and luxury and the cold English husband, from whom she has slowly drifted away to become a Muslim, to enter another world, a world of dangers, deception, and lies. A violent marriage robs her of her two beloved sons and takes them to the cruel, selfish world of her ex-in-laws in Lahore, Pakistan.
In deep grief, she continues her professional life and marries again in Saudia Arabia and returns to England. Only to see that also fall apart with the loss of her home in the beautiful Shropshire countryside.
She knows that one day, she will pay the price for the suffering, grief, exhausting, gruelling trips to Pakistan and failed attempts to get her children back. When the grim reaper comes for me, she told her best friend from Dublin a few months before the diagnosis came. And when it came, it was breast cancer.
How will Iman emerge from this? Does she have a future? Read this written-from-the-heart story to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491876046

Mary Ali

Mary’s profession and passion before writing is Nutrition and Teaching. A graduate from Leeds Beckett University in 1984 with a BSc (Hons) Dietetics with State Registration in Dietetics. In 1992 she was awarded MPhil Nutrition from King’s College London. She worked extensively in the U.K. and internationally in Clinical Nutrition. In 2013, her CELTA, from University of Cambridge lead to a second career in Teaching English as a Foreign Language. In 2017, in Afghanistan, she realized the value of this skill particularly for girls and women

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

From the Chapel to the Mosque

MAY 1992

IT WAS A beautiful day in the small village of Edendork, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland. I had come from London to see my mother. The contrast between the two worlds could not have been greater, For at that time I was living in a flat on the Thames, close to Tower Bridge. Buildings, which had once been huge spice warehouses of the nineteenth century, had been converted into flats in the late 1980s, he yuppie time in London. I was married to a property developer, a chartered surveyor, a nice English man who was a partner in a City firm. We also had a great Edwardian house in Muswell Hill, a leafy suburb of North London. I was working part-time as a dietitian at the Royal London Hospital. And in my spare time I was absolutely loving going to the French Institute in South Kensington where I was doing advanced conversation classes in French. And I loved the shopping there too!

It reminded me of the time I had spent in the Loire Valley in France when I was seventeen working as an au pair. This was the first time my world had opened after a life in the sectarianism of Northern Ireland. This was a world that didn’t care if you never went to Mass, drank wine, or hung out with young people of your own age, most of whom smoked. But this was the world where, in four precious weeks, I progressed to speak French fluently, learned how to make a salade verte, serve cheese at room temperature, and iron napkins!

I had left Ireland after my A Levels. I had decided I wanted to be a dietician. So on one of my regular trips to visit my family, my mother and I were having one of our kitchen conversations when we set the world to rights.

We must have been on the subject of religion because I suddenly said, If I am going to pray anywhere now, I am going to a mosque. She only looked amused and I left the room.

There must be a mosque in Dublin, I thought to myself. That was over one hundred miles away from my family home in the north of Ireland. I went to the telephone and made a reservation for a hotel room in Dublin. I had absolutely no idea where the mosque was and I certainly did not know any Muslims. A few days later I set off on my journey. I drove south through the pretty cathedral town of Armagh and soon crossed the border into the Republic of Ireland. I continued on my way south through the many small villages. All the time I had been driving and in the previous days, I had had an indescribable sense of fear that I could not understand. The fear on that journey was that someone was following me. As I arrived in another small village, an overwhelming sense of tiredness and exhaustion overtook me. At the same time, it started to rain, a heavy downpour of rain. And I knew that I could not finish the journey on that day.

I began to look for help, for I would need somewhere to stay in this place. Standing on the side of the road I saw a beautiful young man. He was tall, simply dressed, with a light pale face and red hair. I stopped my car, rolled down the window, and asked him for directions to a local hotel. Eventually he agreed to accompany me. He sat in the back as we drove, and I told him I was afraid that someone was following me. He reassured me that that was not the case and that all was well and no one would harm me. We drove for a short distance to the outskirts of the village. Set some distance from the road was a large, old hotel surrounded by spacious lawns and large flower beds. It had a haunted house appearance, which did nothing to ease my already heightened senses.

We checked in and I made arrangements for this guardian angel to also have a room for the night.

My only recollection now of that place was again my sense of unease and at some point in the evening being advised by another female guest, You are a wealthy lady. You should look after your valuables. She had been referring to my jewelry.

The next morning dawned bright and clear; the rain had disappeared. After breakfast, I went for a walk in the grounds with my companion. Strangely enough, with this mild and softly spoken young man, I felt not even a hint of a threat to my personal safety. We discussed my future travel plans. I decided that I would not continue on my journey to Dublin and that I would return back to my family home in Tyrone.

On the way back, I dropped him off in the village and continued northwards. For some reason, I had a set of rosary beads with me in the car. To say prayers on rosary beads is, I believe, unique to Catholics. The pulpit of my local chapel, which I had attended for various services as a child, constantly preached saying the rosary nightly.

I had always felt a sense of guilt mingled with failure that our family never quite made the mark on this recommendation. We would start off with all good intentions on the day the sermon was preached. I recall my father rounding up all the children to kneel down and, while leaning on the seat of a chair, commence what to me was always a really monotonous routine. It could take up to an hour to complete one recitation of the rosary correctly. After all, there was fifty Hail Mary’s to be said, five Our Fathers and five Glory Be’s to get through.

Now on this memorable day, twenty years later, I found myself fingering these beads. It was to be several months later that I discovered that Muslims also use beads for saying much shorter repetitive prayers.

Eventually I reached my parents’ home. As I parked my car in the usual place at the back of the house, no one came to the back door, as was the norm, to see who had arrived.

When I entered the house, I was struck immediately by the anger and hostility from my family members. I was handed a letter from my sister. Opening it, words of anger jumped at me from the pages. I refused to read it and in the end I was forced to. I suggested a call to the local priest to try and calm the situation, only to be told I will not have you upsetting my parishioners.

That was the last time I was to speak as a Catholic to a Catholic priest.

It was made very clear to me that I was no longer welcome to stay in my own home. I knew I had to leave, and to leave quickly. Upset and frightened and not really understanding what was happening to me, I went to my car to go.

One of my sisters had grabbed a poker, a small metal implement used to rake open fires in Irish homes, and tried to hit me as I got into the car. It was my father pushing her out of the way that saved me.

I automatically drove towards my nearest and local town of Dungannon. I went straight to a hotel there and checked in for one night.

The following morning, I drove north to the coastal town of Coleraine. I had had a recent position there as a lecturer in Nutrition at the University. I walked through the large open foyer of the main building on my way to the cafeteria where I had often sat with my colleagues drinking coffee, relaxing and chatting about academic affairs. These two sections of the university were joined by a bridge or a glass-covered walkway. On that particular day with absolutely no pre-arrangement I met a doctor on that bridge who I had known during the time when I worked there.

He greeted me warmly, saying, You have come back then to see us. What happened to your PhD? I rushed over the fact that I had not, in fact, got my PhD. I could tell he wanted to hear all the details of why and what had happened. But again, out of the blue, just as I had announced to my mother my desire to visit a mosque,

I asked him,

Are you a Muslim? He looked rather astonished at my question.

We had never ever discussed the topic of religion. Growing up in a constantly troubled Northern Ireland one learned from a very young age that it was a topic best avoided.

He replied, Yes, I am.

I suggested that I should come and visit him later at his home on that evening. He agreed and gave me his address.

I only knew that this ex colleague of mine was a medical doctor from Egypt who had come to the University of Ulster to complete his PhD.

Later that evening, I drove to his apartment, which was situated close to the sea, in the small seaside town of Portrush. I climbed a dark staircase to the first floor. The door of his apartment opened into a small living room. There was nothing of great note in that small room, I observed from the doorway, except for two items on top of a mantelpiece located in the centre of the room.

One was a grand-looking book on which I could see some gold lettering. The other was a much smaller little booklet.

I asked him for the small book, if I could have it. He said, Of course, take it with you.

We made some arrangements then to meet later at my hotel to discuss the disappointing outcome of my PhD viva examination.

We did indeed meet later and worked late into the night on all my reports. I was not at all keen to go through this painful process, but he insisted that for the future I had to have a sense of understanding of why, after all my hard work over four years and the publication of my work, this had happened.

In the morning, though, starting to feel weak from all these experiences, I took a walk on the beach at Portstewart. This beach held so many happy memories for me. As a child we had often visited there en famille, spent long, hot days building sand castles and paddling in the sea. Later in the evening we would have picnics by the roadside on the way home again. Those day trips were the only holiday outings we had as children during the school summer holidays. There was a huge sense of disappointment if one woke on the day of the planned trip to hear the rain beating softly on our rooftop for we knew immediately that Daddy would call off the trip. And we would live in hope of the coming again of a good day so that another trip could be planned.

Now, on this cold day in May 1992, I walked again on this beach, alone, feeling tired and drained from a lot of travelling and with absolutely no idea of how my life was to be suddenly and dramatically changed forever.

Later, on that same evening, I had dinner with another old colleague of mine from the university. I had developed a bad cough. He warned me to take care of myself. As I returned to my hotel room, I knew it would be soon time for me to leave again.

In the middle of the night, the same nasty cough awoke me. I felt alone and unsure of what to do. I called an old friend in London. We decided it was best for me to return to London.

London had been my home for several years. In 1992 I had a husband and a home there in a prosperous part of north of the city. The marriage had been failing for some time and at this point, in the middle of the night, the end finally came. I made the decision that I did not want to return to my marital home. My friend suggested that, as I was unwell, it would be better under the circumstances to go to the Accident and Emergency Department of the hospital where I was currently working in the East End of London and try to get some treatment for what was now feeling like a chest infection.

Satisfied with this temporary solution, I managed to get back to sleep but woke still feeling utterly exhausted. The hotel staff kindly helped me pack my few belongings. A taxi was called and I set off on the hour-long journey to the airport. I can only say that at that time I was living purely in the moment. I had no plan whatsoever for my future.

During the short flight back to London, I took the small book, which my Egyptian friend had given me, from my handbag and started to study it. At the front there were a number of pages with a series of numbers which then made no sense at all. Later I was to learn that these numbers represented the timings of the five daily prayers obligatory in Islam. I then came across some Arabic writing. Underneath was written a translation of the meaning. It said, When you see a man going regularly to the mosque, you know he has iman.

As soon as I read these words, I said to myself, From now on you will be Iman. Iman means faith, trust in God. There were few other details in this book. One was a reference made to the fact that Muslims eat halal meat.

So, in my heart I made the intention that the next meat I would eat would be halal. There were also the names of the five daily prayers which I tried to memorise. It was very strange trying to get my tongue around these strange-sounding Arabic words.

I reached London in the early afternoon. As I was so unwell, I did not even consider using public transport to cross the city. I called a man who had become a driver for me over that most eventful and miraculous time of my life. I had first met him when I had gone to London for my PhD viva as at that time I was still teaching at the University of Ulster. On the morning of the examination I had called a taxi. I was rather surprised when a very smartly suited driver arrived in a black Mercedes. He was Asian in origin, possibly Indian or Pakistani. He was polite and respectful and so whenever I couldn’t face the stress of London public transport, I would call him.

Collecting me from London’s Heathrow airport, he was surprised and shocked at my appearance.

What happened to you in Ireland? he asked.

I replied that I had had some problems with my family without going into details. The journey continued quietly along the M4 into Central London. I really did feel at home here passing through the familiar streets and sights of this great city. Eventually we reached the East End. Just as we were nearing the hospital, I asked the driver to take me somewhere that I could buy halal food. He looked very surprised, as I had no outward appearance of being a Muslim.

It was not a difficult task, particularly in this side of the capital, for there were a very large number of restaurants owned and run mainly by Begalis from the Sylet province of Bangladesh. Many of them were indeed my patients at many of the clinics I used to cover in my position based at the Royal London Hospital.

I collected my takeaway from one of these local eateries and we headed back to the Accident and Emergency section of the hospital. Soon after my arrival my manager was called. I think the doctors were not sure about what to do with me, as I was adamantly refusing to go home.

Home was just a short distance away. In addition to the large house in North London, my husband at that time and I had rented a small apartment on the Thames. It was at the time of the major re-development of a lot of old river warehouses into smart apartments for the affluent workers of the City.

And here I was with two beautiful homes and wanting to return to neither of them.

My manager was a very kind and most sympathetic lady who had also experienced a marriage break up at some point in her own life. She managed to persuade the doctors to admit me for one night until she could arrange some alternative hospital accommodation for me. I spent a really terrible night in the hospital. I was so mentally disturbed, unable to sleep, afraid and restless. I recall pleading with a doctor for some medication to help me sleep. But he refused. I had probably been sleep deprived for sometime now. I must have been on the edge of psychosis. It was many years later in the course of my own professional work in the medical field that I discovered that acute stress levels can induce paranoid states and that sleep deprivation can indeed cause psychosis.

The next day I was discharged. My manager had found me a room in the hospital accommodation. She tried to mentally prepare me for the standard I was about to encounter. She was aware that one of my homes was a beautiful apartment on the Thames. Kindly she brought me a few things that she thought I would need, some crockery, cutlery, tea towels, and a radio. I was shown to a room down a long, brown, shabby corridor. Everything in that place appeared to be the same colour, dark brown, a colour to this day I still detest. She opened the door for me; a shaft of sunlight reflected the dust on an old dilapidated dressing table.

I am sorry, she said, looking out of the tall, dirty window. There’s not much of a view. And indeed there wasn’t.

There were rolls of barbed wire running along a boundary wall. As soon as I saw that wire, it reminded me of Northern Ireland. It was commonly used by the security forces there. When I told her this, she looked even more sorry for the depressing situation in which she was leaving me.

I was told it was best to lock my room each time I left it.

What, even to go the bathroom!

The communal bathrooms were no better. Cold, uninviting, institutional. For as long as I remained there I never saw a single other resident. On one evening I rang Kevin, a good friend of mine. We had worked together for years and he was well aware of the constant underlying unhappiness in my marriage.

We were discussing the current state of my personal situation. I was feeling particularly low about it all on that particular evening.

Maybe I will take a little trip down to the south of France. That might just pull me out of this, I suggested.

I had often visited Nice and especially Antibes. I speak French fluently. It was the summer months now and I knew the bourgainvillea would be in bloom, the sun would be shining on the Mediterranean Sea, the French bread would be delicious, and all might be well again in my world.

Kevin did not seem to be too struck on my idea. Later, just as I was about to proceed with a booking, I suddenly put way my American Express card. From somewhere deep inside I had a feeling that this time, if I went alone to the south of France, I would never return.

On the following evening, alone and with nothing to do, I made my way down the shabby, brown corridor to the TV room. I had worked long enough for the health service to know that all nurses homes usually had some kind of communal sitting room with a television. It was often a useful way to meet new people.

As I entered that room on that evening, it was soon obvious that there was no television there. Nevertheless, I sat down in one of the old armchairs.

After a short while, a man entered the room. I had never seen him before. He was tall with shoulder-length hair and casually dressed. He came and sat down in one of the armchairs close to me. We then had the most remarkable conversation. What was unusual about it was the fact there was none of the usual introductions of who we were or what we were doing in this place.

Now, many years later, I can only recall asking this complete stranger a single question.

Do you believe in evil spirits?

He showed no surprise whatsoever at my question.

He replied that most certainly they did exist. He told me how he had witnessed a séance or circle of people sitting, trying to communicate with such spirits. He said how watches had stopped and other strange things had occurred in the presence of such people.

At this point I began to realize that I was not becoming insane. The recent events of the past few weeks had begun to make me question even my own state of mind.

I told him how I had been troubled by a strange smell in the bedroom of my home in North London. That smell had suddenly appeared and persisted. Despite a thorough investigation of what could be the origin of such an unpleasant odour, the source was never discovered. Later I was to find out that many years ago in this same Edwardian house a violent death had occurred.

The conversation drew to a close.

Right, I said, getting up from my chair, that settles it. I will go and see a holy man in the mosque tomorrow.

Yes, he said, you do that. His tone was quiet and measured, reassuring.

The following morning I awoke early. I dressed in a dark green suit, a long, ankle-length skirt, and a long-sleeved, loose shirt. I made sure I had a headscarf in my handbag. I crossed the busy Whitechapel Road. It was a hot day in May 1992. I walked the short distance to the Underground station and bought a ticket to Regents Park.

As I sat on the train speeding into the centre of London, I told myself that I must not become distracted from my final destination. I must not get off the train at Knightsbridge and go shopping at Harvey Nicholls or Harrods. I often went there for shopping trips, as this area was a favourite of mine.

After almost fifty minutes, I reached Regents Park station. I had only a vague idea that the mosque was somewhere in this area. I wandered around for a while and finally asked someone in the street where it was. The woman gave me directions but said that it was quite a long walk.

Despite the heat of the day and the swelling in my feet, I remained undeterred. I was absolutely determined that this was the day I would finally get to a mosque.

After some time, I saw the unmistakable copper colour dome of the Regents Park mosque. I had an immediate sense of relief and felt that I would be safe as soon as I entered there. I hastily put on the small silk scarf I had brought with me.

As soon as I entered, a tall, thin man approached me and politely asked me,

Can I help you?

I replied that I wanted to see the mullah. He looked a little surprised and said, I think you mean the imam. I had absolutely no idea about how Muslims organized themselves. Even the word mullah must have gone into my subconscious mind after hearing it from news reports about Iran in the 1970s when I was a schoolgirl in Ireland.

He showed me into a waiting room that overlooked the large courtyard at the entrance to the mosque. It was very hot and a little uncomfortable. I wondered how long I would have to wait. Seated opposite me was another lady. From her accent it was obvious that she was English. We struck up a conversation. She explained that, in fact, she lived in Morocco. She had a husband and children there and had come to the mosque to covert to Islam. I thought how fortunate she was, for I was sitting there, beginning to feel alone in the world. Even though it was not yet official, I knew my marriage was finally over and I had no children.

After a while, the tall thin man reappeared. He said that the imam was ready to see me now. I was shown into a room in which the imam was seated behind a large desk. He was dressed in long, brown robes and a white turban, which, to my eye, gave him a great deal of dignity and an air of wisdom.

I simply said that I had come here in order to become a Muslim. He began to question my beliefs. I told him that of course I believed in God.

Who was Mohammad? he questioned.

I replied without hesitation, He was a Prophet.

Then he asked me the key question,

Who was Jesus? I replied that He too was a prophet.

Looking back now, this was a truly miraculous answer. For all of my thirty years as a Catholic I had been taught that God had a son, Jesus. In fact, the doctrine of the Trinity, three persons in one God, is a fundamental part of all Christian doctrine. And now here I was, sitting in an office in a mosque