After a few months, I was blessed with a small bedsit in a council block. The stairs stank of urine, the carpark echoed with the sounds of drunks singing at night, the side roads were lined with heroin laden prostitutes plying their trade; but it was home and I was grateful for a roof over my head.

A  young Pakistani friend and her Mum, had  adopted me into their family. I would sit cross legged in their living room as the ladies of the family would chat; inhaling every morsel of knowledge that I could. They diligently stood, teaching me alongside the little girls how to make roti (which I could never get quite round), and would giggle as chilli loaded delights would make my eyes stream with tears. I asked my friends to teach me to pray, but they would say ‘Insha’Allah’ and I was left frustrated when nothing happened.

On seeing me coming out of the bathroom one day, my friend looked at me with her eyes wide in horror.

“You didn’t cover your head in the bathroom?” She exclaimed! “ Astaghfrillah (May Allah forgive me).”

“What did I do?” I was confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

She looked me in the eye. “Don’t you know the Shaytaan (devil) urinates on your head in the bathroom – you have got to cover it!”

I went home with fear in my heart and determined to prevent the Shaytaan from doing this disgusting thing to me: But how?

I played with a few ideas. I didn’t want to wear my dubattas into the toilet – they were too long and flowing and I wasn’t good at controlling them. I glanced at my umbrella sitting in the cupboard then dismissed the idea – too awkward. Eventually I hatched the perfect plan. I entered the bathroom, tore off precisely one sheet of toilet tissue and balanced  it carefully on top of my head; then, keeping my head perfectly upright I would try and complete bathroom tasks. Of course, this was a complete disaster. The tissue paper would float off at each tiny movement I made, and I would spend my time guiltily chasing it around and putting it back; seeking repentance when I came out. I practised this for months until I became quite the balancing expert. It was only later that I learnt this practise was a cultural practise and not a part of Islam.

Back in the early 1990’s, the mobile phone was a brick sized yuppie toy; unaffordable for most of us. This meant that the only method of communication really was email (if you were rich enough to have a computer and internet), letter or phones. My only way of communicating with others was to nervously run to the isolated red phone box on the corner with a pocketful of ten pence coins come rain or shine. Late one damp night, as I stood at the phone box, shivering in my wafer thin salwar Kameez, I noticed the man  in the phone box staring intensely at me. He was over six foot, mixed race, dressed in street type clothes and he wasn’t smiling. I paced from side to side, trying to avoid his stare and look unconcerned. I was terrified and cursing myself for coming out so late. Just a few weeks earlier a girl had been assaulted in the very same street.

 I slowly backed away preparing to make a run for home but the glass door shot open and he came halfway out pointing the handset at me.

“Are you a Muslim!?” He barked; his gaze unmoving.

“Yes.” My voice came out as a small squeak; my heart pounding making me feel dizzy.

“Wait right there!” He ordered, retreated back into the booth and dialled furiously.

Now, dear reader, your logical minds are probably yelling ‘RUN NOW! IT’S YOUR CHANCE!’

But I couldn’t and didn’t. Something ordered me to stand and wait. My legs wouldn’t move a single inch. Moments later the man emerged once again, pointing the phone like some lethal weapon.

“Here. Talk to sister Tracy.” He gestured for me to come forward and surprisingly my legs obeyed. He moved aside and I grasped the warm plastic.

“Hello.” I whispered nervously, the man still staring intently at me.

“Hi. I’m Tracy.” The warm friendly voice made me feel immediately at ease and I felt my tense body relax. We talked for a few minutes and arranged to meet for a cuppa the following day in the city centre.

I gingerly replaced the handset, came out and thanked the man who turned out to be a revert brother called Mustapha. May Allah bless this huge hearted brother who runs an Islamic shop called Al Noor in Sheffield and has dedicated his life to helping reverts like me.

And so my constant du’a for knowledge was being answered. I met sister Tracy, and English revert like myself in town for the very first time the next day.

The next stage of my journey had truly begun but a tragic incident was soon to change my life forever…

Food for thought:

Often, when people begin to practise Islam, one of the most confusing aspects is working out the difference between culture and genuine Islamic practise. Many cultural practises are actually opposite to Islam: for example forced marriages or women being second class citizens. If something doesn’t feel like it is logical and fair, or you feel uncomfortable doing it, ask a person who has Islamic knowledge and that you trust to explain it to you. It might be that you learnt culture and not Islam.