Nazir Afzal - The Prosecutor: One Man’s Pursuit of Justice for the Voiceless

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Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing,
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Copyright Nazir Afzal, 2020

Cover designed by Estuary English
Author photo Nazir Afzal

Nazir Afzal has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published by Ebury Press in 2020

penguin.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781473571488

To our children

The sweltering heat is what I remember most. It was 1976, one of the hottest years on record, and that day the sun beat down particularly fiercely on Birmingham. The air on Hobmoor Road shimmered like burning paraffin. I was on my way home from school and had stopped to take advantage of some shade, wiping the sweat from my forehead, when I heard the shout from across the road.

Oi, Paki, hold up!

I stiffened and looked up, seeing three boys across the street. They were quickening their stride and heading towards me. They were bigger and older than me, probably at least sixteen. I was only thirteen but, with enough experience to recognise the threat they posed, my body took over. I felt the adrenaline surge straight to my feet.

Without looking back, I began running as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

My arms and legs pumping furiously, I tore along the pavement. Looking frantically for an escape route, I cut across the road diagonally, darting towards a side street. I dared to look back and they were gaining on me.

But as I turned, I skidded. A cyclist was coming straight towards me and, dodging out of the way, I tripped on the kerb, rolling onto the pavement. They were upon me in a flash. A flurry of punches knocked me to the floor, the metallic taste of blood immediately filling my mouth. I curled myself into the foetal position, clutching my head with my hands as all three of them began booting, stamping, attacking me in a frenzy.

What saved me was a minicab, screeching to a stop in front of us and blasting its horn. As the three of them fled, the taxi driver jumped from the car and ran to my side.

You OK? he asked, helping to lift me. My ankle was badly twisted, and my face was swelling so quickly that already I couldnt see out of one eye.

He whistled and shook his head.

Theyve sure done a job on you, he said. He offered to drive me home.

When I got there, it was Dad who opened the door. There was shock in his eyes as he pulled me inside. He held onto me for a minute, studying the bruising on my face. Dont let your mum see you like this, he said, as he guided me upstairs to the bathroom.

He was silent as he washed my cuts and bandaged my head to stop the bleeding, dabbing at my face with a foul-smelling antiseptic cream. He didnt need to say anything. He knew.

They shouldnt get away with this, I said, finally. I wanted to go to the police, I told him. I knew what they looked like, and I knew they were breaking the law. He furrowed his brow as I spoke.

I want justice, I said.

Dad sighed. Id heard that sigh before. He seemed exhausted. Thats a lot of big talk, he said slowly. The law. Justice. Police. What do you honestly think will happen, Nazir?

I didnt know how to answer him.

The police are not interested in you, he said, softly. They dont care about us. Justice doesnt mean anything to us. Just make sure you dont walk home alone from school next time. He dabbed away at my face. Stay one step ahead of them, right? Because there is no justice.

I wanted to challenge him, to tell him that he was wrong, but I couldnt. My mouth seemed to be on strike.

There is no justice.

Maybe he was right. And maybe, deep down, I knew it too. It wasnt the first time this kind of thing had happened, and I certainly wasnt the only person in my community to be attacked for the colour of my skin. The blows kept coming. Why now did I suddenly think the law could help me? Whenever I caught the ball in rugby at school, kids would shout, Get the Paki!, slam me to the ground and grind my face in the mud. And every time, I had kept quiet. When a group of boys at school ripped the sleeve off my new school jacket, Id not only held my tongue but did my best to hide the evidence from Mum. I raided her sewing kit and inexpertly sewed the sleeve back on. I didnt want my parents to know what was happening to me, and I certainly didnt want them to think that I couldnt handle the abuse I was getting. Even if they probably knew all along.

But this time, I had realised something. Racism wasnt a test I had to pass. It wasnt something I had to put up with. And I certainly wasnt going to spend the rest of my life running from abusers.

There, all done, Dad said, taping a gauze patch above my eyebrow. Get some sleep and dont think about them. Theyre not worth it.

Later, when Dad came in to say goodnight, I asked if he could leave the hall light on. I couldnt sleep that night, and its soft glow crept under my door. I stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed, the warm breeze floating through the open window along with the muted sounds of the neighbourhood. Dads words rattled around my mind.

There is no justice.

I tossed and turned in my sheets. But peace wouldnt come. I lay for hours, my mind racing. And I waited for daybreak.

It might not have seemed like it that afternoon, but Dad hadnt always been so sceptical about the idea of justice. In fact, it was the reason that he brought us to England in the first place, and it was he who instilled in me from an early age the importance of doing your best to right a wrong.

Muhammad, or Baba as we called him, worked for many years as a caterer in the British army. Born in what is now Pakistan, as part of his service to the British he had been stationed in India, first throughout the Second World War and then for decades afterwards. In 1960, he was offered the chance to work at a military base in Cyprus. Not long after he arrived, he was robbed of a sizeable sum of money. Under a hot sun in a tent in Akrotiri, he vowed to find the thief and recover what was owed.

Anyone who served in the British army at the time would have known not to mess with the caterers. Char Wallahs had a history of pursuing people across the globe if they didnt settle their tick book, and Dad was no exception. It took him less than year to find out who was responsible and that they were now in England. Never one to hang around, he boarded a plane to Heathrow.