Azi Ahmed - Worlds Apart: A Muslim Girl with the SAS

O H YES, MY daughters a very good cook. Mum smiled at the three guests sat on the floral sofa.

I pulled the headscarf tight around my head and hobbled over to serve them chai. I knelt down at the coffee table. My knees were swollen to the size of grapefruits underneath my shalwar. The bruises on my arms were hidden by a long-sleeved kameez and my blistered feet were bandaged and covered up with socks. So far, my parents were none the wiser about these marks and bruises, and I wanted to keep it that way.

People coming over to eye me up didnt worry me as much as it used to. I had a very clear view of what I didnt want, but for some reason I still went along with it. I kept telling myself, be normal, be normal, be normal; Mum has a sixth sense.

One of the guests, a man called Majid, reached for a samosa from the plate Id put down in front of him. He looked about fifty, dark, had a pot-holed complexion with a mop of black oily hair. My eyes slid across to his wife who wore large tinted glasses and a white shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders. The combination of her strong musky perfume and Mums air freshener almost knocked me out.

Their son was nestled between them, looking too scared to move. He was a younger-looking version of his father with a potbelly and goggly eyes.

Im sure your daughter is a very good cook. Majid spoke to my mum as if I was invisible. But will she cook for Rajas?

Mum suddenly sat up straight in the armchair. Rajas were one of the highest castes in Pakistan, something villagers like us dont get close to under normal circumstances. But this wasnt normal; this was England. She traced her aubergine lips with an Aztec gold fingernail before answering. Rest assured, brother, my daughter is not the modern type. She attends mosque every day, prays five times, doesnt go out alone

It is amazing the lengths parents go to make their children sparkle in front of others.

I glanced at my dad, who was sitting by the bay window, gazing out at the traffic. As always, he was dressed in his dapper way; crisp beige shirt, hand-knitted cream pullover and Jesus sandals with thick white sports socks. I admired his tolerance; nothing ever got to him and he completely ignored people that talked too much, including Mum. He was my tower of strength.

Majid suddenly roared with laughter at something Mum had said. Mum joined in. Her giggles escalated into squeals, making her sparkly headscarf slip down to expose her frizzy black hair, tied back in a peach pearl bobble.

Majid reached out to Dad, offering him a low five, who in return stared at the hand glistening in oil and bits of pastry from the samosa. He smacked it politely, making Majid roar even louder and elbow his son.

The room became quiet again. Majid began picking the food from between his teeth with a fingernail. I could tell Mum was racking her brains for something to say. She didnt like gaps in conversation.

What did your daughter study at college? Majid asked.

Art, Mum said.

Art? Whats that?

Its a degree.

Shaking his head, Majid reached into his pocket and brought out a packet of cigarettes. If I had a daughter, I would never let her leave home to study. This country is very bad for our girls.

That depends how much you trust your children, Mum retorted, struggling out of the armchair and over to the smoked glass wall cabinet for an ashtray.

I slowly stirred the sugar in the cups, wanting to ram the spoon down Majids throat. I wondered what his reaction would be if he knew I was in the army, yomping a rucksack up a hill and eating out of a mess tin. The thought made my mouth curl up at the ends.

I noticed Majids wife hadnt touched the cup of tea Id put in front of her. Behind those dark glasses I had no idea who she was looking at, but Id decided she didnt like me. Her arms were plastered in gold bangles so I knew that status and appearance were her two driving factors. Every now and then, her head would twitch towards Mums homemade curtains and matching cushions.

Majid waved a match out, caught in time by an ashtray Mum was holding, then he wrapped his fingers around the cigarette like a hookah and puffed a cloud of blue smoke into the clean air.

And Kashif? Mum coughed she was standing above him. Does your son have a degree?

Majid took a long drag before making the announcement. My Kashif runs the family business with me.

Business. Mums eyes sparkled across the room at Dad who was still gazing out of the window. Very good. What business is that?

We own two market stalls selling ladies fashion shoes. I run one enterprise at Ashton market and my son runs the other in Rochdale.

Majid turned and smacked my dad on his back. So, brother, are you a businessman?

Dad cleared his throat. Well, he began, we have the kebab shop next door and I run a butchers shop

These samosas have come fresh from the shop. Mum pointed at the empty plate. Last week I invented a new curry which is hotter than a vindaloo.

Majid looked impressed. What is it called?

Tindaloo.

I began to gather the empty plates to fill the uncomfortable silence.

Are you thinking of expanding your butcher business? Majid asked Dad, stubbing the cigarette out and lighting another.

Well there is a mini store next door run by a Hindi man

Majid cracked up his laugher, rising to hyena pitch. You should offer him a piece of cow meat from your shop. That will get him out.

Dad looked over at Mum then back at Majid. We get on well. Better than our Bangladeshi friends back in the factory days. The war was going on over there, and here we wouldnt speak to each other.

Majid nodded. Yes tough times. Majid took another drag on his cigarette. Its all that Bhuttos fault. If he hadnt been elected wed still own East Pakistan. Thank goodness his daughter was thrown out otherwise shed have given the rest away to that Bush man.

Benazir is a very clever woman, Mum said. Oxford-educated, I hear.

Dad spoke softly. When I was fourteen, I was handed a gun and put on the front line, not knowing whether I would live or die. These days, all the youth care about is who made their trainers.

I looked at up Dad, feeling frustrated that I couldnt tell him about my other world. I understand you! I wanted to scream out.

Theyll soon find out when they get married. Majid glanced round at his son who was now looking down at his hands. A clip round the ear hole will sort them out. I saw something on telly the other day where American children were taking their parents to court for disciplining them. Can you believe it? Allah knows what our grandchildren will turn out like

I closed my eyes to his noise and thought back to the training. The next phase was the hills. I was petrified, petrified of failing. This regiment was now a part of me. It was where I belonged. It wasnt just about earning a sandy beret; it meant so much more. It would mark a great leap forward, change peoples views on religion, gender and the future role of the Special Forces, and I was not giving up even if it killed me.