Sunday, 15 November 2015

St Yasmin - The Patron Saint of All Sorrows

My Father – Amir the Terrible and his sister St Yasmin of the Vale of All Sorrows

Yasmin, once the darling of the Islington dinner party, curry queen, respected commentator on multiculturalism has built up a lucrative platform for herself as the voice of Muslim womanhood, feminist, leftist, vox populist of anger and outrage. Show her a bandwagon and she’ll eagerly mount it.  

She specialises in specialism and over the years, alarmingly, aunty has become Aunty’s favourite – what better pantomime than a spewing, uninformed colonial banshee for TV screen fodder to play to the masses.  Human flypaper makes for great voyeurism. Over the years she has passed herself off as the go-to  Muslim controversialist , an untouchable -  more  Chicago than  Slumdog . 

I am Yasmin Alibhai Brown’s niece.  I was recently sent an article she wrote for the Daily Mail  last August about how she single-handedly looked after her elderly mother, Jena,  at the end of her life because my father, her older brother Amir,  “abandoned“  them.  She states she finds it hard to forgive him; he  left the burden of responsibility with -  the ever pleasing and compliant St Yasmin of All Sorrows. This is the same mother she described as a prostitute in her whinging immigrant tome, No Place like Home,  in which she described me as too beautiful and troubled for my own good. Yasmin is a fantasist.  

My grandma Jena was complicated.  Yasmin never forgave her for that.  She never forgave my father for being his mother’s son.  Jena was a hypochondriac, mentally unstable, prone to depression and a religious fruitcake – subscribing to the belief that the Aga Khan is the living descendant of the Prophet. She spent hours cross legged on her sofa watching daytime TV , rosary in hand, praying for her children and her grandchildren - in between doctor’s appointments.  She popped Mogadons like M &Ms.

My father was sent to boarding school in Stroud in Gloucestershire, from Kampala Uganda, by his father but he had to go back to Africa aged 14 to become a petrol pump attendant.    Amir, still a child himself, took on the responsibility for his entire family – Yasmin and Zarina, another sister who disappeared into the abyss of mental illness. He cared for them and he provided for them in every way, but he didn’t have a role model or a father figure to learn from – he did the very best he could. 

Controversy as currency is the fodder of many a column here and elsewhere. Rarely in my experience are  lies like hers so close to home the coinage. Years of her lies and abuse of my father have passed, she describes  me as  bi-polar;   she does what she must in order to fill a weekly column   to  stir up hatred and validate the vacuous existence.

  She might as well spread her legs wide and allow whatever passing populist cock to ram itself inside her and  fill her up  so she can  then ejaculate the passing  rubbish deposited in her. This column of weekly spunk. That is what she has become, a media whore, ready for the rape of Mamon and to be pimped by polemic.  

My father would have been 75 this year, however he died 5 years ago this month, I still miss him and think about him daily.

Because he always knew what was right and no matter what far flung mess I had managed to get myself into, he unfailingly helped me to sort it out.   There was a kind of cruelty about him too, he was quick tempered  and often violent, he hit Yasmin, which is not unusual in South Asian families.  I felt the back of his hand on several occasions until I finally stood up to him. He never laid a finger on me again. He hated duplicity and weakness. More about that later.

She alleges that Jena was ignored by my father when he went to live in South Africa in the early 90s. He had to go,  at the height of the recession, to keep his property empire in London from going under, he needed to find new income streams .   He wanted to build something new, he always had itchy feet for the next adventure.  My parents’ marriage was not a happy one and perhaps he felt he could start over in Africa where his life began. Africa is like malaria  - it never leaves you.  

 What she forgets to mention is that Yasmin forced Jena, who raised me and who I called Maa and was living with our family in a comfortable house in Northwood,  to move  and live with her in a flat on Ealing Common to look after her first born, Ari.

Who put down the sizeable deposit on the flat in which she still lives on Gunnesbury Road for Yasmin? My father.

  Yasmin also forgets to mention in her spiteful and inaccurate piece for the Daily Mail that a few years later she threw her own mother out of that flat  when she decided she no longer needed her services as unpaid housekeeper and child-minder. Jena was left homeless but for the kindness of Ealing council and social workers. What was Amir supposed to do from South Africa? He asked Jena to come and live with him but her doctors, her social networks and her life were in London.

The reason Yasmin hates my father and tells so many lies about him is quite different. The truth lies in a random glimpse of her first husband and childhood sweetheart, her beloved “Sky” Alibhai a zoologist on the platform at Baker Street. My father was on the train on the way home and saw him kissing a much younger, blonde woman. That Sunday, Sky and Yassi ,  as she was known before she joined the ranks of the white middle class she so despises – this  double barreled doyenne we know today -  were at our house for lunch. 

My father asked, in his usual direct fashion why Sky was kissing a stranger and why Yassi was tolerating it. Her world came crashing down. Her fantasy life, the safety and security she always craved and thought she had built  were just  an edifice. They hurriedly left.  Sky tried to make his marriage work for the sake  of their child, Ari , but he left soon after and has built a new life with Zoe, the student he was snogging. My father shamed and mocked her for not realising sooner that the weekend zoological trips, the expeditions were forays into quite a different type of undergrowth and  to capture  a particularly  enticing  young specimen..

I stopped loving Yasmin a very long time ago. I was sexually abused   from the age of 9 by older cousins. She knew about it, but did nothing to stop it .  Years later, she was regaled nationally as being the woman who brought down convicted paedophile Stuart Hall. It is easy to live a life in the limelight and do the right thing with the public behind you   and where  plaudits are plenty. It is a lot harder to do the right thing when no one but the family is watching. I blame her for a lot of the subsequent dysfunction I lived in, until I could come to terms with being sexually violated by my own family, and for this to pass unspoken by an aunt I thought loved me and cared about me.

Leave my father’s memory alone Yasmin.  Next time you sit down to write some pathetic victim gurning nonsense,  know that I'll come for you legally. You can't defame the dead but you will learn to respect my right to privacy and to quietly enjoy my family life.

My children grew up with him and they  love him and they knew him. While he may not have been the best father to me, I will never forget the image of him in his boxers and shirtsleeves engrossed in a Lego construction with my son Imran, aged 4  sprawled on the floor in his mansion in Cape Town. Or Imran asking me if we can share fathers because his was a bit lousy, or my daughter’s smile, even when she was a baby, when he came into the room.

He left a legacy of greatness and strength, of charitable deeds that go unmentioned and always will because he didn’t need plaudits or crave publicity. You are one of a kind.  I don’t know many Muslim women who drink, eat pork and are married to a white middle class man – the type she wishes will soon be made extinct. 

Yasmin's dedication to her then fiancee Sky Alibhai

They say that sunlight is the best disinfectant.

 1443 words

© Farah Damji 2015

No comments:

Post a Comment