For the last ten minutes of my daughter’s gymnastics class yesterday, the teacher quite unexpectedly changed the pace and character of the lesson. Having selected a hideous Euro House/Bashment tune which was made all the worse by the aggressive, deeply cerebral lyricist shouting ‘go, go, go!’ over the top, the teacher played the song through speakers located around the studio at a rather uncomfortable volume. The teacher then proceeded to dance in a manner that required me to lower my gaze, with posteriors and chests flying all over the place. The response of the children was fascinating. Three of the youngest in the class (5 years old) immediately walked out of the studio, preferring the comfort and familiarity of their mothers’ knees to the deep bass lines vibrating around the classroom. One slightly older boy stopped still and focused his eyes on the ground. Despite the cajoling of the teacher and her assistants, he refused to move and would not dance. The three older girls (my daughter included) nervously moved from side to side in time with the music, copying the teacher’s hand and arm movements, but preferring not to imitate the shaking rear end. After a minute or so, the teacher realised that the endeavour was not achieving its objective, and decided to turn the music down a little. She then encouraged her students to run around in circles shouting ‘go, go, go!’, as she shouted instructions to jump, lay down, and do a forward roll. The children enjoyed this. Their primordial happiness was illustrated by the giggles and squeals one expects from young people.
In contrast to the long summer days that have defined Ramadan in the West for the last few years, my first experience of the blessed month was ( mercifully ) during the British winter, with the sunset prayer no later than 16:30. As a second year university student, I was still familiarising myself with both Islam and living away from my parents, and so my Ramadan diet combined biriyani iftars in the local mosque with occasional late night trips to the nearest fried chicken shop to curtail midnight hunger pains. A Muslim friend, Barbar, would knock on my dormitory door thirty minutes before the dawn prayer, and insist I share the food he had readied ( usually a reheated Pakistani dish prepared by his mother, accompanied by a few slices of bread ) . Another friend, Ali, perhaps inspired by my conversion, utilised the learning process I was undertaking as a chance to gain more knowledge about his faith, and would frequently come to pick me up from my dormitory in ord
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