Eliza Begum, Bridal Florist
The seventh of seven stories by Writer & Anthropologist Delwar Hussain, author of Boundaries Undermined, who grew up in Spitalfields
Eliza Begum looks like she is buried under flowers. There are large bundles of roses, gerberas, pink lilies, gypsophila, hydrangeas and chrysanthemums everywhere. This is nothing new. For the last eight years she has been making wedding bouquets from the dining room of her house just off Brick Lane.
This time, however, the order is slightly different. A secondary school in Plaistow is organising a prom night for its final year students and they want flowers – a lot of them. Eliza explains that the theme of the prom is “summer” so everything has to be colourful and bright. They have ordered one hundred and thirty-seven buttonholes, wrapped and pinned with foliage – one hundred and five single red roses, wrapped and ribboned – ten large bouquets and three massive table arrangements.
“I usually make bouquets, corsages, buttonholes, garlands, large displays with fresh flowers, bedroom decorations and headdresses. Holidays and weekends are mental and the main wedding season is obviously spring and summer. It is particularly buzzing then because everyone wants to have their weddings at the same time. I have bookings three months in advance, but then there is always a surge and I often have to refer clients to other bridal florists. Someone will always call me up and say that they need something ASAP. Or two days before an event, I will receive a message saying that they want to add ten more buttonholes to their list. They don’t understand that I have to pre-order the flowers, so then I have to find them somehow. When things get really chaotic, I enrol my husband into it as well. He has become quite nifty at putting the flowers together for buttonholes.
I like working with a client to create the overall look. I work from pictures, ideas or themes that they bring to me. Mostly people tend to want red and white colours. Carnations are durable, so I use them if someone has a particular sort of colour theme. I use celosia, which look a little like velvety brains. At the moment, I am using a lot of peonies and gerberas. The latter come in bright colours, but they don’t last very long. Orchids are my favourite. Each plant is different, unique. They come in all shapes, colours and sizes. They take a lot of skill to grow. I had a white orchid shower bouquet for my own wedding some years ago.
I do an in-house service which involves making fresh flower canopies, draping them around the matrimonial bed. Someone recently wanted me to decorate their horse-drawn carriage. The vehicle itself was like the glass one Cinderella had in the fairy tale. The bride had an image of herself being totally immersed in flowers and emerging out of the carriage with the flowers tumbling out with her. But I couldn’t do it because she called me only a week before the event. I told her that I needed to pre-order the flowers which would take some time and that the carriage hire company may not even give permission for such a thing. In the end, she settled for strings of flowers instead, which I think looked much better.
Since the recession, the price of flowers has gone up and they are much more expensive than what they were. I think it has become harder for people to weigh up the costs and benefits of them. Having said that, people tend to spend quite a lot of money on their weddings anyway and the recession hasn’t changed that. I’ve noticed that people want their flowers to look standard and uniform. They don’t want them to look natural. They don’t want their flowers to smell either. They say it may clash with their perfume, or that they suffer from hay fever.
I got started in it when I was eighteen years old and my older sister was getting married. She wanted a particular design for her bouquet and we went to a florist for a quote. They were asking for eighty pounds. I was shocked and thought I could make it myself. So I did and continued to do so.
I was working as a youth worker at the time and started teaching the young people how to do flower arranging. I was then hired to do various different youth projects related to flowers. From that, people began asking me to do their weddings. It was around then that I also did a professional training course as I wanted to know what I was actually doing.
Afterwards, I would get my flowers delivered directly from Holland. I was young and new to the business and got a little nervous by the large amounts of flowers coming in. I didn’t know how to store them all. I decided to change my flower dealer and to go to the New Spitalfields Market in Leyton and Columbia Rd Flower Market instead. It is much more expensive buying in such a way, but it is less wasteful and I can get the precise numbers that I need.
I have built up a great rapport and relationship with the sellers at Columbia Rd. I have been going there for years now. I can call them before hand and ask them to get me something, or some of them even save me flowers that they think I would like. The advice they give me is really useful too – information on storage, cutting, dying roses blue for example, how to make them last longer, that sort of thing…”
Buying flowers at Columbia Rd Market
To commission flowers from Eliza Begum email eliza25@hotmail.co.uk
Photographs copyright © Sarah Ainslie
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ENVOI FROM DELWAR HUSSAIN
“I would like to thank you, readers, for allowing me to bring to you some amazing stories from East Enders. I really look forward to the next installment.”
Portrait of Delwar Hussain copyright © Lucinda Douglas-Menzies
Sina Sparrow, Graphic Illustrator
The sixth of seven stories by Writer & Anthropologist Delwar Hussain, author of Boundaries Undermined, who grew up in Spitalfields
The first time I saw Sina Sparrow’s graphic illustrations was on the staircase of the Hackney Picture House last year. It was a dark, winter’s evening and I had been to see a film on my own. I was walking down the stairs when a series of black and white images leapt out at me.
The illustrations were striking and they were attached to the wall using bulldog clips. All were of men in various states of nudity. Some of them were embracing intimately and others kissed. A few of the drawings had captions with wry comments and observations. They looked like graffiti from toilet walls, but they seemed more thoughtful, considerate, melancholic even. One was of a topless man captioned “He sleeps with everyone but me,” with a heart coloured-in beside the figure.
I tell Sina this when I meet him in Limehouse where he lives and works from his bedroom. He runs Debbie, a monthly club in Bethnal Green, and is tired and sleep deprived. He laughs, which he does easily, often and with volume, telling me he remembers that exhibition vividly – he had split up with a boyfriend and was feeling heartbroken while hanging those pictures on the staircase. “I stood back and looked at my work and thought ‘all of this is so sad. I really hope people connect to it and think it’s fun,’” he recollects, again laughing.
Much of Sina’s work is autobiographical, excavating his own store of experiences, desires and fantasies. It concerns a range of observations on relationships, break-ups, sexuality, pop-culture and loneliness, and also upon the ordinariness of life, the enigma of coincidences, the nature of attraction, the inherent difficulties of living in London and our relationship with technology.
Growing up in Surbiton, Sina was writing and reading comics from an early age. “I love words and pictures and found comics exciting. I was into superheroes such as the X-men, Wonder Woman, Thor, Superman and Batman, Cloak and Dagger and the Justice League. I found the characters all really attractive because they were really powerful and beautiful, and they were fighting for social justice at the same time.”
Sina initially drew his own comics based upon what he was reading and he gave them away to people he knew. Then, around the age of sixteen, he discovered that there were others who were making and photocopying their own zines, and this led him to take his own material more seriously. In his work, he began to address what was happening in his own life, exploring matters to do with identity and bullying – the latter, he says, was especially pivotal.
“I went to an all-boys school and there was a lot of homophobia in the air. I didn’t have very many friends and was bullied quite a lot. Much of it centred upon my sexuality. At the time I didn’t even know what I was, but this did not matter to the bullies. What this period allowed me was a lot of time to work on my art and creative writing. Reading comics such as X-Men helped – this story about mutants is essentially a metaphor for race, sexuality and other forms of difference, and the ways in which people react to that.”
“Boy Crazy Boy” was the first of these zines, taking a sardonic look at everyday incidents which Sina experienced. One of his stories was about a boy Sina had crush on. One day, the boy invites Sina to his house, which he is over the moon about until he discovers that the crush’s boyfriend is there as well, when he didn’t even know he had one.
Sina’s parents are both academics who initially encouraged their son’s enthusiasm for comics but, when it seemed like he wasn’t growing out of them, they became anxious about it. “Comics were thought to be slightly regressive, in relation to ‘real’ art and literature.” They also grew uncomfortable by some of the content when, at thirteen, Sina’s biggest influence was a series called “Love & Rockets” by Mexican-American brothers Gilbert & Jaime Hernandez about two punk girls in a lesbian relationship.
Sina went to art school and did a degree in illustration, but he says it made him feel lost and disillusioned with his work. It took a long time to get back to making comics again. He did a series called “Art Fag – Tales of Love and Loneliness that could be yours,” and a zine called “Pretty Boys Ignore You” which is a series of illustrations that he did in the bars and cafes of Shoreditch and Soho, imagining the stories of strangers he sat next to.
Sina’s work is honest and frank. “It’s about feelings, ambiguous and sometimes negative feelings – I think it is important to talk about the darker side of life,” he admits – but he also hopes his illustrations make people laugh and connect emotionally through humour. “The more specifically I speak about my own life and experiences – ironically – the more universal my work becomes,” he suggests, “Straight people can look at it and say, ‘Oh that’s really romantic’ or ‘I feel like that too.’”
“I don’t want to be hot or cool or – or fabulous,” he said, “I just wanna be me.”
But there was something inside him that burned gently and bright and strong
Drawing for The Melting Ice Caps album cover
Portrait of musician Owen Duff
Sina Sparrow
Illustrations copyright © Sina Sparrow
Photographs copyright © Jeremy Freedman
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Beekeepers On The Isle Of Dogs
The fifth of seven stories by Writer & Anthropologist Delwar Hussain, author of Boundaries Undermined, who grew up in Spitalfields
What was once the caretaker’s yard at George Green’s School on the Isle of Dogs is now a beautiful and thriving community garden, abundant in plants and flowers, as well as fruit and vegetables. It is fringed on all sides by tall trees and even taller high-rise blocks that overlook it. Beside one of the far walls of the garden, I meet three figures, dressed in white. Their heads are covered in white helmets with protective meshing over their faces. Resembling astronauts from a sixties science-fiction film, they hunch over four wooden structures – inspecting, examining and searching. These are the beekeepers, checking one of their hives for an elusive queen bee.
Thirty-year-old Lee Diep Chu is a newly qualified teacher and one of the volunteers in charge of the bee colonies here. Lee is a native of the Island and a former student at George Green’s School. Growing up in the eighties, she says that much of the area was derelict with not much going on. The British National Party were very active then and, coming from one of the small pockets of Vietnamese and Chinese communities, Lee says many people lived in fear. But slowly, from the mid-nineties onwards, it began to get better. There was more funding for local-government initiatives focusing on the Island and a lot more being done for young people at the School too. Beekeeping emerged out of this particular history of deprivation and development on the Isle of Dogs.
The excitement in Lee’s voice as she explains the world of the honey bees is obvious and infectious and, soon enough, it is easy see why. “If we can’t see the queen, then we look for signs of her eggs and larvae which is what we have been doing,” she explains, “The colony itself knows very quickly if it is queen-less. They can smell that she is no longer there. This means that they go into emergency mode and will quickly rear another queen to replace the missing one.
At first, I thought ‘Ooooo, bees. A bit dangerous, aren’t they?’ It is obviously a common fear. But now I am fascinated by them. I feel very attached and protective over the four colonies that we have set up. I come here after work and on Sundays, smoke the bees or simply watch them. None of us volunteers are experts by any means, we just like doing it. It’s a group effort and really therapeutic.
The colony is like one, large animal and can be seen as a single entity. When a new queen is required, she is chosen from amongst all of the other bees. The colony will feed the chosen one royal jelly for sixteen days until she hatches and continue to do so throughout her adult life. This enables her to grow larger and fatter than the others. Afterwards, flies into the air and mates with around ten male drones. From that one session, she is fertile for up to five years allowing her to lay between fifteen hundred to two thousand eggs a day, which she drops into cells.
The worker bees usually begin their lives as house-keeping bees, keeping the hive clean. Some will nurse the new born, their sisters, and produce wax in order to build new combs. Others will guard the hive from intruders such as wasps or hornets, but also larger creatures. Towards the final stages of their lives, the workers forage for pollen and nectar. Whilst the queen can expect to live between two to five years, the life span of the worker bee on the other hand is around six weeks. They eventually die of exhaustion. Contrary to popular belief, it isn’t much fun being a queen bee. She is a slave to the colony. Her job is to just lay eggs. If the queen doesn’t do what is expected of her, the other bees will simply kill her off.
The colonies are made up of female bees. The male drones are expected to mate with queens from different hives – they don’t do much else and are pretty useless. In the winter, the females will kill the males off, or at least keep them away from the hive. Then, there will only be a few thousand or so of them left, keeping the hive warm and the queen alive. As beekeepers there is little else we can do to help them then. We try and keep viruses down, such as the varroa virus which is deadly and we give them sugar solution and fondant, but other than that, we just hope and pray that they make it through in to spring. This will be the start of the mating season, when the cycle begins all over again.”
The decline in the bee population have been a cause for concern for a while. Across Europe, estimates suggest that bee numbers have more than halved in recent years, with some species of bees already extinct in the United Kingdom. This is particularly troubling as bees are not just required to produce honey and wax, but crucially to pollinate a third of the food we eat – including many varieties of fruit, vegetables, plants and crops.
Lee explains that “Colony Collapse Disorder” is connected to the overuse of pesticides and new agricultural techniques which are fatal for bee species. However, bee populations in London are thriving. “We don’t know precisely why this is, but it may be because the bees are not exposed to insecticide in the way that they are in the countryside.”
“What about the pollution in London?” I ask, “Why it is that insecticide affects them but pollution doesn’t?” “We don’t know the answer to this,” Lee replies, “yet it could become an issue further down the line.”
Honey has many medicinal benefits, but using locally-produced honey is even better for allergies and especially Hay Fever – since it is local pollen that causes the irritation. Lee uses the honey they get from their bees to treat her own Hay Fever. At the moment, like the rest of the produce grown in the garden, the honey produced by the Isle of Dogs’ bees is used in the George Green’s School café. The local pub and some restaurants also sell the honey, and Lee hopes to sell it more widely.
Manda Helal – Beekeeping volunteer
I am a gardener and I wanted to learn more about bees. I heard there will be a problem with our food if we don’t have enough bees. I like the slowness of it all. Watching the bees, being busy, busy, busy. But the honey itself weighs a tonne – it takes strength. They all look so happy. You don’t see them as individuals, but as a collective. It’s all of them working together that makes it work. If they were to break off from the rest, it wouldn’t work. It’s fascinating.
Jules Robertson – Beekeeping volunteer
Jules is another volunteer who looks after the bees. I used to live in one of the tower blocks that overlooks the garden. I heard about the real crisis that bees are in and that urban beekeeping was the way forward for their survival. There is something about the biodiversity of London that means they can thrive here. So I went looking all over the place for somewhere to do beekeeping. It came as a shock that I didn’t have to go far at all and it was just on my doorstep.
Lee Diep Chu has just written to me to say that one of their hives has reared a new queen which has begun laying eggs, something they are all very excited about.
Photographs copyright © Colin O’Brien
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Naz Choudhury, Bollywood Dancer
The fourth of seven stories by Writer & Anthropologist Delwar Hussain, author of Boundaries Undermined, who grew up in Spitalfields
If ever a real-life Bollywood story was to be set in East London, it should be based upon Naz Choudhury’s own life. It has all the ingredients required – a story overcoming real adversity, demanding steely determination, involving dooshoom dooshoom (Bollywood parlance for fisticuffs), plus glamour, music and dance – a generous amount of it.
Naz grew up in Pauline House, the most distinct of the sixties high rise tower blocks off Vallance Rd and – for some – a by-word for misguided, outdated urban development, poverty, crime-ridden dilapidation and social alienation.
From here, the thirty-year-old has become an extremely successful dancer, producer and entrepreneur. He began dancing at family functions and weddings from the age of thirteen and then got involved in local dance events, which he says he never took too seriously. With his mother’s help, he started dancing at annual mela festivals all across east London.
“The dance I do is a form of world dance. It takes its influences from western dance forms and mixes it with that of eastern styles. When you look at what I do, it is urban bollywood, latin bollywood, commercial bollywood which is what most people know, as well as traditional kathak, bharatanatyam and bhangra. I have always enjoyed the freedom of dancing. I enjoy putting on the stage charisma, making people smile, the crowd appreciating what I do, making them go ‘wow’!!
I learnt the language of dance myself. I am full-on self taught. I’ve never had a teacher. What this means is that when I hear a beat, it tells me to move a certain way. It determines whether I go hard, soft, or smooth. I let the beat take me and then I just freestyle, do my own thing.
My biggest influences are Michael Flatley, Coach Carter, the Bollywood actor Salman Khan and Rocky Balboa [the fictional character played by Sylvester Stallone in the Rocky films]. They are all of my inspirations, Balboa especially because he fights for everything he does. I always think, if I can’t beat myself in order get a step up, what is the point in being here.”
In 2000, Naz attended an audition for a Bollywood dance show in Leicester Sq alongside seven hundred other hopefuls. It was for a place as a backing dancer in a spectacular Bollywood performance at Wembley Arena with celebrities and stars from the Bombay film industry. He was seventeen years of age.
“I kept thinking that I was a normal guy from East London. But for two months, I practiced hard on a routine in my bedroom. My neighbours have never really complained. I don’t practice late and I usually play the music on my headphones. After I performed it, I could hear the clapping and the smiles on the judge’s faces. I knew I had done well. I got a place on the show. I went home and practised the moves that we were to do. I was going to master it and be the best. During the rehearsals that followed, the other dancers, who were all older, would come and ask me to help them with the counts. On the night of the show, I met famous actors, actresses and models. It was all so glamorous.”
This jump from dancing at local events in the East End to performing in front of thousands of people was incredible, Naz says – bigger than what he would go on to achieve later in his life. After this, things just blew up, he says. He did a second show and then another one. There were thousands of people attending them. Soon after, Naz formed his own dance group which toured all across Europe.
But, as quickly as everything took off, the jobs fizzled out. He remembers coming back to Pauline House from Spain where he had been performing and found there was nothing else. “How does one go from such a high of feeling alive, to coming back down to earth,” Naz wondered. He suffered from depression for a while. However this was not going to be the only trial he faced.
Naz found local people turning against him because he danced. “Boys from local religious groups would mock and abuse me. I would have massive groups of them threatening and trying to provoke me. It was never a small group of people. They would call me names, say that I was being gay by dancing and a kafir [a non-believer]. They said dancing was wrong. It was against Islam. Some of the stuff they would say was really insulting. I suppose it is because I am different. I am not the same as everyone else around me.
I won’t forget what they did. I had put my blood, sweat and tears into this and here were people trying to stop me from doing what I wanted to do. There was a period when I had to move out of Pauline House because it got really bad. It was becoming a huge challenge to fight these guys whilst at the same time, to fight for work.
But then, being an East London boy, I was never going to back down and let them get away with it. I would also go and throw down with them. I created my own support – I also had people who would take a punch for me or throw one if needs be. Other dancers would come to my support, as would my older brother and his friends. Eventually, I think I won people over. The funny thing is, now some of these guys want to come to my shows and want to shake my hand when they see me.”
Naz picked himself up and started doing small workshops in the borough. Teaching nine to fifteen-year-olds the dance moves he had learnt and mastered. One summer, he trained around forty of them who worked so hard, that he managed to get them a gig at the Millenium Dome. “They killed the performance,” he says, “We all danced our hearts out.”
This proved to be one of the most important moments of his life. From that, he got another booking where he danced with Bollywood superstars Shah Rukh Khan, Arjun Rampal and Shilpa Shetty. The Pakistani popstar Atif Aslam headlined. From 2007, Naz decided to produce his own show. At his first attempt, he sold out the Albert Hall. He was twenty-three years old. This is what he does now, organising large Bollywood, all-singing, all-dancing super shows.
“I love being from where I am. Having my family, my friends and the drama around me. This is my natural habitat. I live in a world that is surreal, glamorous, but I still live with my family. I love it. I feel accepted here and don’t need to please anyone. My mother has constantly helped me. She has always wanted me to be more than I am. I don’t want to show her the stress, just the glamour. But of course she knows that its not all easy. I have achieved all my dreams. I’m just enjoying everything I do now.”
Naz Choudhury at Pauline House
Portraits copyright © Phil Maxwell
Kalina Dimitrova, Cellist & Bookseller
The third of seven stories by Writer & Anthropologist Delwar Hussain, author of Boundaries Undermined, who grew up in Spitalfields
Kalina & I sit in a corner of the Brick Lane Bookshop, enclosed by the titles of Alexander McCall Smith, Zadie Smith and the Gentle Author. “I like getting lost in books,” she explains, sporadically playing with a set of keys in her hands and her unruly hair. “I enjoy escaping into stories and not wanting to talk to anybody. I read a lot in French and English, usually fiction and some non-fiction too.” One of the first novels she read in English was “An Equal Music” by Vikram Seth. Set in London, it is about an illicit love affair between a pianist and a violinist. The book has particular poignancy because Kalina is not only the manager of the bookshop, she is a musician herself.
As well as being raised on a musical diet of Beethoven, Shostakovich, Schubert and healthy servings of opera, Kalina’s parents often took her to classical music concerts in Sofia. There was a lone Beatles LP which belonged to her father but, aside from this, she listened to very little else other than classical music until her teens. Schubert’s “Arpeggione Sonata” for the cello became formative and her favourite. At the age of five, when her parents asked whether she would like to learn to play an instrument, Kalina chose the cello – a decision she has never regretted.
She describes the sound as similar to the human voice. “It has a low register and a high register, like a person speaking.” It was also the shape and size of it that she took to, like holding a child. I see this myself, when she is being photographed, posing next to her cello as a mother might stand next to a child in a family portrait.
As a consequence of her decision, Kalina took classes several times a week. She also studied the piano, theory of music, and chamber and orchestra music. She eventually earned herself a place at the only music school in Sofia, named after the Bulgarian composer, Lubomir Pipkov. Bulgaria was still under Communist rule then and its people were experiencing hardship. “I remember we did not have items such as bananas or oranges. Music from the West was difficult to get hold of and there were shortages of milk and water,” she admitted to me.
However, with a French mother, Kalina was lucky because her family were not subject to the same restrictions as others, meaning they were able to travel. Every summer, they went to France to stay with her maternal grandmother, providing Kalina with a sense of the world beyond Bulgaria. While away, she would buy presents for friends back home which they could not find in Sofia. She remembers neighbours considered her family to be privileged, wealthy even. But her parents were working people like others, she says.
Bulgaria, like much of the former USSR, was experiencing dramatic change by the time she became a teenager. Just months after the collapse of the Berlin Wall, demonstrators took to the streets of Sofia calling for democratic rule. Kalina was one of these protesters in the throng, marching arm in arm with her father. “People didn’t know anything but Communism,” she says, “We wanted to be able to choose our own government.” The crowds sang revolutionary songs and there was the heady sense of revolt against the status quo.
Yet Kalina was ambivalent as to how much it all concerned her. “At the time, I thought that it didn’t apply to me very much. Remember, I had travelled abroad, but others hadn’t. Many, such as my friends, had never seen mangoes, Cocoa Cola or even people of different ethnicities.”
At the age of eighteen, Kalina had the choice of going to school in France or staying in Sofia. There was no question that she was going to do anything but music. She took her cello to London for audition at the Guildhall. Excitement and nerves were to be her companion. “I had worked so hard for it, practicing for months. I didn’t want to stay in Bulgaria any more – I felt the music scene was stagnant and the political and economic situation was unstable. By then, everyone I studied with was leaving for Germany or America.”
She did a technical exam and played an extract from the First Suite for Unaccompanied Cello by Bach and a second piece by Haydn to show off her abilities, all from memory. “The difficult thing about exams is that regardless of how many months you have practiced, in the ten or twenty minutes that you have, it just has to be the most perfect you can make it.” The years of training paid off. The examiners liked her performance and offered her a four-year bachelor’s degree in music.
The course was to be relentless. Kalina discovered there was a lot more competition than she had experienced in Sofia, likening it to being a professional athlete. “You had to train all the hours and improve each time. I used to practise between three to seven hours each day. It was hard work but enjoyable too.”
But this wasn’t all. Alongside studying, Kalina performed concerts professionally for money, and was a member of a quartet playing wedding gigs and background music at events. She also gave private lessons and did babysitting. This was how she came to meet Bookshop Manager, Denise Jones, and get a Saturday job at East Side Books in Whitechapel before it moved to Brick Lane and got a name change.
Today, Kalina is part of a trio with piano and clarinet, playing Brahms, Beethoven, Faure and lesser known composers. They call themselves “Aubert Trio” – Aubert was the name of her maternal French grandfather who used to make bridges for stringed instruments. “I’ve played in various combinations but chamber music is something I really enjoy. In an orchestra, you are one part of a much bigger group without much of a voice but, in a chamber group, you are usually the only cello. You have a voice and can express yourself, you can say what you want.”
Currently, the trio are working with a composer who is writing a piece for them. Kalina does not practice like an athlete anymore but just an hour or so each day. Considering herself no longer to be a full-time musician, she recognises that she appreciates music much more. “Books and music have always worked together for me. I continue to find inspiration in them both.”
Kalina at Brick Lane Bookshop, 166 Brick Lane
Photographs copyright © Jeremy Freedman
The Mohammedan Sporting Club
The second of seven stories by Writer & Anthropologist Delwar Hussain, author of Boundaries Undermined, who grew up in Spitalfields
In the early seventies, finding themselves barred by whites-only football teams, a group of undeterred British Bangladeshi players came together and formed their own team. Today that team, the Mohammedan Sporting Club, has become one of the most successful sides in the British Bangladeshi Football League, with the current generation of players winning major local and national titles, and even playing in international tournaments.
It is Sunday morning in Bartlett Park, Poplar, which is surrounded on all sides by housing developments with Canary Wharf looming large over the horizon. I have come to see the Mohammedans play. In their white and blue kit, the members are all shapes, age and sizes. It is no longer dominated by Bengali players, reflecting the changes in the East End. Together, the team looks determined to win the match.
From the first blow of the referee’s whistle, the rivals – another local side – the Hackney Probashis, appear stronger and are on the offensive, outmanoeuvring the Mohammedan’s defences. The ball is passed quickly and skilfully between the players, all in red. A deflection here, a twist there. At one point, the ball flies into a nearby garden. Seconds later, it is lobbed out again, straight back onto the pitch.
On the sideline, Mohammedan supporters clap excitedly. They stand around shouting encouragements in English and a smattering of Sylheti. “Come on boys. Get the ball!” one yells. “He’s out of control. Kitha korer be! [What is he doing]” another hollers. “Hit it! Hit it! Shoooot!” To everyone’s surprise, it is not long before no 7 of the Mohammedans scores the first goal of the match.
As the game rages on, an older man gently pushes a shopping trolley with Bombay Mix for sale along the edge of the pitch. He keeps an eagle eye on the ball, careful to jump out of the way if it comes hurtling towards him. I stand next to some pundits who are discussing tactics. “He doesn’t attack as much, does he?” “Well I suppose he’s accepted his position. With all due respect, he’s not as good as he used to be.”
“It makes a difference to get the first goal of the match,” Juel Miah says, pleased with the way his side is playing. A central mid-fielder, he is currently out of action due to injury. He says that the Mohammedan is a legendary team, likening it to the Manchester United of the British Bangladeshi Football League. A few years ago however, there was turbulence as the older players began retiring and the younger ones took over, but the fortunes of the team have stabilised since then.
“I’ve been a part of the team since I was sixteen. We’ve had good times and we have had really tough times. I love being in the team – the passion, the competitiveness. We have a really good set of friends. Any issues that you may have in your personal life, you forget them on the pitch. When you are playing, it could even be against your own brother – which in the past I have done – the important thing is that this team is your family. We have known each other for so many years and we look out for each other. Everyone sticks together. We have a really good bond.
I support Tottenham. When I was eight, I got the application and was due to try out for the team, but I didn’t go. At the time, British Bengalis didn’t think playing football could be a real job. This is changing a little with the current youth – some are really good players, but they don’t try to become professionals. Uni and education is what people focus on.”
Back on the pitch, one of the Mohammedans kicks the ball into the bushes to kill time. The game plan, one of the pundits explains, is to tire the reds out before giving them a chance to score. Though there is no swearing, the game is not always polite. Whilst tackling another player, no. 5 of the Hackney side is kicked in the leg and is on the ground. The match stops for a minute or two as the referee looks into it. The game resumes. Later, there is another slight altercation. “If you wana do it, we can do it, yeah,” a player challenges, throwing dirt from the pitch onto the back of an opponent. The ref. intervenes and has a cautionary word with them both. Seconds before the half time whistle is blown, the Hackney boys manage to squeeze a ball passed the net, leaving the Mohammedan goalkeeper stunned.
During half-time, over the prerequisite oranges and chewing gum, the manager gives a quick debrief. “Don’t get dragged down to their level,” he says, “you are better than they are.”
“The problem,” another says, “is that we get the ball, make a few passes but then it goes up straight into the air. For the final part, we need quality. As soon as you get it, look up.” The team looks pensive and nervous.
The heat is on in the second half. This time, the blues are on the offensive. With heart rates up at optimum, they narrowly miss out on a number of potential goals. Another one of the reds is down, but it is hard to know whether this is a diversionary tactic, playing for time or genuine. The injured writhes around on the ground, face in agony. The game is stopped again as the ref. sorts it out. Soon enough, the player is up and running.
At one point, the linesman awards a free kick to the reds. The ball is lined up and a powerful kick sees it flying in the direction of the Mohammedan’s goal. A player jumps to header it. Another throws his leg up into the air, outstretched in the same direction. The two look like they will have a meeting, but by the fraction of a second or the split of a hair, they manage to avoid a collision. The ball lands on the ground and finds itself in a tangle of legs, ever threatening and edging towards the goal. It is niftily thwarted.
“Keep pressing, keep pressing,” a fellow team mate barks. In the last few minutes, the Mohamedans score a second goal. The supporters clap jubilantly. A red striker, finding an opening, makes a final attempt, but it goes wide off the post. The final whistle is blown and the blues win, 2-1.
They don’t call it a game of two halves for nothing.
Craig Tomkins, 25 – Striker, mid-field
I am a semi-professional football player, I signed up with the team earlier this week. This is my first game with them and I scored the first goal of the match. It gives you a boost to do so. I looked where the wall was and the keeper had no chance. I don’t understand Bengali but I’m sure I’ll pick it up. I am happy to bring my knowledge and ability to help and teach the other members.
Kamal Khan, 28 – Fall back, right
I joined the Mohammedans because it was my local team. I was fourteen and was part of the senior team by the time I was fifteen. It’s my second home. From a young age I wanted to stay fit and to see my friends. I think I will play a bit more and then I aim to coach. Our team needs a youth team to keep the legacy going so Iqbal, the goalie, and I have set one up. It helps to keep the kids off the streets as well, stops them from going astray. We have around sixteen to eighteen players and have to turn many more away.
Iqbal Hussain, 25 – Goalie
I’ve been part of the team for around ten years. I’ve always played in the same position, it is a very important role and one of the biggest responsibilities. It allows me to play to my strengths. It’s important to have a youth team to sustain the structure and the ethos of the team. We haven’t had this sort of structure in the past. It helps our senior team too with new players coming in, maintaining our reputation.
Sadique Ali, 28 – Left-wing and Manager
A friend introduced me ten years ago. The manager at the time tried me and I got into the B team. I slowly moved up to the A team. The team is a family, we have known each other for so many years. I played in New York some years ago and got the Most Valued Player award. I got lucky. I get a buzz from it. Last year we came fourth in the League and, if we can keep our players fit this year, we definitely have a chance of winning it.
Dmitri Larin, 25 – Centre back
The game was alright today. Although the team was not on-game in the first half, the second half was ours and we got a few more breaks. Eventually, I want to play professional football.
Raju Miah, 28 – Centre, mid-field
I haven’t been playing for four or five seasons. I’m taking a break as I have a groin injury, but I’m hoping to be back in the winter. I’ve been with the team since I was sixteen or seventeen. I have played for other teams in that time but I have always returned. I like the unity and friendships – we stick together. We have history and a lot of other sides envy us. We are trying to get non-Bengalis in to the team, but we also want to keep it local.
Melvin Simpson, 25 – Centre forward
It was a good game. I scored the second goal of the match. This is my first season with the team and I’ve already met a lot of interesting people. I usually play in the Uxbridge league, but playing in the summer league keeps you match fit for the winter.
The Mohammedan Sporting Club
Photographs copyright © Jeremy Freedman
Arful Nessa’s Sewing Machine
The first of seven stories by Writer & Anthropologist Delwar Hussain, author of Boundaries Undermined, who grew up in Spitalfields
Arful Nessa with her sewing machine table
Rather than the sound of Bow bells, I was born to the whirring of sewing machines in my ear. Throughout most of my childhood, my mother did piecework while my father worked in a sweatshop opposite the beigel shop on Brick Lane, stitching together leather jackets for Mark & Spencer. The factory closed down long ago.
Initially my mother’s industrial-grade Brother sewing machine was in the kitchen, in between the sink and the pine wood table. But it took up too much space there and was also considered dangerous, once ambulatory children started populating the house. It was decided that it would be moved to one of the attic rooms on the top floor of our home, following the custom of the Huguenot silk weavers of the past. There the machine lived and there my mother would be found hunched over it, during all hours of the day and often late into the night. She says it was most hard on her back and shoulders, which would ache from the work.
“The men used to work in the factories. I preferred to do it at home because it was less work compared to what they did. They had to work harder,” she explains, “I began before the children were born. I wasn’t doing much at home, so I thought I should try it and earn a little money. Other women were working as machinists then and an old neighbour who had lived on Parfett St taught me how to operate the machine. I couldn’t do pockets, but I did pleats, belts and hems on skirts for women who worked in offices. I took in work for a factory on Cannon St Rd that made suits and another on New Rd that made blouses.”
For a while my mother sewed the lining into jackets and winter coats, working for a short Sikh man who had a clothes shop on Fournier St. He had quick steps and a bunch of heavy keys dangling from the belt on his trousers. The man still owes her money, she recalls. He would give her wages in arrears, promising to pay, but it never materialised. Following him, she worked for another man, who also did not pay. “Where would you go looking for them today?” my mother asks, “Everyone we used to know around here has left. So much has changed.”
I remember the almost-sweet smell of the machine oil, the thick needles, bundles of colourful nylon yarn, piles and piles of skirts in all shades and sizes, the metal bobbin cases and the sound of the sewing machine. When the foot peddle was down, the vibration could be felt throughout the house. Strangely, this provided a sense of comfort – the knowledge that my mother was upstairs and everything in the world was as it should be.
When I was around twenty, my brothers and sisters and I colluded with each other to get rid of the sewing machine. It had lain dormant in the attic room ever since my mother gave up taking in piecework some years previously. The work had slowly become more irregular and less financially rewarding. “When I first started, I was able to earn around seventy-five pence per skirt, then towards the end, when there were many more women working, it dropped to around ten pence per coat.” These were also the days when much of the manufacturing in East London was being shipped out to parts of the world where there was cheaper labour, including Bangladesh and Turkey.
With my mother’s working paraphernalia left as it was, the space resembled Rodinsky’s room – he was the mythical recluse who once lived a few doors down from us in the attic of 19 Princelet St and who had disappeared one day, leaving everything intact. I had an idea to turn our attic into a study, installing my PC which my mother had bought for me from the money she had saved from sewing. With a separate monitor, keyboard and large hard drive, it was almost as big as her Brother sewing machine.
She had always been a hoarder, so we knew that getting rid of it was going to be a delicate and difficult matter. We had given her prior warnings, but these had fallen on deaf ears. Then one night, when she had gone to bed, my siblings and I crept upstairs and, with a lot of effort, detached the head of the sewing machine from the table. Huffing and puffing, we carried it down three flights of stairs and delicately dumped it at the end of our street. We did the same with the table base.
Of course, she discovered the machine was missing the next day and was incredibly upset. She had “spent one hundred and forty pounds on it,” she said. “It still worked,” she said, “why had we not told her, she could have given it to someone at least, instead of it being thrown away” and “what had she done to deserve children who were so wasteful.” After that, I forgot all about the Brother sewing machine that once lived in our attic.
Recently, I returned from a research trip to Dhaka. I am currently writing a book about the people of that city and had interviewed garment workers about their lives and fears. I came home and was speaking to my mother about it when the subject of her earlier life as a machinist came up. And then she announced her revelation.
My mother and our Somali neighbour had managed to rescue the sewing machine from where my brothers, sisters and I had thought we had discarded the thing. The two women had somehow managed to shuffle the table base along, scraping hard along the pavement. But instead of bringing it back to the house, they took it to the neighbour’s, where it was to stay in the garden until they decided what to do with it. The machine head on the other hand was far too heavy for them to carry and they abandoned it.
This disclosure had to be investigated. My mother and I immediately knocked on our neighbour’s door, and asked if it was still there. The neighbour led us to the garden where, hidden behind wooden boarding and tendrils of ivy, we found the sewing machine my mother had spent so many years working on.
Considering it had endured years outdoors, it looked like it was still in relatively good health. Bits of it, such as the bobbin winder and the spool base were slightly rusty, but the address of the showroom on Cambridge Heath Rd where my mother bought it was clearly labelled and the motor looked in working condition.
She is still upset with my brothers and sisters and me for throwing it away. This confused me. “Why would you want to hold onto something that is a source of oppression?” I asked, high-mindedly. “The machine helped to feed and educate my family,” she answered quietly.
My mother then reminded me that my aunt, her sister, also had a Brother sewing machine and made skirts for many years from her kitchen in Bethnal Green. We went to speak to her. She no longer works as a seamstress and has resorted to keeping her dismembered machine on the veranda of her ground floor flat. The table now stores pots and pans, baskets containing seeds and drying leaves. The head was in the bottom drawer of a metal cabinet next to it, wrapped up in a Sainsbury’s shopping bag. My aunt still has some of the cloth which she would make into skirts and she showed me the pleats on a piece of salmon-coloured material.
“Most of the women in this block worked for different factories and one of them taught me how to do it. I worked for a Turkish man on Mare St for around seven years. I would get started around 7am after the morning prayer at 6am. I can’t remember where the skirts were being sold, but they were for well known shops in the West End. In one day, I could work on fifty or sixty pieces. Some days I made around a hundred. I received around forty or fifty pence per piece and could earn around three hundred pounds per week. But it was all irregular, nothing was fixed. My children would help by cutting the loops off when they got home after school. There is no work anymore, but I kept the machine in case I needed to fix things. It still works.”
While I took notes, sitting on the chair she would sit on whilst working, I could hear dregs of conversation between the two sisters, comparing the quality of oranges in Bethnal Green market to Asda and Iceland, as well as recalling what happened to other women whom they both knew that had worked as seamstresses. This industry, now gone, is a piece of the thread that joins the past with the present in the East End and, in turn, unites the people who have come to make this part of London their home.
My aunt with her sewing machine in Bethnal Green
Arful Nessa
Photographs copyright © Sarah Ainslie
You may like to read Delwar Hussain’s other story about his mother
