Wrestling with Muslim identities 

Isma was going to miss her flight. The ticket wouldn’t be refunded because the airline took no responsibility for passengers who arrived at the airport three hours ahead of the departure time and were escorted to an interrogation room. She had expected the interrogation, but not the hours of waiting that would precede it, nor that it would feel so humiliating to have the contents of her suitcase inspected. She’d made sure not to pack anything that would invite comment or questions – no Quran, no family pictures, no books on her areas of academic interest – but, even so, the officer took hold of every item of Isma’s clothing and ran it between her thumb and fingers, not so much searching for hidden pockets as judging the quality of the material. Finally she reached for the designer-label down jacket Isma had folded over a chair back when she entered and held it up, one hand pinching each shoulder.

‘This isn’t yours,’ she said, and Isma was sure she didn’t mean because it’s at least a size too large but rather it’s too nice for someone like you…

‘You were the manager of a dry-cleaning shop and now you’re on your way to a PhD programme in sociology in Amherst, Massachusetts?’

‘Yes.’
‘And how did that happen?’
‘My siblings and I were orphaned just after I finished uni. They were twelve years old – twins. I took the first job I could find. Now they’ve grown up; I can go back to my life.’

‘You’re going back to your life . . . in Amherst, Massachusetts.’
‘I meant the academic life. My former tutor from LSE teaches in Amherst now, at the university there. Her name is Hira Shah. You can call her. I’ll be staying with her when I arrive, until I find a place of my own.’

‘In Amherst.’
‘No. I don’t know. Sorry, do you mean her place or the place of my own? She lives in Northampton – that’s close to Amherst. I’ll look all around the area for whatever suits me best. So it might be Amherst, but it might not. There are some real-estate listings on my phone. Which you have.’ She stopped herself. The official was doing that thing which she’d encountered before in security personnel – staying quiet when you answered their question in a straightforward manner, which made you think you had to say more. And the more you said the more guilty you sounded…

A man entered the office, carrying Isma’s passport, laptop and phone. She allowed herself to hope, but he sat down, gestured for her to do the same, and placed a voice recorder between them.

‘Do you consider yourself British?’ the man said. ‘I am British.’
‘But do you consider yourself British?’
‘I’ve lived here all my life.’ She meant there was no other country of which she could feel herself a part, but the words came out sounding evasive.
The interrogation continued for nearly two hours. He wanted to know her thoughts on Shias, homosexuals, the Queen, democracy, the Great British Bake Off, the invasion of Iraq, Israel, suicide bombers, dating websites.

Excerpted with permission from Bloomsbury Publishing India. Home Fire is in the Man Booker Prize 2017 Longlist.