I Nursed His Elderly Mum. He Posted Islamophobic Memes

I was four when we moved into our family home in Bradford, along with my three siblings – all born in the UK – and my Pakistani parents who’d been long-time residents. Some of our most cherished memories are embedded in that community, under that roof and outside on the street, where our neighbours quickly became good friends. My parents became close with one elderly couple in particular who lived on the street, called June and Nigel. When we were kids, we often went round for a chat and a cup of tea, particularly after Nigel died.

When we moved into the area, almost 30 years ago, there were a lot of elderly white couples living there. The demographic has since shifted and it’s now really mixed. But our community has always been so colourful, and on our street it was never seen as a problem. We had a strong sense of community and togetherness; everyone was friendly and helpful. We banded around June once she was widowed and tried our best to support her as she became older and more frail. She had two older sons who had married and moved away who would drop in from time to time, and would always wave or pop in for a cup of tea with our family.

As part of our culture and religion, we’re brought up with the strong values that our elders help to build our foundations, and so we in turn have a responsibility to look after them. My mum would always send me round to check June had food in, do some shopping if she needed it, pick up her prescriptions from the pharmacy or clean the house. I always called June my oldest, funniest friend. Most of all I enjoyed our chats over a cup of tea. I have always had a real fascination with history and stories, and so June would tell me all about her younger days, her experiences in the war, and how she had lost close friends and family over the years. She also taught me how to bake apple pie and make porridge “properly”.

When my dad died, we made sure there was a space at the front for her to come and pay her respects. She turned up with a headscarf as a mark of respect to Islam, our religion, and from then on she always lit a candle for him at church on Sundays. She even gave me a Christian prayer to keep with me – which is still in my purse even now.

When she died, it hit us hard. I miss her still. My job means that I spend a lot of time in churches, cathedrals and other places of worship, but whenever I can, I’m always sure to light a candle in her honour. Since she passed, her sons have been renting her house out, we keep in touch and contact them if there’s any trouble with the tenants or if we’ve noticed something not quite right. If they ever come to visit the property, we have a good catch up, and have them over for tea.

Late last year, my sister passed me her phone and said, “Have you seen this?” Like many sisters, we’re always showing each other funny or interesting things we’ve come across online, so I thought nothing of it. But when she handed me her phone and I saw what was on the screen, I couldn’t hide my shock. June’s son had posted some disgusting vitriol on his Facebook page taking a swipe at young Asian men, immigrant communities and refugees. I couldn’t believe it. I scrolled and scrolled thinking my eyes must have been deceiving me. But it got worse the more I read. All of his bigotry was right there, unashamedly on display for the whole world – including my sister – to see. There was Islamophobic bile, racism, discrimination against various minority groups and a heavy dose of ignorance, too.

I should have been surprised. But in truth, I wasn’t. I just had that hollow sinking feeling you get when someone disappoints your expectations. I suppose you could call it naivety, but I’d assumed that the care and affection we’d shown his family throughout the years would count for something. That maybe, despite the fact he broadly fitted the profile of the anti-immigration Leave voters in the Brexit referendum, his relationship with us would have made him challenge these views. Apparently not.

It really affected me, to be honest. I just kept thinking, ‘Why am I surprised? I shouldn’t be surprised.’ But somehow I still was – I suppose that’s because I had hoped it would be different. And hope is a fairly potent blocker for cynicism.

At first I was angry, I wanted to comment on the posts and call him out on them, but I realised it wouldn’t do me any good. I soon retreated from social media, and tried my hardest not to revisit my cherished memories of June and her family, or let myself unravel them or question their authenticity. But I couldn’t stop thinking about all those times her sons had sat in our living room drinking tea. Had they been genuine? What did they really think of me and my family?

There had been times during my childhood when June had said something slightly off – a racist slur or a generalisation. I was always patient and tried to make her see the other perspective. It didn’t feel malicious. I had assumed – and still hope – that it was a mark of outdated views rather than something more vicious. I know deep down she was good and kind, and she was always my friend. But this experience certainly confused me.

I sometimes wonder what I’ll do next time I see them. It will be difficult to forget everything. Ultimately, I’d like to think I’ll still be friendly, and invite them over for tea. Taking lessons from my parents, who have always held out a friendly hand to others, I know I will try my best to overlook. At the same time, on some level, I’d hope our gestures of kindness might help to counteract their hateful views – but I’m not betting on it. Still, I’d always want to leave an open avenue of communication, just in case they do ever decide to educate themselves… and I’ll never stop lighting a candle for their mum whenever I go to church.

Listen to Nabeelah's story on United Zingdom on BBC Sounds, out now.

@NabeelahMH