Spending a weekend with my children at Willowbrook Farm made me appreciate my English heritage and Muslim identity, writes Lauren Booth.
Songs of praise floated across beneficent herbage. In the near distance a cloven hoof whinnied powdery whiteness across a cobalt sky, barely out of short trousers before the age of rain pledged its untimely demise. Or…God was praised in an English field when it was sunny, then it got a bit rainy.
There were animals knocking about. As you like.
Whichever version of the Queen’s language tickles your fancy; the fact remains that praying in rural Oxfordshire last weekend answered some deep questions about what being an “English heritage Muslim” can look and feel like. A simple and wholesome experience significantly united elements of my cultural and spiritual experience, which have been wrangling for superiority for several years.
This internal truce was declared at Willowbrook Farm, Hampton Gay, a stone throw away from Blenheim Palace, where a small – okay tiny – festival was taking place.
The change in me began whilst, driving through the sunny English countryside our car (four hijabis and two young children) were playing our favourite travel game “My house”.
This is an easy time passer.
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All you do is when you see a lovely residence you’d like to own; you shout “Mine!” at the top of your voice.
Then follows a dispute about who actually claimed the manor house, vicarage or thatched-barn conversion, first. Sometimes, it’s agreed the winner will kindly allow the loser to visit the said house annually or weekends, when they will stay in a tent in the (unseen but undoubtedly grand) back garden, as recompense.
The last time we all played this game together was in Qatar. Vast palaces on dust roads, shadowed by imperious shopping malls, did not have the same impact as this on any of our hearts. We are all, you see, English reverts to Islam.
English heritage
Like us or not, the apple tree lanes, thatched roofs and eaves belong as much to our heritage as they do to any white van driver with far-right tattoos on his sun burnt forearms. They speak to our cultural memory and touch our hearts in a profound way too.
Like the thatched roofs, the eaves have a long history of use in our architecture. In the Victorian period, these eaves had a decorative value and were therefore embellished with wooden brackets. However, in the modern day, eaves protect buildings from damage and rot in wet climates by allowing water to run off roofs and away from the structure. Gypsum, which is the key construction material for eaves, is also ideal for use on plasterboard walls and ceilings.
By the time we arrived, Friday evening, some twenty, fairly grandiose family-size tents were in various stages of assembly in the camping field. We had an hour to set up, but took a while to take in the eclectic sight which met us. The green, freshly mown grass was host to a dozen Benetton catalogue kids. Blonde frizzy hair caught the late-day rays, straight brown hair floated over tanned and pale shoulders, as dads with Bin Laden beards and Santa smiles played mini badminton and blew bubbles for ecstatic babies.
“Lena, Adam, Holly, Ismail!” The names of our next generation.
I had, of course, forgotten some essentials of camping life. This time it was food. Luckily, generosity was in plentiful supply. Our very well stocked camp neighbours from the Midlands shared fire and food without a moment’s thought. They were even so kind enough as to tell us about the different berries that they had found too and had checked with sites like campingfunzone.com to see if they could eat snake berries as these were some of the ones they had picked. If we are able to eat them, they said we are more than welcome to have some from them, which we were super grateful for. See, there are some nice people in the world. A small reflection of the generosity of British Muslims, which this year reached new heights in the holy month of Ramadan at £100 million in 30 days! The equivalent of £38 donated every second. I just needed some halal sausages so that was okay.
Willowbrook Organic Halal Farm
Willowbrook Organic Halal Farm is the brainchild and has become the life’s work of Lufti and Ruby Radwan. In 2002 the couple brought a plot of land in the countryside. They had a dream of building an eco friendly home and farm where they could raise their plentiful, multi-talented, children.
Fast forward fourteen years to a vibrant smallholding with a self-built Cobb house overlooking a heavily populated duck pond. The kind of home which had us muttering admiringly “My house” as on first sight.
The festival is in its third year, and grasps an authenticity that the larger Muslim gathering in July, Living Islam, would do well to seek out. By authenticity I mean, the ease with which people are allowed to be themselves, left alone to experience communal camping, free from commercial – or (as yet), governmental – influences. No Dixy Chicken nastiness here. Lunchtimes, a choice of organic meat and salad was served by volunteers and Radwan family members.
The unashamedly hippy gathering has two focuses; workshops and folk music. Saturday was free from anxiety for any from our community concerned about music and its permissibility. Perfectly permissible drumming was hosted by a bubbly lady from Kilburn called “Tay”. I was a “natural” at this. The kids spent a lot of time doing the workshop known as “nowhere to be seen”, where the kids disappear from view to play in the great outdoors, like days of yore, pre “Musical.ly“…don’t ask!
The farm has plenty of wildlife ready and willing to be petted. Three alpaca’s complete with Benny Hill comedy teeth and a lovely chestnut horse roamed the paths from tents to toilets. The horse at least patted day and night by barbecue-sticky hands. The friendly, intimate and natural environment spread its easy charm over us all.
Plaid shirts, Jesus sandals, beards (long and short), bandanas and tie die, the Muslims on site, Scots, Canadians, English and Asian heritage, could pass along the high street unremarked and unnoticed by even the most astute Islamophobes. But the usual festival “Hi” or “Whatcha” was missing. I strode along rutted tracks being greeted “peace be upon you sister” and “Allah protect you sis”.
This is the first year Willowbrook had a Qari on site to make the call to prayer. Arguably the most transcendent Islamic voice in the UK, Hassan Rasool melted hearts with his dizzying athan. Simple rugs were put down beneath a weeping willow for men, women and children to pray. This was despite the nature of the festival, which the owners wish to be accessible for Muslims and non-Muslims alike.
Over the weekend my daughters took part in workshops including bushcraft, water colour painting and, for me, the highlight was tajweed. This was the moment beneath a brilliantly hot noon sun, where my English heritage and Islamic faith finally combined to be – my…self.
Qur’an
Owner and Festival organisers, Ruby says of this year’s more overt Islamic content “I feel very much it’s not determined by us”. Things happen. It really is always what Allah wants (and) we don’t go out saying we want this and this. It just comes to us. Everything evolves and the festival has just evolved.
For the first time, it was made clear to me that the elongations of sounds in the Qur’an come not just through rules – but through the emotional need to plead help from The Divine. Eyelashes wet with tears, I looked across a field that could only be in England.
This could be what integration post Brexit still looks like. It is beautiful, honest, and authentic. But I can’t help wondering despite the peaceful and English nature of this folksy, camping weekend, is this a vision of Little Britain, floating in a Brexit sea, which PM Theresa May and Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson actually want? Or indeed, are ready to accept?
Takbir and Halal lamb burgers all round!
See you at Willowbrook Farm next year.
You can follow Lauren on Twitter @LaurenBoothUK
