From: Andrew Johnson
Date: 2006-07-06 14:17:29
www.mirror.co.uk/new… I’ve added empahsis to the key paragaphs. 6 July 2006 7/7 VICTIM’S BOYFRIEND CONFRONTS BOMBER’S FATHER GOUS ALI, the partner of July 7 victim Neetu Jain, held an extraordinary confrontation with the family of her killer, bus bomber Hasib Hussain. Neetu, a 37-year-old computer analyst from Hendon, North London, was on her way to work when she was killed. Here Gous Ali describes his search for answers about her murder: ‘ON July 7 2005 I lost my partner Neetu Jain, who I loved dearly. She died on the No 30 bus, blown up by Hasib Hussain, one of the four London bombers. Advertisement He claimed he was acting in the name of Islam. As a Muslim I’m not prepared to accept this. Islam is not about the murder of innocent people. Neetu was an amazing person, very spiritual. It was our family liaison officer called Tony who came round and told us she was dead. It was as if a part of me had been ripped out. Not just me, her family as well. We were all one family. It all came as if it wasn’t happening, it was like a nightmare. Why would four people from Leeds travel down to London to create this nightmare? This question burns inside my head every day. We all live in this country, we all live together as best as we can, with all our differences, all our views and opinions, religions, faiths, practices, and we share that every day and yet they felt they had to go out of their way to kill innocent people. And what have they done? They’ve just created more anarchy, more chaos, more alarm, more hatred, and towards what? Towards a faith which totally condemns innocent killings, which totally believes in peace. To help with my fight against my own ‘ demons and to search for answers I went to Beeston, the suburb in Leeds that was home to Hasib Hussain. There was one person I’d really come to meet – Hasib Hussain’s father Mahmood. I’d written asking him to meet but received no reply. Instead I decided to simply walk up to his door and knock. As I got nearer I saw a man standing outside close to the gate, a Muslim man wearing white robes. I looked directly at him and said: “Salaam Salaam Alakium. Are you Hasib’s father?” He said: “Yes.” Anger welled up inside me. I looked directly at him and said: “Your son killed my wife.” He looked stunned. At first he said he didn’t want to talk to me and stepped back towards the door. I looked straight at him and said: “Do you know who I am? Your son killed my partner.” Now more indignant, he said: “So what are you doing here, then? Why do you speak to me like this? Why do you say my son has killed your wife? Why have you come to my door like this?” But I didn’t care about his agitation. I was still angry. “You haven’t even shown any respect to me by apologising,” I said. The situation was getting heated. Other members of Hasib’s family started coming over and telling us to go away. Hasib’s brother Imran ordered us to leave but his father told him: “Imran stop that, that is no way to behave. We do not behave that way.” I KNEW I had to regain control of this situation. This was my journey and I needed answers. “Shall we start again then?” I asked. “Maybe one day we can sit down and have a cup of tea and talk properly.” Hasib’s father told me: “I don’t mind talking but the thing is, even if Hasib done it, I’m not responsible, my family’s not responsible because we don’t know. “If I knew he could do such a thing I would break his legs – I could, you know, put him in prison, I could do something horrible to him to stop him.” I could see now in his eyes he was torn apart, confused. I knew he hadn’t known what his son was planning. I almost felt sorry for him. This boy he had raised for the last 18 years had planned and executed an atrocity whilst living in his house and he knew nothing about it. I watched the father’s face as the whole horror spun round in his brain. It was too much for him to handle. He couldn’t face it so he slipped back into denial. “I don’t believe Hasib did it,” he said. “No one has shown me any evidence that he did it. I haven’t seen nothing, no DNA, no evidence. When there is a crime you have to have evidence. I have seen no evidence. There should be a public inquiry, then everyone can come and give evidence everyone can come and say what they know. They could do this if there was a public inquiry.” He was in denial. His mind could not accept it and in the background other family members nodded and agreed with the father. Gently I said to him: “But why was Hasib on the bus?” He replied: “Because he was going to London to see friends. “The other three boys he went with, I know them, they were good boys. I think it must have been someone else on the bus, not Hasib. Hasib was a good boy. How can I, how can I lose my son? No way. There is no way. “I mean, if I had to break his legs, right, I could do that if I knew there’s something. But not a shred of evidence or anything that he was involved in it. “Those other three kids were nice people – the families are nice, very decent people to be honest with you, very, very decent people. I know their parents.” He went on: “Forgive me but it’s no good just coming in and saying your son killed my wife. We are, I am, my family, we are in the same position as you are. “I tell you the truth. I am talking from my heart. I can’t say I sympathise with you, with your situation, because there’s no words can replace your loss. No sympathy can do that. “We are decent people. I worked hard all my life. Please, please, please, please, please don’t say it’s something to do with me. If I knew, if my son knew (he pointed to his other son), if my wife knew … we are very very decent people. Hasib was even learning driving, he was planning to go to college – all those plans he had. “On the Wednesday before he left I asked him, ‘Where are you going?’ He told me, ‘Dad, I’m going to London with my friends’ and I know his friends are well behaved people, them three friends, you know. “They used to come here, you know. I’ve not seen them properly but I knew they go to mosque and then everything is the media, saying that they are fanatics and this and that. But to me they seemed just ordinary persons like me and you. WE never ever thought that maybe he’s gonna do this, if we would have seen any change in him, but there was nothing. He didn’t start acting differently. Hasib was just the same as he had always been.” As he stood there telling me about his grief and pain I had to ask: “But can you understand the pain I feel?” He said: “To be honest with you I’m in the same position you are. Every day we are like this, in the dark, not understanding what has happened and while we are in the dark, looking for answers. We are both the same, me and you, we are the same.” I told him: “I can see you are suffering.” As I said goodbye to Mr Hussain, his brother-in-law and Hasib’s brother Imran, I put my hand out to each one of them and each one shook my hand. Reflecting on my encounter, I feel pity for them and feel sorry for them that they had a son living in their house and didn’t have a clue or a feeling that he’s hiding a big, dark secret, that he was going to actually set out to go to London and kill innocent people with three other friends. I think the reason why he doesn’t believe his son did it is because he’s in serious denial. He’s so bewildered and confused and I think he’s still numbed by the whole experience. By the look on his face I could see sheer agony and the same pain I suffer. I think he could see that too. I feel some degree of loss as well for him but I can’t really feel sorry for him because I think his son is a murderer and that will never, ever go away. I now feel a huge emptiness, a huge anticlimax. I got answers to where he [Mahmood] is coming from. He talked more about his loss and his situation than mine. I had nightmares about killing [Hasib Hussain’s] family and suddenly I’m standing next to this chap who … I ended up counselling. I could not bear to be horrible to him. I went away and asked myself: “What the hell did I say to him about my loss? Why was I being nice to him?” I felt more sympathetic when I left. I’ve been fortunate to know an Islamic education and know what the Koran said. I think I might take up his offer to meet again. I feel I have the role in his life to help him understand. I feel pity for the Hussains. I’ve lost someone quite amazing in my life but I’ve got something beautiful to hold on to. They have only got a nightmare to hold on to. I don’t hate Hasib but I will never forgive him for what he’s done and that will always be the case. Maybe I will go back again and look for more answers but now I need to go away and try to heal. The full interview with Gous Ali appears on Real Story: Terror on the Number 30, on BBC1 on Friday, 7.30pm.
