A Reply to Hate: Forgiving My Attacker - David Tucker

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came in briefly to serve us the coffee and then stepped out. She looked absolutely gorgeous and I politely smiled and said that the coffee was very good, only for her to say it was her mother that made it! When we reminisce about our first encounter, Syrsa tells me that she was in fact not very excited about our visit. It is traditional that when meeting a suiter, on the first visit the girl will come in for a few minutes, and then step out. The rest of the family, especially her parents, will get to know as much about you and your family as they can, and then you hope that they will get back to you should their daughter decide that she would be happy to speak to you! Friday we were all waiting for her mother to call and hopefully say that we could come back for a second visit. We waited and waited, and finally we received a call late in the afternoon where her mother informed my aunt that Syrsa was happy to meet with me for another chat. I was over the moon.

      The following day I went alone and knocked at the door. I don’t remember who opened the door for me, but I ended up sitting with Syrsa in that same room on our own for about three hours. It did not feel awkward to either of us, and we just kept on talking about ourselves; well, mostly about myself. I think I fell for her straight away and I could see why my sister was so excited about this girl. When I met her that day, my heart was pounding so hard but somehow, I managed to keep it together. I went again the following day and we chatted for over four hours before we parted company. I suppose she had heard enough by then and both of us had a decision to make, but I had a deep feeling in my heart that this was going to be the one. I could not describe it, but something about her felt exceptional and I was hoping and praying that she thought I was the one for her as well. On the Monday, just a few days after we first met, I asked my father and my aunt to formally request Syrsa’s hand in marriage and on Tuesday the answer came back as yes, Syrsa has agreed. Wow! I was absolutely beyond myself.

      The following few days were extremely hectic as we needed to sort out the necessary paperwork for the registry office. We were officially married a week later. I remember it was a difficult day because we had to find an office that could register the marriage, but that day was a public holiday and everywhere was closed. We eventually found an office that agreed to register the marriage in a nearby little town. My father, Syrsa, her brother and I all went to register the marriage on 14 September 1993, after which we had a modest family gathering. I was in a desperate hurry because as soon as we got married, I needed to start a visa application for her. By then, I was a British national, but Syrsa was Syrian. It was tricky convincing the British Consulate official that we were truly married having met just over a week ago. Just like me, they were having some difficulty believing that this had really happened. It was amazing, it was like a wonderful dream, I was married, and it was all a whirlwind. When Syrsa asks me about those days I tell her that I honestly cannot remember much of the detail and everything still feels like a dream. In fact, she is the one that reminded me of what took place.

      When I look back at that fateful week, I cannot help but be grateful that Syrsa saw something in me that convinced her to take such a decision. Financially, I was not fully on my feet yet, but she later said to me that what struck her about me was honesty and humility. She had many suiters before me, but she felt comfortable and safe with me. Now and again, she teases me about who her suitors were before I came along, saying she married me because I needed looking after! We did eventually manage to sort out the visa application and everything felt as if it was falling nicely into place. Having only taken two weeks off work, I had to get back, and sadly there was not enough time to arrange a proper wedding. In next to no time, I was on a plane back to Manchester, by myself but married. Syrsa arrived a couple of months later. She had her previous commitments too, of course, such as completion of her MSc in Microbiology and she needed to sort out many things because she had never expected in her wildest dreams that she would be leaving Damascus for good. She did actually manage to have what one would call a ‘girl’s wedding’ with all her friends and family, but I was not there. In fact, we never actually had a wedding, and our ‘wedding’ photos were taken when we returned to Damascus together. I had promised Syrsa’s mother that we would travel back within three months, and we had a mini celebration then. When Syrsa joined me in Manchester, she completed another MSc in Microbiology at the University of Manchester before starting to apply for a training post, but she couldn’t get anywhere. After a number of applications, she decided that she was probably better off putting her energy elsewhere. In fact, her struggle finding a training post brought back painful memories of my own journey. When I speak to her about that decision, she tells me that she was happy with it and that she never felt that her role was compromised.

      I passed my speciality exam in 1997 and received my certificate of completion of training, and I became a consultant in 1998. Four years later we moved to Hale Barns, where we have been living since. Within a few months of moving here I got to know many of the people at our local Islamic Centre. As I became more involved with the community, I eventually joined the committee of the Altrincham Muslim Association, where I later served as chairman. I started taking the time to learn more about Islam, so my knowledge of Islam progressed, particularly when I began teaching as part of a study circle. When we were married, Syrsa’s knowledge of Islam was far better than mine, but with her support I gradually picked up. I started delivering sermons at our centre and over time I gained a good standing within my community. I later became involved in interfaith work, getting to know our local synagogues and churches. I regularly represented my mosque on Remembrance Sunday, for example, first attending the Sunday service at All Saints Church before I would proceed with the vicar to the Hale Barns war memorial. There we gathered with other local vicars and rabbis for an interfaith memorial service. We then all proceeded to a buffet at the neighbouring synagogue. I also had the privilege of serving as the mayor’s chaplain for two years, where one of my duties was to open the council meetings with a prayer. These meetings took place on a Wednesday evening after my clinic. I would dash over there in the car arriving just in time to give the prayer, and I would occasionally stay and observe these meetings as I found the political ramblings invariably amusing. I built a number of lasting friendships over these two years.

      I suppose all this is to say that by the time of 2017 when I was attacked, perhaps I was not just some random guy. I was well known in the area, in my community, my local churches and synagogues, from my work at the hospital and with our local council. Still, I had never felt like I was, or could be, a target. Until, of course, that fateful day.

      The Attack

      It was Sunday, 24 September 2017. We had a committee meeting at the Islamic Centre I attend which was scheduled to take place immediately after Asr prayers, the mid-afternoon prayers, at 17:30. As it was towards the end of September, there was a fair bit of gardening to be done, and that meant being home for longer on a Sunday doing what was necessary with the garden. Consequently, I was running slightly late, so when I got into my car and saw the time was just short of 17:30, I knew I would be a couple of minutes late. I drove along Hale Road, down Delahays Road and onto Grove Lane, a short journey of only a few minutes from home. Along Grove Lane, as I approached the Centre, I looked for a place to park but by then most places were already taken. I drove further up the road, turned back, and eventually found a place on the opposite side not too far from the Centre, probably about a hundred yards or so. I locked the car, went to cross the road—I parked on a narrow strip with a bend so had to look carefully as I crossed—and walked past a few houses before entering the mosque. We don’t normally refer to the Centre as a mosque as essentially it is a community cultural centre, with just part of it used for prayers. Originally, it was a church known as St. David’s. Built in 1915, it is already past its centenary and probably it is well beyond its sell-by date, so to speak. The centre has two buildings: the daily prayer hall on the left-hand side as you go up the entrance path, then towards the end of the path is the larger back building; our activity hall. For the five daily prayers we routinely used the smaller left-hand hall. At the front of the Centre there is a set of waist-high iron gates, a number of iron fence panels and a few mature trees. The two buildings are set on a slight elevation, so you have to walk up a slope between the entrance gates and the hall doors. We had CCTV cameras installed a few years ago following several racially motivated attacks.

      Having crossed the road, and as I was walking towards the Centre, I spotted someone on the other side of the road no more than 50 yards

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