Voice of British Muslim Women

Danila Jonnud, Hampshire

For over a year now, everything has been “From Home”. Work from home, school from home, our community meetings from home, Ramadan, Eid Prayers, Friday Prayers all from home. Everything had to be done from home.

This included our annual Jalsa Salana – a convention usually of over 30,000 people travelling from all over the country, and even the world. Marquees, speeches, mud and rain, dust and heat. Duties to be carried out – accommodating guests on site, being part of the Press and Media team and seeing a journalist’s perspective on this cherished event. An important part of the year, something everyone looked forward to, a point of relatability transcending where people were from, or what part of the community they belonged to.

And then suddenly, the pandemic. Lockdown restrictions implemented meant that holding Jalsa as usual was out of the question. I had never experienced this, though there have been times when Jalsa could not take place, for example in 2001 due to the outbreak of Foot and Mouth disease, which was before my lifetime. Stay home were the guidelines. So now what? As August neared, there was a sense that we should be readying ourselves, and yet we had no need to. Last year, Jalsa consisted of watching Muslim Television Ahmadiyya programmes of old speeches and Jalsa events. And then, throughout the three day broadcast, we saw  addresses of His Holiness Mirza Masroor Ahmad, worldwide head of the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community (may Allah be his Helper), including a special address in the unusual circumstances of a socially distanced hall broadcast live around the world.

This year, due to the easing of restrictions, Jalsa Salana could finally be held, but it still wasn’t completely back to normal. Only few people were allowed to attend, socially distanced, for just one of the days, unless volunteering. They must be double-vaccinated, show a negative lateral flow test, and wear a mask whilst on site. This meant that only a few thousand have attended this year.

While it doesn’t have the same atmosphere as usual, me and my sisters have been able to go over to our grandmother’s house to make our own Jalsa this year while our parents are attending since they are volunteering. Making an effort to dress more nicely, buying our traditional Jalsa snacks, and making the “langar” food that we would have had at Jalsa – all from home.

Jalsa Salana always felt like something that would be there. Something that would always happen once in the year – a time to look forward to hearing the addresses of His Holiness, to meet friends and family during breaks. A time of fun and a sense of togetherness. Our annual convention. Our Jalsa Salana. Memories building each year, while reminiscing over old ones. Family staying over, bringing mattresses down from the loft, and talking so late that it became early Sunday morning. Becoming best friends with someone you might otherwise not see. This was Jalsa. And in 2020 it was cancelled.

So this year, I’m grateful. I’m grateful that I can spend it with my grandparents when I couldn’t last year. I’m grateful on behalf of the people that are able to go and listen. I’m grateful for the MTA programmes showing what’s happening on site, as well as the interesting documentaries in the intervals. We all especially liked the one detailing the acquisition and development of Islamabad in Tilford – a place we grew up going to each week, that once held Jalsa Salana each year, underwent complete redevelopment, and is now the headquarters of the Community and residence of His Holiness.

So here I am. Attending Jalsa from home. Eating homemade “langar” food with my sisters and grandparents while they tell stories of the last Jalsa in Pakistan. Here I am, watching MTA, feeling a little sad knowing only my parents are on site, carrying out duties and meeting people. This is my Jalsa UK 2021 – from home.