Hindsight is a process through which we narrativise the past, shuffle disconnected events into an order, attempting to make sense of randomness. And such hindsight tells me that I lost my faith when I realised that my mother could be wrong.

Through a process of storytelling,half remembered allegories from her own youth, my mother impressed upon me her own brand of aspirational middle class Islam. A kind of armchair activism that seldom took us out into the cold. And I took this version of my mothers faith at face value. Unquestioned and complete. This changed gradually and solidified when I realised that my mother was not infallible. That she was just as flawed, bigoted and human as the people she decried in the name of moral superiority. And if she could be wrong, or misguided, or just mislead how could she speak of religious certainty? As a result my faith fell away from me. And so I return to storytelling; half remembered parables of a sandy youth from the other side of the world served up to my childhood as fact.