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meIn photographs together and with their families, the five men smile or hold onto their loved ones. Over the age of 50, his friendships varied for decades, his passions ranged from philanthropy to cycling, his duties from activism to business. Just over two weeks ago, they were pillars of the Pakistani community in the small Birmingham pocket where they lived, with 41 grandchildren among them. Now they are all dead, victims of the coronavirus.
“We will be lost without them,” said Amer Awan, 44, whose father, Nazir, 67, is among the dead. “They were our backbone, the guardians of our history. It’s great that everyone is gone. ”
As alarm grows about the disproportionate effect of coronavirus on minority groups, the growing number of BAME people has prompted calls for new research to understand the causes and urgent steps to protect those who appear to be most at risk. But in areas with large minority populations like Small Heath, Sparkhill and Hall Green, individual grief is reflected in a broader loss: the disappearance of a generation of men who are remembered by those who loved them as central to community life.
The five victims, close enough to be frequent guests in each other’s houses for tea and gossip, present a tragic list of risk factors for the coronavirus: all male, all elderly, all of Asian descent, some with underlying health problems. In interviews with The Guardian, family and friends reflected on dozens more in the community (middle-aged Asian men living in historically impoverished areas) who also died and on the legacy that has accompanied them.
“His generation came when the times were much more difficult and they laid the foundation for us,” said Amer Awan. “Without them we would not be where we are today. They were fighters.”
In addition to Nazir Awan, Choudhary Aslam Wassan, 67, Miah Zaffer, 80, Umar Afzal, 71 and Jawad Iqbal, 50, they all died last month. The men lived and worked within a 10 mile radius. Their deaths, their families say, suggest that the claim that “this disease does not discriminate” is hollow.
The group was often seen together at charity events and celebrations, with several of them members of the local Labor party. They were entrepreneurs and politicians, and employed large numbers of local people in their businesses. But most of all, their loved ones said, they were strong family men whom others sought guidance and advice.
Amer’s father, Nazir, 67, was a billionaire businessman known for his philanthropy. The former director of the Birmingham Chamber of Commerce, who once chaired the Birmingham Asian Business Association, founded Awan Marketing International as a cash and transport wholesaler in 1976, and it still operates to this day.
Sutton Coldfield’s grandfather and enthusiastic biker of six fell ill with a fever in late March and was taken to Good Hope Hospital in north Birmingham. Within hours of arriving at the hospital, he was put on a respirator, but he did not recover and died on April 8.
Just 10 miles away in Acocks Green, his friend Umar Afzal, the older brother of Nazir Afzal, the former Crown Crown Prosecutor for North West England, lost his life to the virus the same day.
A certified speaker and interpreter who specialized in translating Urdu and Pashto into English, Afzal is believed to have contracted coronavirus during a visit to his 91-year-old mother while she was being treated for pneumonia at Heartlands Hospital in Birmingham. After testing positive, she was told to stay home since she had no underlying health problems. He died there.
“These guys are the ones who sacrificed so much for our communities and put us on the map. Their generation was a different class of people and what they accomplished was phenomenal: we have lost the heads of our community and our history has gone with them. It’s terrible, “said Amer.
Nazir Afzal echoed his thoughts. “This is a generation of men, people, that the communities have come to trust,” he said. “There will be a reckoning when we realize the consequences of this: losing a generation of leaders, peers, and role models.”
The children of Choudhary Aslam Wassan, a popular and charismatic former pioneer and food business political activist, Miah Zaffer, the first to die for friends on March 23, and Jawad Iqbal, a businessman and political activist, the youngest of friends to die – also spoke of their pain. All five men lost their parents in just 17 days.
Wassan came to Birmingham from Pakistan in the 1970s, at age 21, with his brother Ashraf, and dedicated his life to the city. He defended local Labor activists, including Khalid Mahmood, now MP for Perry Barr, and Waseem Zaffar, now Cabinet Member for Transport and Environment for Birmingham City Council.
Zaffer, a former factory worker, had been retired for several years and was described as “incredibly popular.” A well-known socialite, he would spend much of his time with his family and friends returning to Pakistan for up to five months each year.
Iqbal’s company, Overseas Express, was one of the oldest money exchange companies in the city. He was also a member of the Hodge Hill Branch Labor Party, community activist and sponsor of the annual Mega Mela Festival.
All of the friends came from nearby villages in Pakistan, with some of their friendships forged as children. They were sometimes seen daily and often met at local events and family celebrations. Their friendships were built on mutual respect, family members said, describing the warmth between them as built on an understanding of what each had accomplished.
“They would always be near each other’s houses drinking tea and talking about everything,” said Wassan’s son Zia. “And they always sat together at events chatting, and every time there was a photographer you could guarantee they would be in the picture. They were very kind, they always wanted to do things for others. “
In the Small Heath area of South Birmingham, reminders that these men were far from alone are everywhere. In a temporary morgue in the parking lot of the Jamia Ghamkol Sharif Central Mosque, large piles of empty coffins are piled up.
In just a few weeks, the funeral service at this mosque only catered for approximately 70 deaths, of which there were 40 confirmed cases.
The administrator of the Ahsan ul Haq mosque said that some days they were collecting up to five bodies. Muslim coronavirus victims were transported from hospitals and placed in coolers inside a tent before they were buried according to the Islamic religion.
He said: “We had to do this because of Covid-19’s high Muslim death rate. To keep coronavirus deaths separate from normal, we set up a morgue outside. Each refrigerator can hold up to 50 bodies and we can store 150 in total, but God forbid that really happens. “
Another mosque administrator and volunteer, Mohamid Zahid, 52, who suffered personal loss as a result of the pandemic, burst into tears as he described the days he spent moving bodies with other volunteers.
“We have been on the front lines collecting bodies from hospitals and preparing them for burial. I know of brothers and sisters who have died, people who have lost their parents. Some days he was in the cemetery two or three times a day. Entire families are being eliminated, the previous generation is being eliminated. I literally just moved a body before I called. This is not something we recover from, “says Mohammed.
It is anathema to these communities to suggest that they do not socialize, Nazir Afzal said, and this could have a role to play in how the virus has been able to take control and wreak havoc.
Amer agrees and goes on to say that some still do not understand the seriousness of the situation, or are unable or unwilling to adhere to government guidelines.
“This is not just a kind of devastating coincidence. There is a reason why we are falling like dominoes: we are not taking this seriously enough,” he said. “People are breaking the rules, some of the things I’ve seen are shocking and we have to stop. This, all these deaths of my father and his friends, surely have shown how vulnerable we are. I’m afraid for us when that second peak comes. “
