Zaid Karim Private Investigator is a full length novel. Previous chapters: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17
Thursday, March 4, 2010 – Early evening
El Valle de Antón, Coclé Province, Panama
When I woke it was Maghreb time. Looking through the glass I could see the outlines of the hills against the purple sky. The covers were cool against my skin, and a corner lamp filled the room with soft yellow light. The orchids on the wall cast delicate, origami-like shadows. Their sweet, lemony scent made me think of being back home with Safaa as she baked lemon bread in our little apartment. I heard voices talking from another room. My mouth was dry and I was ravenously hungry, but I felt slightly stronger, and I wanted to pray.
I pulled the IV from my arm, causing blood to trickle from the insertion point. I tried to rise and actually succeeded in swinging my legs down from the bed, though the effort taxed me so much I let out a groan. A split second later the door opened and Safaa came rushing in. Only then did I notice the baby monitor sitting on the nightstand beside the bed. She’d been monitoring me from the other room.
I gave her a sidelong look, my expression hard. “Why are you still here? I told you I divorce you.”
She crossed her arms. “No.”
“Yes. I gave you a statement of divorce.”
“No. I won’t let you.”
“What do you mean? I want a divorce. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Yes I can.”
What the heck? Were we kindergarteners now? Were we going to repeat ourselves a hundred times and resort to saying, I’m rubber you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you?
“Habibi, listen.” Safaa came forward and put a hand on my leg. “I made a terrible mistake. I get it now. A marriage can’t survive without trust. I violated that trust when I took someone else’s word over yours. I’m sorry.” She straightened her back, like a soldier at attention. “I’m not leaving. I made that mistake already. I abandoned you when you needed me. I won’t do it again.”
I said nothing, but my mouth turned down and I looked away. Words were cheap. She claimed to trust me now, but I didn’t trust her anymore. I’d always thought the bond between us was unbreakable, that we were a match decreed in the world before this world, and that nothing could separate us. Safaa had proven me wrong. We weren’t special. We weren’t destined for each other. We were just a man and woman thrown together by circumstance. What we had was finished.
“Habibi,” she pleaded. “Say something.”
I said nothing. I didn’t like hurting her, but I was entitled to my feelings. Her apology and tears were too easy. You can’t hurt someone for months then show up one day and say, “Sorry, let’s start over.” Actions have consequences.
“Fine.” Safaa shoved my leg irritably and stood up. “You remember what you always say to Hajar when she knows she’s wrong but won’t admit it? There’s good stubborn and bad stubborn.” She glared at me, and when I made no reply she turned and stalked out of the room.
Shortly afterward Yusuf came in with a tray of food. There was chicken soup, rice, lentils, baked sweet potatoes and mushrooms, and yogurt. “Yasmeen prepared this. She says these are good post-surgery foods. She used to be a nurse. That’s how we met. I was hospitalized for appendicitis and she cared for me.”
“That’s cool, ma-sha-Allah. I get the feeling she doesn’t like me much though.” As I talked I ate, and it was heavenly, as if I had never tasted food before. The soup was hot and tangy, the potatoes buttery and salty, the yogurt cool and sour. SubhanAllah, how had I ever taken food for granted?
“She doesn’t trust you. She’s afraid you’ll drag me into something dangerous or illegal.”
“Which I already did.”
Yusuf smiled. “You’re my brother. You’re like family. Do you know the name of my company?”
I thought back to the Google search I’d run back in the Los Angeles airport, a lifetime ago. “Yuza Construction.”
“Do you know what it means?”
I shrugged. “Some kind of indigenous word?”
“Think about it. Yu. Za. What two names do you know that start with those letters?”
I stared, then laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“You saved my soul, Zaid. You changed my life. Everything I am I owe to you. From the very beginning I envisioned the two of us working together. Stay here in Panama. I’ll make you a partner in my company. You’ll be well cared for.”
“I don’t know anything about construction.”
“You could learn. Or I could make you head of security. Loss prevention, background checks. That’s up your alley. There’s plenty of work.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Está bien. So tell me, what can I do for you?”
“Well. I’ve lost all my documents, and I have no idea what happened to Anna’s passport. Her mother probably sold it.”
Yusuf nodded. “I have a contact at the American embassy. I’ll reach out.”
“I have another request. Kind of an odd one.” I told him about an old man sitting alone in an apartment on the worst street in Colon, playing an imaginary trumpet.
My old friend smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.” He paused, then said, “You know that your wife loves you, right?”
My face became a blank mask. “I’m done with Safaa.”
“Zaid.” Yusuf put a hand on the back of my neck and pulled my head to touch his forehead to mine. Then he kissed me on one cheek. I grimaced but took it like a child under assault by an over-affectionate uncle. What was with these Panamanians and their relentless physicality?
“Do you know,” Yusuf said, “how loyal she’s been to you? When she found out about your condition she was here the same day. Not the next day hermano, the same day. You were at Punta Pacifica Hospital then. We all stayed at my apartment in the city while you were recuperating, but not Safaa. She never left your hospital room. She slept in a chair at night, and sat at your bedside during the day. She recited to you from the Quran and talked about Hajar and how much she loves you. That’s a loyal woman.”
“Akhi, you don’t know,” I said hotly. “She accused me falsely, sided against me, kicked me out of my home, denied me access to my daughter, and treated me like something she scraped off her shoe. I tried for months to reason with her, and then…” I made a helpless gesture. “I ran dry. The well ran dry.”
“I get it hermano, I do. In the name of fairness she should get what’s coming to her. In the name of your righteous indignation. In the name of punishing her. But what if I were to say to you, in the name of love? And more importantly…” He paused momentously, as if he were about to deliver the last line of the Gettysburg Address. “In the name of Allah.”
I froze in the middle of chewing a mouthful of beans. What could I say to that?
“Do you remember,” Yusuf went on, “what you used to say to me in prison, whenever I would express my fear that my family would not understand my conversion to Islam, my wife would divorce me, my daughter would see me as a stranger? You used to say, do it for Allah, and trust Allah to do for you.” He winked as if he knew he’d just made the winning move in a chess match. “So. In the name of all those other tings, no. But in the name of Allah? I leave you with that.”
I put up a hand. “Hold on.”
Yusuf paused, raising his eyebrows.
“What I do with my family is my own affair.”
I sighed and changed the subject. “Did Niko leave a number where I can reach him? Or an email or something?”
Yusuf hesitated. “Maybe you should let him be. He’s been through a lot.”
“What do you mean? Is he angry with me?”
“No, nothing like that. You know what, it’s fine.” He drew a black smartphone from his pocket and handed it to me. “His number’s in the contact list.”
When I was done eating I scrolled through the contacts on the phone until I found Niko Tiburon. I dialed, and a moment later a child answered with “Aló!” I asked in Spanish to speak to Niko. A loud clattering ensued, as if the phone had been dropped on a table or the floor. I heard children’s’ voices shouting and at least one child laughing hysterically.
“Aló?” a voice said. It was Niko.
I grinned widely. “I need a driver. Just a simple job, a few hours only. Are you available?”
Niko laughed. “Mister Zayn, you are awake! Gracias a Dios! But I think you better find someone else this time, Zayn. My wife want to either kiss you or kill you, she don’t know which.”
“Kill me I can understand, but why kiss me?”
“Because of my son, Zayn! Because of Emanuel. He can walk! He had the operación, Zayn, he can walk! Gracias a Dios!”
I tipped back my head and sent a prayer of thanks to Allah. What a miracle. What a blessing. “That’s wonderful,” I said. “That’s amazing, Niko. I’m so happy for you and your family.”
“Is all thanks to you, Zayn.”
“No. Thanks to God. Listen Niko, as soon as I’m well I want to come visit you and meet your family.”
“Oh.” Niko’s voice dropped an octave. “No is possible, Zayn. I am very busy with work and my family. But you must know that I will never forget you. You are a hero from the novelas, just like I say before. You change my life.”
“So… I don’t understand.” I hardly knew what to say. “I won’t see you again?”
“I am afraid no, Zayn. But is okay. You have a job too, yes? You must take Anna back to Los Estados Unidos.”
“Yes. That’’s true. Well… okay, Niko. Congratulations again on your son.” We said our goodbyes and hung up. I sat there staring at the phone. Everything Niko said made sense, so why did I get the feeling that he was hiding something from me? That there was something important he wasn’t telling me?
Setting the phone down, I threw off the covers and carefully lowered my legs to the floor. My left calf was missing a chunk of muscle, as if a dog had taken a bite out of it. My toenails had not grown back, and the nail beds were yellow, red and purple in places. They looked disgusting.
There was a walker beside the bed. I leaned on it heavily as I stood and made my way to the bathroom. The walker had a built-in seat and I had to stop twice to rest. But I made it.
The bathroom was lovely, with teak cabinetry, a natural stone floor and shower, and a huge mirror lined with flat brown stones. It smelled of lavender. Looking at myself in the mirror, I was shocked at my appearance. A scar came out of my hairline and ran from my right temple, across my eyebrow to the bridge of my nose. I had no idea how I’d gotten it. I didn’t remember being wounded there, but much of what had happened on the island was hazy, and for that I was grateful.
I’d lost much of my muscle tone and was dangerously thin. My ribs showed beneath the skin. My beard had grown out. I looked like a man who’d been living in the forest for the last ten years.
The skin on my left shoulder was a mass of twisted flesh. A long, red scar ran up my left arm where the drug house thug had slashed me.
And my legs… the skin on the front and inside of my thighs was like a map of the chaotic streets of Panama, but a map drawn in scars. There were scars on top of scars, scores of them. Many were red, some pink, while the least severe had begun to fade to white. I shivered and closed my robe, not wanting to remember that terrible time in the torture chamber.
I performed wudu and limped back to bed, where I prayed Maghreb and ‘Isha lying on my back. I was grateful to be alive, but my thoughts were foggy and confused. With my belly full of food, and my ravaged body exhausted from the trip to the bathroom, I fell asleep.
* * *
Friday, March 5, 2010 – Afternoon
El Valle de Antón, Coclé Province, Panama
When I woke the next morning – or what I thought was morning – Safaa was there, reading a book. Seeing me awake, she came to my bedside. She reached out and massaged my leg. “How do you feel?”
I looked at her. Her eyes were so tired they looked bruised. Still, she was beautiful. The humidity down here made her skin glow.
She tipped her head. “Say something.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have the heart to repeat my earlier declarations of divorce. Maybe Yusuf’s words had taken root in my brain overnight. In the name of love. In the name of Allah. Do it for Allah, and Allah will do for you.
“Why is everything a matter of ghuluw with you?” Safaa demanded.
“What-” I cleared my throat. “What do you mean?” Safaa’s Arabic was better than mine.
“Ghuluw. Extremism. Fanaticism. When you loved me, every word out of your mouth was poetry. Now you won’t speak to me at all. You take a case, and it practically turns into a war. Where’s the middle ground?”
“Where was the middle ground with you,” I countered hotly, “when you abandoned me?”
To my shock, Safaa burst into sobs and dropped to her knees at the foot of the bed. She pressed her forehead to my blanketed feet and hugged my legs. “Please, Zaid,” she wailed. “I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise. I’m begging you. I don’t want a divorce. Hajar needs you. I ne – ee – ed y – you.” Her voice broke as huge sobs wracked her chest.
I was utterly aghast. This was not what I wanted. I had never wanted to see Safaa hurt or humiliated. She was a strong-willed and proud woman. Seeing her like this caused me actual physical pain, as if I had a lump of hot coal wedged in my chest. “Stand up,” I said, and it came out harsher than I intended. “Allah yardaa alayki ya Safaa, get up please.”
“Will you – “ Her voice hitched as she struggled to speak. “Will you take back your talaq? I wo – won’t get up until y – you do.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Women didn’t fight fair. I couldn’t bear to see her like this, no matter what she may have done.
“Fine,” I growled. “I take it back. Please, stand up. Please.”
She stood, wiping tears from her swollen eyes. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes,” I said grudgingly.
“So you forgive me?”
I glared at her. “Don’t push.”
“Okay. Do you need anything?”
“Have you and Hajar had breakfast yet?”
“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. But we haven’t had lunch yet.”
“Maybe we could eat together. If you want.” If we were going to be a family again, we might as well start now.
Safaa smiled. “That would be wonderful.”
While she went to bring the food, I struggled to the bathroom again, made wudu’, and prayed Dhuhr and ‘Asr. This time I prayed sitting up in bed. I recited Surat Ad-Duhaa:
He found you lost and guided [you], And He found you poor and made [you] self-sufficient. So as for the orphan, do not oppress. And as for the petitioner, do not repel. But as for the favor of your Lord, report.
I had a realization. When last I had recited this, I’d been under torture in a place of nightmares. Yet Allah had saved me. He’d brought me through. Just as the surah said, Allah had done his part, and now I had to do mine. “The petitioner, do not repel…” I had a petitioner before me, a woman who only moments ago had literally been begging for forgiveness. Allah had shown me mercy, and now it was my turn. Hadn’t my entire life been a struggle for sincerity? What was I doing pushing Safaa away? What was I thinking? Her mistake didn’t matter. What mattered was the choice I now made. I had to find a way to bring myself to forgive her.
When Safaa returned with the food tray, Hajar ran in with her. She hopped up on the bed and proceeded to tell me excitedly about the pony she’d been riding, whose name was Roja. She told me how it would sometimes toss its mane, how she’d learned to brush and wash it, and had even learned to make a special pony treat out of oats, molasses and raisins.
I had taught Hajar a mealtime prayer: O Allah, bless what you have provided for us, and make us among the people of Jannah. Hajar must have taught it to her mom, because Safaa recited it and we began to eat, all of us sitting in my bed. Safaa kept reaching out to stroke my arm. It felt like the old days, and I had to keep reminding myself that I was supposed to be mad at her.
When we were done, Hajar went out to play with her friends, especially Anna, to whom she’d grown close.
“Where have you been sleeping?” I asked.
“Next door. Me and Hajar are sharing a room and a bed.”
“What about Oris and Anna?”
“They’re in Nora’s room. Yusuf’s older daughter. She treats them like younger sisters. Yusuf is trying to locate any family Oris might have. From what I gather, her mother was a prostitute and was killed. She never knew her father.”
“Safaa, I have to ask you something.”
“You know I love you. I always have. But these last several months have been so hard. At times I didn’t have food to eat. More than that, I’ve never felt so alone, not even when I was in prison. You abandoned me, and you didn’t let me see my daughter. My daughter, Safaa. How can I trust you? How do I know you won’t do it again? There are a lot of people who don’t like me. What happens the next time one of them makes up a story about me? How do I know you won’t toss me aside like a piece of litter?”
Safaa looked down and picked at the blanket. For several minutes she did not speak. Finally she took a deep breath and raised her eyes to mine. “When…” Her chin trembled and a tear ran down her cheek. “When we didn’t know if you would live or die, I realized…” Another breath… “I realized that I didn’t know how to exist in a world in which Zaid Karim did not exist. A world without you, Zaid, would be like the sun without heat, or like an empty cave that hasn’t seen the tread of a man in a thousand years.”
I looked at her without expression. “Is my poetry rubbing off on you? You sound like me now, but not as good.”
Safaa laughed and pinched my hand. “Oh, shut up.” She reached out and stroked my beard. “You know what Hajar said when she first saw you with this beard, when you were in the hospital?”
“She stared at you, then she said, ‘Is Baba a Prophet now?’”
I chuckled and shook my head. “I hope you set her straight.”
“Of course. But Zaid, I have to tell you, I’m seeing you in a new light.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… I always knew you were strong. You survived prison. Your entire life has been a struggle. But the way people down here talk about you. Niko said you saved him from drowning. Yusuf says he ‘owes his soul’ to you. His words. And when I saw your body, what those monsters did to you…” She reached out to touch my leg, and though my legs were covered with the blanket I knew she was touching my scars. “When you were unconscious Anna would come in here every day. She’d tell you fairy tales like the three pigs and Goldilocks. She looks at you like you’re an angel that came down to rescue her.”
“No.” I put up a hand to stop her. “Please don’t. I’m not that. I’m not.” I felt suddenly overwhelmed. I couldn’t bear to hear another word.
“Okay then. A ronin lion.”
I snorted. “That doesn’t even make sense. I was hired to do a job and I did it, barely. As for my many failures.” I lifted my palms. “I have to live with them.”
“You asked,” Safaa insisted, “and I’m answering. I always loved you, but I’m not sure I ever truly knew you. You were a cute boy who I liked and who needed me, especially when you were in prison, and your need for me fed my ego. But I admit, maybe in the last couple of years I started to wonder if my faith in you was misplaced. Maybe it wasn’t enough anymore to be needed, so I let myself be swayed by those negative voices. I’m not proud of that. It will never happen again, habibi. It’s like I’m seeing you for the first time. You don’t actually need me at all. It’s all of us who need you. You said I was a mountain in your mind? You, my love, are Mt. Everest.”
I waved this off. I couldn’t stand such praise, because I didn’t believe it.
“But do you trust me that it won’t happen again?” Safaa persisted.
I was quiet a moment as looked into my own heart. Did I? Did I trust her? “Yes,” I said, to myself and to her.
My wife leaned forward and hugged me. I almost pulled away, then my arms went around her and I embraced her with all my strength, which admittedly wasn’t much in my condition. We sat like that for perhaps five minutes, holding each other. Only then, feeling her solidity and the heat of her cheek against mine, and smelling her lightly floral perfume, did I feel in my bones that I had survived the horrors of Ouagadiri Island. Only then did I know that I was alive, this wasn’t a dream, I had a future, and that – no matter where I might be geographically – I was home. Safaa had said that she saw me in a new light now? Fine. We would walk into that new light together.
* * *
I borrowed Yusuf’s phone again and made a few calls. The first was to the Anwars. The call went to voicemail, and I left a message detailing all that had happened, and telling them I would have Anna back to them as soon as I was well enough to travel.
The second call was to my parents. It didn’t go well. My mother accused me of stealing from the Anwars and running off. I tried to tell her about Anna, but she didn’t believe me. When she launched into her spiel of how Allah was punishing her with a son like me, I said goodbye and hung up.
The third and final call was to Jalal. He was overjoyed. He’d been terribly worried. He told me that my office and car were fine. He’d been watering my plants and paying my bills with the checkbook in my desk drawer, forging my signature to do so. I didn’t mind. I thanked him and asked him to pay himself another $200.
“There’s something you should know,” Jalal said. “There’s a controversy going on over you. People are saying that your whole private investigator thing was a con, and you used it to rip off the Anwars. I had a fight with a brother over that. I mean a real fight, they called the cops to the masjid.”
Wonderful, I thought bitterly. Just what I need. “Stay out of it,” I told him. “Let people say what they like.” I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Has Imam Saleh said anything?” I couldn’t bear the thought of Imam Saleh, who I respected so highly, thinking I was a thief. The very thought was like another gunshot wound.
“He gave a whole khutbah about it! He said that backbiting and slander are a serious sin. He was angry, I’m telling you. He didn’t mention you by name, but he said that to drag an honorable person through the mud without evidence is despicable, and to do so in his absence is cowardly. Dr. Anwar walked out in the middle of the khutbah. The whole community is split. Mostly the elders are siding with the Anwars, while the younger brothers are defending you.”
I groaned and covered my eyes. “Okay. Jazak Allah khayr, brother. Aside from all that, how are you doing personally?”
“Oh, you know.” His voice dropped. “Still thinking about Cindy. It’s hard, man.”
“Stay strong. Any woman who would break up with you over your religion isn’t worthy of you. Keep your chin up, keep the faith. Allah will give you someone better.”
“I guess so…”
* * *
I spent the next three days recuperating. I focused on rebuilding the strength in my left leg. I would probably always have a limp, but I stretched the muscle several times a day, and walked as much as I was physically able. The first two days I walked on the estate, moving slowly and using first the walker, then a pair of canes. Safaa accompanied me with a wheelchair, and when I became tired she wheeled me back to the house. The girls often rode beside us on horseback. Yusuf had a stable with a dozen horses, some of which were worth quite a lot of money. Finally, like a shadow, one of the bodyguards – there were three, it turned out – paralleled us.
Safaa and Hajar moved into my room, with Safaa in my bed and Hajar in a smaller bed that Yusuf and Yasmeen brought in. Each night my wife fell asleep with her body pressed against mine, the chorus of frogs outside singing a lullaby.
By the third day I was strong enough to take a walk through town, using a cane rather than the walker. Incredibly, El Valle – as the locals called the town – rested within the crater of an extinct volcano. The fertile soil gave rise to towering trees: mango, papaya, acacia, cocoa and others. Flowers grew everywhere, including orchids, which grew wild on tree trunks. The main road was paved, but the side streets were made of grass. The volcano’s caldera was forested, and water poured out of the valley through two waterfalls.
On the third evening we all rode two golf carts down to the local pizzeria, except for Nora who rode her tall horse. A bodyguard followed in an ATV.
The crispy-crusted pizzas, made with fresh ingredients from the local open-air market, were delicious. We sat in the patio area, watching people go by on the main street. There were families out for an evening stroll, children on bicycles, the occasional bus, and a few drunks weaving their way to or from the local bar. The waitress fussed over baby Zaid, and people from the street called and waved to Yusuf, calling him “Don Jose.” They certainly did not seem to fear him.
I could be happy here, I thought, so far from the North American 21st century, where things were designed to break – planned obsolescence, they called it. I was so tired of a world where everything started with a focus group and ended as plastic packaging dumped into the sea. Everything was manipulated, from cereal boxes designed to attract the eyes of children, to internet memes crafted to go viral. Nothing was real in that world. Human beings were walking wallets, and every idea, product, and bit of information was simply a means to empty those wallets.
Here, a man could breathe. I could stay here with Safaa and Hajar, and be happy. Here, the air was filled with the scents of jasmine and oleander; the food was fresh from the farm or the sea; and people smiled and greeted you like an old friend, even if they’d never met you.
The next day, amazingly, a courier arrived with new passports for myself and Anna. That was some kind of pull Yusuf had – like an 800 pound gorilla. The same day, Yusuf informed me that his staff had located a member of Oris’s family: a paternal grandmother, who lived in the coastal city of Pedasí, located on Panama’s Azuero peninsula. The woman was on her way to collect Oris.
It was time to go home. Safaa went online and booked tickets on a 6 pm direct flight to Los Angeles, connecting to Fresno and arriving at midnight. I had no money, but Safaa’s bank account was flush with the cash I’d sent her, and she had her credit and debit cards.
First, though, I had to see a dear friend. A recently acquired friend, true, and a crazy one, but dear for all that. I borrowed Yusuf’s phone and called Niko again.
The phone was answered by a woman, who I presumed was Niko’s wife Teresa. When I told her who I was, she replied tersely that Niko was not available, and hung up on me. Huh. If he’d told her half of what we’d been up to, then I didn’t blame her. I was the guy who’d gotten her husband shot.
We spent the morning packing. More accurately, Safaa packed her bags, since I had nothing but a few sets of used jeans and short-sleeved dress shirts that Safaa had purchased at a store in El Valle, which wasn’t exactly the fashion center of the Western hemisphere. We loaded our things into Yusuf’s four-door, four wheel drive truck. I wasn’t much help, as I still needed a cane to walk. Safaa, Hajar, Anna and I would leave together, with Yusuf driving and a bodyguard riding shotgun. We said our goodbyes to Yasmeen and Nora, and Safaa fussed over baby Zaid one last time.
I imagined that Oris would have a hard time letting Anna go. She was so protective of the child, always riding near her when they took the horses out, always sitting beside her when they ate. But as I was about to climb into Yusuf’s truck, Oris, who’d been standing next to Nora, ran forward and threw her arms not around Anna, but around me. In my weakened state, that was enough to unbalance me. I stumbled and lost my grip on the wooden cane. I would have fallen if Safaa had not been there to catch me.
“¡Por favor,” Oris cried, “No me deje! Llévame contigo.” Don’t leave me. Take me with you.
I put a hand on the truck to stabilize myself and patted Oris on the back. “It’s okay,’ I told her in Spanish. I almost said, you’ll see Anna again one day, but that would most likely be a lie. I had no idea if Anna would ever return to Panama. I didn’t know what to say that would be true, so I merely said, “You’re okay.” Which, of course, was also not true. She was not okay, and might never be okay.
“No!” Oris insisted, embracing me even tighter. “No los conozco. Quiero ir contigo.” I don’t know them. I want to go with you.
I thought I understood then. The poor girl didn’t know who to trust. I didn’t know the details of the circumstances that led to her mother’s death and Oris being consigned to slavery, but it was obvious that, just as with Anna, everyone had either failed this girl or betrayed her. We were all strangers to her: me, Safaa, Yusuf and Yasmeen, we had all been kind to her but were still essentially strangers. For all she knew, we all might turn out to be monsters. We all might betray her, just as everyone had done before.
Except for me. I’d saved her. She’d seen with her own eyes how I had put my life on the line to free her, how I’d suffered, and how in the end I’d been willing to die to protect her. I was the only one she knew in her bones she could trust.
I didn’t know what to say or do. I stood helplessly with this child still holding on to me as if she’d gone overboard in heavy seas and I were a lifebuoy. I didn’t have the heart to pry her arms off me by force.
At the same time, I could not take her with me. It was impossible. She was not an American citizen, I had no identity documents for her, and I was not her family member.
Nora came over and, speaking gently to Oris, slowly peeled her arms off me. With my heart in my throat, I turned to climb into the truck. Oris screamed and threw herself to the ground. On hands and knees she sank her fingers into the gravel of the driveway and wept. On Ouagadiri Island she had not cried. She’d protected Anna and paid a terrible price to do so, and yet she’d stood as straight and unyielding as a spear planted in the ground. Now, though, she wept as if her world were ending.
My heart broke. I kneeled in the gravel beside Oris, pulled her to me and embraced her. “No me voy,” I told her in my imperfect Spanish. I’m not leaving. “No me iré hasta que digas, okay?” I’m not leaving until you tell me.
We all went back into the house. Yasmeen prepared a snack for the children, and I took a nap. At two o’clock in the afternoon, Oris’s grandmother arrived with a young man in his twenties. They pulled up in a small, dented pickup truck that coughed like it was dying of tuberculosis. The grandmother, a tiny brown woman with deep wrinkles, wore an ankle-length, full-bodied white dress with ruffles embroidered with bright red floral designs. On her head rested a black and white straw hat with a wide brim. By comparison, the man looked ordinary in jeans, t-shirt and sandals.
Yusuf and Yasmeen welcomed them and ushered them into the main living room of the house. The young man gawked at the spacious room, which was several times the size of Safaa’s entire apartment back in Fresno. But the old woman paid no notice to the surroundings, focusing her entire attention on Oris, who had positioned herself beside me.
The old woman beamed at Oris. “Sweetie,” she said in Spanish, “do you remember me? I am your grandmother.”
Oris made no reply. Her slender hand snaked up and gripped my own, squeezing tightly. The grandmother went on to describe Oris’s father. I didn’t understand all of it – the woman’s tendency to drop her final consonants and even entire syllables made her difficult to understand – but I gathered that Oris’s father had emigrated to the United States when Oris was young, and had, according to the grandmother, died of an illness. The young man beside her was Oris’s cousin. When the grandmother stepped forward with her arms outstretched, the child hid behind me.
It turned out to be a long afternoon. By late afternoon, after the daily downpour had come and gone, Oris agreed to take a walk through the garden with her grandmother, just the two of them. I watched through the window as they strolled amid the flowers and mango trees, the grandmother occasionally stroking Oris’s long black hair. They walked for a long time.
When they returned, Oris came to me. “Está bien,” she said. “La recuerdo. Ella fue amable.” It’s okay. I remember her now. She was nice.
“Are you sure?” I asked her in Spanish.
“Yes. But -” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Promise me.”
“If anything bad happens, you will come for me.” Her lower lip trembled. “Promise.”
I nodded solemnly and drew her into a hug. “I promise. I swear it.”
We all stood in the driveway and waved as Oris, her grandmother and her cousin pulled away in the little truck, the engine coughing and sputtering as it went.
“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Safaa asked me.
“I think brother Yusuf will check on her from time to time, and let us know. Right akhi?”
“Uhh, sure,” Yusuf replied. “Yes. I will do that, Insha’Allah.”
* * *
It was dark when we set out for Panama city and the airport. We crossed over the Puente de Las Americas – Bridge of the Americas – and I looked down at the dark width of the Panama Canal. A huge container ship was entering from the Pacific side, its lights shining as brightly as a small city, its sides only a hand’s width from the walls of the canal. These ships, I knew, carried tens of millions of dollars worth of consumer goods. Yusuf had told me that a single ship might have to pay a $200,000 canal transit fee.
I wondered what my hero, Salman Al-Farisi, would make of this modern world with its obsession with purchasing power, fashion, electronics and disposable goods. Salman, who came from a wealthy and influential Persian family and might have become an important figure in the Sassanid empire of the time, but had given all that up in order to seek the truth.
I thought now about the latter part of Salman’s life, picking up the mental narrative where I’d last left off:
During the rule of ‘Umar ibn al-Khattab, Salman was appointed as the governor of Madayen Kisra near Baghdad. It was a city of 30,000 people. Salman received an annual salary of 5,000 dirhams, but he distributed all of it to the poor, refusing to take any for himself. Instead he supported himself by weaving palm fronds into baskets. He would buy a palm from for one dirham, work on it, then sell it for three. Out of those three he gave one in charity, one to support his family, and kept one as working capital.
His dress was a simple gown, barely covering his knees, and it was the only one he owned. His house was small, only enough to protect him from the weather. When he stood, his head touched the roof.
One day on the road, Salman met a man arriving from Syria, carrying a load of figs and dates. The Syrian saw the old man in front of him, who appeared to be a common laborer, and beckoned to him. “Relieve me of this load,” he said. Salman did, and they walked together. They met a group of people. Salman greeted them and they stood up, saying, “And unto the governor be peace!” Some of them rushed forward to take the load from Salman’s shoulders. The Syrian was astonished. Who was the governor? When he realized the truth he apologized profusely and tried to reclaim his goods. But Salman refused and insisted on carrying them to the man’s destination.
When Salman was on his deathbed, his humble soul preparing to meet its Lord, Sa’d ibn Abi Waqqas came to see him. Salman and Sa’d had been friends for decades, and had fought together during the conquest of Iraq.
Seeing Sa’d, Salman wept. Sa’d said, “What makes you weep, O Abu Abdullah? The Prophet of Allah died pleased with you!”
Salman replied, “By Allah, I am not weeping in fear of death, nor for love of the world. But the Prophet of Allah put me on an oath. He said, ‘Let any of you own in this world (only) like the provision of a traveler.’ Yet here I have owned many things around me!”
Sa’d, telling this story later, said: “I looked around and saw nothing but a water pot and a vessel to eat in! Then I said to him, ‘O Abu Abdullah, give us a parting word of advice to follow.’ He said, ‘O Sa’d, remember Allah for your cares, if you have any. Remember Allah in your judgment, if you judge. And remember Allah when you distribute the share.’”
When there came the morning on which Salman died, he said to his wife, “Bring me the trust I left in safekeeping.” She did, and it was a bottle of musk – one of Salman’s only possessions. He had gained it on the day of liberating Jalwalaa’ and kept it to be his perfume when he died. He called for a pot of water, sprinkled the musk into it and stirred it with his hand. He told his wife, “Sprinkle it on me, for there will now come to me creatures from the creatures of Allah. They do not eat food, and what they like is perfume.” Meaning the angels.
Then Salman Al-Farisi, the great truth-seeker of history, died. He was 88 years old. The year was 35 after hijrah, during the caliphate of ‘Uthman. May Allah be pleased with them all.
* * *
I didn’t think I could ever live like Salman, but maybe one day I could achieve the same degree of unconcern for the things of the world. Maybe one day I could live only for Allah.
We had passed over the bridge and were speeding through an area of Panama city with a large forested hill on the left and a rundown barrio on the right. “Take me to Niko’s house,” I said.
“But hermano,” Yusuf protested, “You have a flight to catch. And didn’t Niko say he was busy?”
“We have plenty of time before the flight. And something’s not right.”
A heavy silence followed, but Yusuf, who knew me well, did not attempt to argue. “Very well,” he said finally.
Once across the bridge we turned into a neighborhood that possessed a quietly menacing feel, much like Colon, though the buildings were in somewhat better shape.
“This is barrio El Chorrillo,” Yusuf explained. “A poor neighborhood. The USA bombed this neighborhood in 1989, when they captured Noriega.”
We parked in front of a ten story concrete behemoth with tiny windows and peeling paint. The bodyguard remained outside with our two vehicles, presumably so we would not return to find them stripped down to bare frames. The elevator was out of order, so we took the stairs, all five of us – Safaa, Hajar, Anna, Yusuf and myself.
Yusuf had gifted me a wickedly sharp pocket knife with a bone handle. It was small, with only a two and a half inch blade, and I didn’t recognize the brand. But the handle was sleek and fit my hand well, and the blade had a smooth action, with just the right amount of resistance. I was frankly sick of violence, and hoped never to have to use a weapon again. But the knife was a security blanket. Just having it on me calmed my nerves, and I found myself palming the clip as I laboriously climbed the stairs, using my cane for support.
Niko’s apartment was on the seventh floor, and I was badly winded by the time we got there. In fact Safaa had to help me up the last two floors. The apartment door was made of steel. When I knocked it clanged dully. I noticed Safaa shoot a look at Yusuf, who averted his eyes. What was that about?
From inside I heard the excited squeals of children, then Niko’s voice telling someone to go answer the door. The door was opened by a girl of perhaps ten years. She had the cocoa skin of one of Panama’s indigenous tribes, and wore a colorful red and blue dress. Her long, dark hair hung in a single braid. She blinked at us, apparently startled to see a tall man in an expensive suit (Yusuf), a dangerously thin man with a scarred face, dressed like a peasant and leaning on a cane (me), a woman in hijab and two girls, all grouped in front of the door.
With the door open I could hear laughter, and the sound of a ball bouncing.
A moment later a tiny but beautiful woman came to the door, her black hair done in the same style of braid. She too wore a colorful dress. In spite of her diminutive size her posture was proud, almost regal. This must be Teresa, Niko’s wife – the princess. Her eyes locked onto Yusuf, then she dropped her gaze to the floor. “What can I do for you Don José?” she said in Spanish.
“Greetings señora,” he replied. “My friend Zaid Karim” – he gestured to me – “would like to speak with Niko.”
Teresa’s gaze traveled to my face. I saw her take in my fragile appearance and the scar on my face. Hostility seemed to war with compassion in her eyes. Apparently compassion won out, because she opened the door wide and said, “Come in and be welcome.”
The apartment was small but perfectly clean and tidy. The walls were hung with mandalas made of natural objects such as dried leaves, ornamental berries and pebbles, and adhered somehow to square canvases in such dense patterns that they presented a solid wall of colorful, concentric design. I wondered if these were Teresa’s work.
In the center of the living room Niko bounced a basketball while a teenaged boy tried to take it away. Niko spun, keeping the ball to himself. A little girl, younger than the one who’d answered the door, cheered and said something I didn’t understand. It was a happy scene, a sweet family moment in which a father and son played around and goofed off. Perfectly normal, except for two things. The boy was presumably Emanuel, who until a month ago had been unable to walk.
The other unusual thing was Niko. I stared, my mind frozen like a car after some vandal has poured sugar into the tank. Niko was in a wheelchair.
Of course, I thought, laughing at my own silliness. It must be Emanuel’s old wheelchair. Niko was just goofing around.
Then Niko spun in the wheelchair, still keeping the ball away from Emanuel, and saw me. He stopped dribbling and the ball rolled away. His smile disappeared and for a moment I saw sadness and regret painted on his face as clearly as the purple density of a winter sky at dusk. Then, like a cloud sailing past the moon, the expression was gone. Niko grinned widely and rolled toward me, pushing the wheels with his hands.
“Flaco!” he exclaimed. “I know you say not to call you Flaco, but amigo, I have earned the right to call you anything I like.”
I laughed at that, and pointed to the boy. “Is that your son Emanuel?”
“Yes. Gracias a Dios! Thanks to God and thanks to you señor Zayn.” Niko nodded to the others in my group. “Hola señora Safaa. Don José.” When he said, “Don José,” his voice dropped, as if he were reluctant to pronounce the name at normal volume. He turned and called back into the living room. “Emanuel! Come meet señor Zayn.”
Niko held out a hand for a handshake. I took his hand. “Are you going to get out of the chair?” I asked.
Safaa touched my shoulder. “Zaid…”
Emanuel strode up and stood beside his father. He studied me, his head tipped slightly to one side, his expression serious.
“Mucho gusto,” I said. Pleased to meet you. I extended my hand but the boy did not take it.
“Emanuel!” Niko chided. “Ser cortés.” Be polite.
I looked at Emanuel, then at Niko. “You’re just playing in that chair, right?”
Niko smiled kindly. “Zayn. Come, let us go in the kitchen and talk privately.” He looked to Yusuf and Safaa. “Will you excuse us for a moment, señor y señora?”
My stomach sank as if it were made of lead. My entire body suddenly felt like a burden and I had to lock my knees and lean on the cane to keep from falling. “No, no no,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not anywhere until you get up.”
“Do you know Gabriel García Márquez?” Niko asked. “The famous Colombian author. He said-”
“More poetry?” I broke in furiously. “Poetry?” I turned and stalked away, my legs still shaky. I walked down the dimly lit corridor outside the apartment and didn’t stop until I reached the narrow, graffiti-strewn stairway, where I sat heavily. I had no words. All I had was a fountain of shame welling up from deep inside me like oil from a well. I couldn’t even formulate a clear thought.
Safaa followed and sat down beside me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Yusuf wanted to tell you,” she said. “But I said no. You were so fragile. I wanted you to get well before we told you, that’s all.”
“Told me what?” Though I already knew.
“One of the bullets damaged Niko’s spine. He’s paralyzed from the waist down.”
I heard a sound behind me and looked to see Niko rolling toward me in his wheelchair. My teeth clenched so tightly my jaw ached. My right hand tightened on the cane until my fingers turned white, while the left balled into a fist. This was my fault. I’d done this. I’d taken a man who was healthy and strong, a man who had a family to care for, a man who’d done nothing but help me, and I’d put him in a wheelchair.
“I too did not want you to know, amigo,” Niko said. He smiled at me. “Do not blame Don José or your wife. And by the way-” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I cannot believe that Don José Arosemana Cruz is in my apartamento. Everyone will be scared of me now. All my friends and neighbors, they will be terrify of me.” He grinned. “Is wonderful, no?”
“Niko.” My hand clenched even tighter, and my fingernails – which needed clipping – bit into my palm, drawing blood. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll do whatever I can. I’ll raise money for you to see the best doctors. I’m sorry, Niko.”
Niko set the brake on his wheelchair, then reached out and took my hand. “This is why I did not want you to know. I knew you would blame yourself. But you don’t understand, Zayn. I am happy. For the first time in four years I am happy!”
“How can you be happy?” I said bitterly.
“Because Emanuel can walk! This mean everything to me, Zayn. For years I prayed to God for exactly this, to give Emanuel his legs and take mine in exchange. And God answered my pray. I ask for this, amigo. I ask for it. It does not matter what happen to me, if my children are happy and healthy and safe. You are a father, you must understand. I am happy.”
I pulled my hand from Niko’s and crossed my arms, staring at the wall.
“Ay, you gringos,” Niko said. “You cannot bear to be touched, why is that?”
I whirled, rose to my knees and threw my arms tightly around him. Before I knew it I was weeping into his shoulder. Niko patted me on the back, saying, “Is okay, Zayn. El sol brilla para todos, you remember? The sun shines for all. I am happy.”
* * *
I left Niko with a promise that I would return to Panama and check on him when I could. When we exited the building it was raining hard, coming down in a nearly solid tropical downpour. On the way to the airport, sitting in the front passenger seat of the truck, I spoke to Yusuf, who was driving. “You offered me a job? You said you could find something for me?”
“Find something for Niko instead. He’s intelligent and educated. Give him a legitimate job so he can provide for his family.”
Yusuf nodded slowly. “Sí. No hay problema. I can do it.”
“Thank you.” I watched the wipers hurrying back and forth, struggling to keep the windshield clear. I let the motion hypnotize me, and lapsed into silence. Allah would judge me for all I had done. I did not know which way the scales would lean, whether to good or evil. But I had done what I could, what I was capable of doing, and I would pay the price – and so would Niko.
My parting with Yusuf was muted, just a hug and a promise to stay in touch.
* * *
The flight to Los Angeles went without a hitch. The children were asleep when we arrived. Safaa was stronger than me right now, so she carried Anna to the gate for our connecting flight to Fresno, while I carried Hajar. It was after midnight when we arrived in Fresno. We collected our bags and caught a taxi to Safaa’s apartment.
Neither of us could carry Anna up the stairs, so we woke her. She looked around sleepily.
“This is our house,” I told her, pointing up to the apartment. “Me, Safaa and Hajar. You’ll stay with us tonight, and we’ll take you to your grandma and grandpa in the morning.”
Anna gazed back at me solemnly, saying nothing. Her brown eyes were as impenetrable as an adobe wall. But she took my hand and I led her up the steps. She slept with Hajar in her little bed, the two of them curled around each other like commas, Hajar snoring lightly.
The closet still held much of my old clothing, which surprised me, frankly. I’d imagined that Safaa had thrown it all out. I dressed in a pair of old pajamas, prayed, then shared a bed with Safaa for the first time in many months. There was no thought of lovemaking: we were exhausted, and I felt ugly and deformed with all my scars and missing toenails. Besides, I wasn’t sure I was emotionally ready for that. I needed to get used to just being around Safaa again. I focused instead on allowing myself to love her again, allowing myself to be warmed by her presence. When I was with her it was as if we were the only two inhabitants of an airy garden, even if the city outside was cold and full of anxious souls. I listened to her breathing as she fell asleep, one of her arms thrown over my chest as if I’d never left, as if having me there was as natural as the orange trees that grew freely in this valley.
I had a hard time sleeping. Images flashed through my mind like scenes from a horror flick: Tarek’s legs sticking out of a refrigerator, Angie weeping in a litter-strewn lot, El Pelado’s blood splashed across the floor, and a man in a cowboy hat leaning over me, torturing me until I nearly wished I was dead.
At some point I realized it was Fajr time, so I roused myself, made wudu, then woke Safaa. She came awake easily, and we prayed together as we had always done.
The prayer stilled the tremors in my heart, and when I returned to bed I was finally able to sleep. Such is the mercy of Allah, who knows us better than we know ourselves, and without whom we would all be lost in the foul sea of our own sins. Maybe in time the terrible memories would fade, as they are wont to do. That too was a mercy from the Most Merciful.
* * *
Sunday, March 7, 2010
I woke to the smell of waffles and coffee. I grabbed my cane and limped into the kitchen to find everyone seated at the table, eating breakfast. The sun streamed through the window blinds, making bright yellow stripes on the kitchen table. Safaa wore a robe and fuzzy slippers, while the girls were in pajamas.
A place was set for me, and the waffles sat on the plate, pats of butter melting into them. Steam rose from a mug of coffee. I kissed Safaa, hugged Hajar, rubbed Anna’s shoulders affectionately, then sat and began to eat. I don’t like to talk much in the mornings and my family knew this about me, so they chatted with each other and let me eat. I knew that I should feel like the luckiest man in the world to be back with my family. I was in fact happy, but it was muted, and I wasn’t sure why. Somehow this didn’t feel like my home anymore. I’d come to think of it as “Safaa’s apartment.” Give it time, I thought. Be grateful and be patient, and give it time.
Anna wouldn’t leave me alone. She brought me sugar for my coffee, offered to toast a few more waffles for me, and even fetched my old slippers – I can’t imagine where she found them – and set them at my feet.
“Anna,” Safaa finally snapped, “sit down and eat your breakfast. Uncle Zaid can take care of himself.”
The waffles had come out of the freezer – Safaa couldn’t have anything fresh remaining in the fridge after weeks in Panama – but with butter and real maple syrup they were delicious. Hajar was trying to talk to Anna about My Little Pony, explaining how Twilight Sparkle was chosen by Princess Celestia to study magic. Anna pretended to be interested but kept glancing at me surreptitiously. I sipped my coffee and acted like I didn’t notice. As soon as I was done eating, Anna popped up and began clearing my dishes, then the rest of the dishes as well. The next thing I knew the water in the sink was running and Anna was rinsing the dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher. I looked at Safaa and raised my eyebrows questioningly. She shrugged.
“I told the school I’d be back tomorrow,” Safaa said. “I want to go with you when you take Anna to the Anwars’ house.”
“You don’t have to do that. I know you’ve missed a lot of work.”
“I want to to.” She made a beckoning gesture to Anna. “Anna honey, come here please.”
“But I’m still doing the dishes!” There was a frantic quality to her voice.
The girl reluctantly shut off the water and came to Safaa. My wife took the child’s hand and stroked her hair. “I appreciate all your help,” Safaa said. “What I need you to do now is take a shower and get dressed. This is a big day for you.”
Anna’s face took on a hopeless cast. Her lower lip trembled. “Please don’t send me away,” she said in a quavering voice. “I’ll be a good helper for you. I’ll clean the whole house every day. I’ll learn to cook. I’ll do anything you want.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Safaa pulled Anna into an embrace. “We’re not sending you away. You’re going to be with your family.”
“No!” Anna pulled out of Safaa’s arms. “You don’t care about me! You just want to get rid of me like everyone else!” She burst into tears, then spun and dashed into Hajar’s bedroom.
Hajar wailed, “I don’t want to get rid of Anna!” Then she began to cry as well.
I stood and addressed Safaa. “You talk to Hajar. I’ll take care of Anna.”
I went into Hajar’s room and followed the sound of crying to the closet. I opened the closet to find Anna sitting cross-legged on the floor in the darkness, her body folded nearly in two, her arms covering her head. I sat before her and recited a string of ten digits, beginning with 559.
“Can you memorize those numbers?”
Anna did not look up. I recited the numbers again slowly. The crying lessened.
“What – what’s that?”
“It’s my phone number. I want you to memorize it.” I recited it again, and this time Anna uncovered her head and recited the numbers back, haltingly, her voice still hitching with the occasional sob. Of course I didn’t have a phone, as mine had been lost in Panama, but I’d replace it soon enough, Insha’Allah.
I repeated the numbers, and so did she. “Now you listen to me, Anna Anwar,” I said seriously. “If you ever get yourself into danger, I’ll have to come and get you, no matter what. I almost died the first time. You think I want to go through that again?”
“N – no.”
“You’re darn right. So I am not going to send you any place where you will not be safe. You’ll be with your grandparents right here in Fresno, the same city I live in. We’ll see each other often. You can come visit Hajar anytime you like. And anytime you’re scared or worried about anything, you call me. What’s my number again?”
“Why can’t I stay with my daddy?”
I took a deep breath. I’d been dreading this moment. But I could not lie to this child. “Your daddy died,” I told her. “He took some bad drugs and it killed him. He died peacefully. I’m very sorry, honey. Your daddy’s in heaven now. He’s in a good place.”
She covered her head again and resumed crying, her entire body shaking. I reached out and pulled her to me and she embraced me fiercely, desperately. We sat there like that for maybe ten minutes, Anna crying and crying.
Safaa and Hajar joined us. Safaa stroked my shoulders, while Hajar patted Anna’s back.
“I told her about Tarek,” I explained.
Hajar went away and came back a moment later with Brown Bear, her favorite doll. She thrust it between me and Anna. “This is for you, Anna. Brown Bear is a good listener. He’s my bestest friend and now he’s your bestest friend too.” I was deeply touched by that. Brown Bear had been Hajar’s constant companion since she was a baby.
Anna seized the doll with one hand and clutched it tightly to her chest. Gradually her sobs diminished.
“What’s my number?” I asked again.
She recited the number. She had it down.
“Come on sweetie,” Safaa said. She gently pried Anna loose from my embrace and helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you showered and dressed. Hajar, will you help us?”
I sat in the closet alone, just breathing. SubhanAllah. That had not been easy. But it would be alright, I thought. It would be alright.
* * *
We dropped off Hajar at school, and a half hour later we were at the Anwars’ pretentious and oversized house in Woodward Lakes. The house and yard were all sharp angles and uncompromising lines – much like Farah Anwar herself. I reached out and – exactly 32 days after Dr. Ehab Anwar had hired me to find his granddaughter – rang the doorbell.
Dr. Ehab Anwar opened the door. For a moment he stood as if mesmerized, staring at the three of us – me, Safaa and Anna – as if we were apparitions from a forgotten past.
I was shocked at the change in his appearance. He was an old man, the eldest in my parents’ circle of friends, but he’d never before looked the part. Now he did. His hair, which had previously retained a good amount of brown, was now entirely gray. Deep circles beneath his eyes made them look like holes in his face. He’d always been clean shaven, but now he had a week’s untrimmed growth that went from his cheeks to his Adam’s apple. Most noticeable of all, his posture – which had always been as straight as a street lamp – was now bent forward, as if he carried a heavy weight on his back. Where he’d always been smartly dressed before, he now wore gray sweats and flip flops.
When Ehab’s eyes fell on Anna his mouth fell open, and some of the years seemed to drop from his frame. He stood a little straighter and raised his eyes to mine with a look of astonishment.
“As-salamu alaykum,” I greeted him, extending my hand.
Ignoring me, Ehab shuffled forward to Anna, dropped to his knees and threw his arms around her. Anna stiffened and looked like she might try to break free and bolt, but Safaa steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. When Ehab released the embrace there were tears in his eyes.
“Habibti,” he said to Anna, “do you remember me? I’m your grandfather.”
Anna nodded silently.
“Are you okay? Is your mama well?”
Anna said nothing.
“I mean…” He looked up at me. “We thought you… Farah said… But… Where did you find her?”
“In Panama, like I told you before I left, remember?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. It’s just been so long.”
“I’m sorry about that. I was badly wounded. I did leave you a voicemail message.”
“Did you? I didn’t hear it. Please, come.” He stood, his bearing now almost as straight as the old days. “You must come in.”
“The last time I entered your house,” I said politely, “it didn’t go so well.” I touched my eyebrow where the scar still showed from when Farah had struck me with the sphinx.
“Oh, that.” Ehab’s face turned red. “Ana asif giddan ya Zaid. Really, I’m sorry. It was… it was the shock of learning about Tarek. But you must come in. Farah has not been doing well. She has been in bed…” Without waiting to see if we would follow, Dr. Ehab turned and shambled into the house.
Safaa looked to me and I nodded. We followed Dr. Ehab through the foyer, past the burgundy-colored living room, and down a marble-floored corridor to a large bedroom. The curtains were drawn, leaving the beautifully furnished room dim. The musty air smelled faintly of urine.
Farah Anwar lay in a large bed centered against the far wall. A heavy comforter was pulled up to her shoulders, with her arms atop it. Her skin was drawn and tight against her cheekbones. Her eyes locked on us as we entered and widened in shock.
Dr. Ehab clasped one of his wife’s pale hands, and with the other hand he beckoned to Anna. When the child remained resolutely by my side, Ehab addressed his wife. “Look darling. He did it.” His voice faltered, and I almost thought he would cry. “Zaid Al-Husayni did it. He brought Anna back to us.”
Farah’s eyes lasered me a look of utter contempt. “How much?” she said, her upper lip curling. “How much money do you want this time, harami?” Harami meant thief in Arabic. She was sticking to her accusations like a barnacle to a sinking ship.
Safaa took a step forward. “How dare you! Do you have any idea what he went through to find your granddaughter? Look!” She pointed to the scar on my forehead, then indicated the ugly scar that ran the length of my left forearm. “Do you want to see his legs? Do you want to see the bullet wounds? Do you think he did that for your measly ten thousand dollars? He did it for you! He did it for Tarek and Anna, because in spite of all your fitna he still cares. You are a vile, contemptible creature, Farah Anwar. I let your lies influence me in the past but now I see you for what you are. If you were my age, and if you hadn’t just lost your son, I would kick you up and down this room.”
I reached out and took Safaa’s arm, drawing her back. Her entire body trembled with rage. “Enough sweetie,” I said. I appreciated her defense of my honor, but I was busy trying to understand Farah Anwar’s strange reactions and bizarre statements. Wasn’t this what she wanted? Wasn’t this what she hired me to do? I studied her, thinking. “Farah,” I said finally. “What do you want to happen here?”
Farah’s face had turned red, whether with anger or shame I did not know. “Take her away.” Her voice was full of venom. “I don’t want her.”
Anna’s hand reached out for mine and I took it. She squeezed so tightly that I could feel her heartbeat pulsing in her fingers.
“Farah!” Dr. Ehab exclaimed. “She is our granddaughter. She is Tarek’s child. She needs us.”
“We cannot care for her,” Farah snarled. “We are too old.”
I could understand how Farah might be overwhelmed by Tarek’s death. But it seemed to me that the loss of her son would increase her attachment to her granddaughter, not decrease it. After all, Anna was Tarek’s flesh and blood. As long as Anna was alive, Tarek was alive too, in a way. Unless… Something clicked into place in my brain, something that had been staring me in the face all along. Understanding dawned and I nodded slowly.
“From the very beginning,” I told Farah, “I’ve been trying to understand your behavior. You never wanted me to take this case. It was your husband’s idea. The way you came to my office, insulting me, throwing the money onto my desk. You wanted me to turn it down. You knew.”
Farah looked away, and I called her back. “Farah. You knew. You knew that Anna wasn’t your granddaughter.”
Farah stared back at me with red eyes, saying nothing.
“I’ve been to Alejandra’s apartment,” I continued. “I saw the photo of Angie with her old boyfriend, what was his name? Miko. Before she met Tarek, when she still lived in Los Angeles. She looked plump in the photo. Breasty, you know? I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But she was pregnant, wasn’t she? With Miko’s child? What happened? Did you see a similar photo somewhere? Maybe the same one? And you put two and two together. Or maybe Angie let something slip? Maybe you had a DNA test done without telling anyone? I wouldn’t put it past you. Whatever, you figured it out, right?”
I clapped my forehead as a new realization hit me. “Oh, la hawla wa la quwwata il-la billah. You paid Angie. It was you who gave her the forty five thousand. You paid her to go away. You wanted to get Angie and Anna out of Tarek’s life.”
Farah stared daggers at me. Her husband, who had been listening to my speech with growing consternation, turned to his wife. “Is this true, Farah? This cannot be true.”
Farah Anwar pressed her lips together. Her hands clutched at the bed covers.
“You must speak!” Dr. Ehab’s words rang with anger. “Is it true?”
Farah focused on her husband, excluding the rest of us. “I could not let that slut and her bastard child drag Tarek down.” Her tone was pleading. “He deserved better. He could have been someone important, he could have done great things, if not for that woman. I had to get rid of her. You must understand!”
Ehab staggered and sat heavily on the bed beside his wife. I still held Safaa’s hand with my left, and Anna’s with my right. I felt Safaa tense, and knew she was about to deliver another scathing outburst. I gave her hand a quick squeeze to stop her.
“Farah,” I said softly, “did you ever wonder why Tarek overdosed? I mean of course it was inevitable if he didn’t stop using drugs, but why now? Did you ever think that maybe it was because his wife and child – the child he loved like his own – disappeared? You stripped away his support system, his family, the only thing he had in the world that was worth something.”
I knew I shouldn’t have said that. It was true, but it wasn’t kind. But I couldn’t help it. This woman was responsible for Angie’s downfall, for Niko being in a wheelchair, and for her son’s death. Good God. What did it take to make a person see?
“Get out!” Farah screamed. “All of you get out, get out! Get out!”
* * *
Ehab Anwar walked us to the door. He was a broken man, his shoulders slumped, his eyes lifeless.
“So?” I said to him at the door. “What about Anna?”
“I… She is not my responsibility anymore. I’m sorry. Truly I am. But I cannot.” He turned away and shuffled back to the bedroom.
I watched him go, then we let ourselves out and got in our car.
“I told you they didn’t want me,” Anna said dully. Her voice was weary, discouraged.
“So what do we do?” Safaa asked. I could feel Anna’s eyes on me from the backseat, awaiting an answer as well.
“Drop me off at the phone store,” I replied. “And take Anna to our house for now. Can you take one more day off work?”
“Sure. I haven’t even told them I’m back yet.”
* * *
At the phone store I used Safaa’s debit card to buy a new phone. They activated it with my same phone number. I plugged it in there at the store to charge, and while I waited I thought about all that had transpired. I was still stunned at the breadth of the fitna, suffering and bloodshed that had resulted from one woman’s lies. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. What a tangled web we weave, as Shaykh Zubair said – Shakespeare if you insist – when we do practice to deceive. Farah Anwar had woven a web like a giant spider on crack.
When the phone was charged I synced it with my online account and downloaded all my contacts. Then I called Jalal. He answered right away, and promised to pick me up in thirty minutes. While I waited I made calls to the bank and the Department of Motor Vehicles, to start the process of replacing my cards and ID.
Then I called Alejandra Rodriguez. She was, after all, Anna’s aunt. She had a right to know what was happening, and maybe she’d change her mind and take the child. She did not answer, so I tried the Sequoia Surgical Center. They informed me that Dr. Rodriguez had gone overseas with Doctors Without Borders and would be away for at least a year. I asked for her email address and they gave it to me.
Jalal arrived. The spare tire – the fat roll that was all that remained of his previously corpulent form – was entirely gone now. He must still be running laps and jumping hurdles. He stared at my ravaged appearance and the cane that supported me, then embraced me. “Dude,” he said, “what the hell happened to you down there?”
“I’ll tell you later. Take me to my office?” Jalal was actually driving my car – my sweet little green 1969 Dodge Dart GTS. I’d missed it. It looked well taken care of, and I was glad that Jalal had been able to benefit from using it in my absence, rather than that little half-wrecked Toyota Camry he usually drove.
While he drove I called Dalya Anwar. To my surprise she took my call. I explained the entire situation honestly, including the fact that Anna was not actually Tarek’s daughter, and asked if she’d be willing to care for Anna. She congratulated me on finding Anna but turned my request down flat, saying that she had enough on her table with her divorce and her dental practice. I asked her for Mina’s number – Tarek’s other sister, the one in New York – but Dalya told me not to bother. Mina and Tarek had never been close and there was no way Mina would agree to take on a child that wasn’t even truly her niece.
We arrived at my office and Jalal unlocked the place, then handed over the keys. He’d taken good care of it. Everything was neat, tidy and dust-free, and my plants were thriving. I’d always had trouble keeping them alive, but the peace lily was lush with new leaves, and the hanging plant – I didn’t know what it was called – had grown so much that the vines hung halfway to the ground.
“What did you do to my plants? Do you have some kind plant-growing superpower?”
“Yes,” Jalal replied dryly. “It’s called water. And sunshine. And fertilizer twice a month.” He pointed to a bottle of liquid fertilizer on my desk.
I took my laptop out of a desk drawer and started it up. I had hundreds of new emails, most of them spam, though two were actually from clients, asking if I was available for work. I’d respond to them later. I needed a few more days of recovery time before taking on any new cases. I emailed Alejandra Rodriguez, explaining the situation, then sat back and closed the computer. That was that. I had no expectation that she would return for Anna’s sake. She’d made her priorities pretty clear.
Jalal and I talked, and I filled him on what had happened. When I was done he gave a long whistle. “Dude, I’m sooooo glad that I didn’t go with you.”
I laughed. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
* * *
After I dropped Jalal off I withdraw some cash at an ATM, then stopped at a burrito joint on Shields Avenue. I bought a huge fish burrito for myself, Baja-style veggie enchiladas for Safaa, and nachos for Anna and Hajar. Nachos were always a safe bet where kids were concerned. Lastly I stopped at Hajar’s pre-school. It wasn’t yet time for her to be released, but I would pick her up early.
It was nap time at Hajar’s preschool. The main room was dark, the children sleeping on individual mats. I threaded my way through the sleeping forms to Hajar, who was lying on her back, pointing a finger at the ceiling and whispering something. When she saw me she jumped up and I picked her up. As we weaved our way back out, one of the children was snoring with a wheezing sound. Hajar said, “What’s that sound?”
“Boo, boo, boo.” She said this with a soft voice, and it was a perfect representation of the child’s snoring sound. I told her it was a little boy snoring. She was genuinely surprised and said, “I thought it was a kitty.”
Once we were outside, Hajar said, “Baba, did you know? A medium rock hit the world and the dinosaurs died.”
“I know, honey. I’m the one who told you that, remember?”
“Oh. Did Anna go to her Nena and Jiddu?”
“No, she’s still with us.”
“Yay! I made a special dua’ for her.”
When we arrived home Safaa and Anna were putting away groceries. “I have food!” I announced. Immediately Anna began running around, setting out plates and glasses. Once again she was trying to prove her usefulness so that we wouldn’t get rid of her. Poor kid. I couldn’t imagine being in her position. For all my complaints about my parents and my resentment toward my father, at least I’d grown up in a stable and safe home with two parents. I should be grateful for that. Alhamdulillah.
“Anna, stop for a minute,” I said kindly. “Sit down.”
“But I want to help!”
“Anna.” I reached out a hand and she came to me slowly, like a deer ready to bolt at the slightest motion. I took her hand. “You don’t have to prove anything, okay? You don’t have to worry anymore. This is your home now.” I knew I should have consulted with Safaa before saying this, but I was confident she would back me. My wife seemed to be on my side once again. That was a good feeling. “You’re staying with us,” I went on. “Maybe in the future your aunt Alejandra will want to care for you. Or maybe your mother will get better and take you back. Allah knows. But until then we’re your family. We’re not going to send you away. You’re home now.”
Anna threw herself at me, hugged me tightly and cried as if I had just rescued her from Ouagadiri Island all over again. Hajar cheered loudly. I glanced at Safaa and she smiled and gave a quick nod. Alhamdulillah.
We said our mealtime dua’ and ate Mexican food, and it was good.
We had just finished our meal when a courier arrived at the door. He was a young man, fit and tanned, wearing a brown uniform. He worked for one of those same-day express delivery services.
“Delivery for mister Al-Husayni,” he announced, proffering an envelope. I took it and signed, eyeing the return address.
“It’s from Dr. Ehab,” I told Safaa. Had he changed his mind? Did he want Anna? Frankly, I would not surrender her even if he did. The Anwars were not her grandparents. They had no right to the child. And I’d just told her that this was her home. I opened the envelope and stared.
“What is it?” Safaa snatched it out of my hand, her face registering the same fears that had gone through my head.
I sat on the sage green sofa. With all the antiques and pricey pieces she had in here – all of them inherited from her mom – this sofa was only comfortable place to sit.
“Oh my God!” Safaa exclaimed. “Fifty thousand dollars? Zaid, it’s a check for fifty thousand dollars! Is this a joke?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied quietly. “When Ehab hired me he promised me fifty grand if I found Anna. But I don’t want it. I don’t want anything from them. Send it back.”
Safaa hopped onto my lap facing me, her legs straddling my waist. Her nose touched mine as she seized my jaw in one hand. Her dark eyes were only inches from mine. I wanted to live in those eyes, as deep and brown as the Tigris and Euphrates in spring, rich with silty runoff. As brown as the deserts of her Iraqi homeland, or the trunks of California’s great sequoias.
“Now see here, mister Zaid Karim Al-Husayni.” Safaa gripped my face tightly. “You did the job you were hired to do and you suffered for it. Do I need to remind you of what you went through? You deserve this money. You deserve a million dollars, ten million. We’re not returning one red cent. You might need further surgery on your leg. You definitely need to see a dentist to replace that broken tooth. Besides, I want to buy a house. We need more room. Our family just went from three to four. Do you understand? Nod your head yes.” She manipulated my head up and down.
I laughed, and she kissed me in the middle of it. Her mouth tasted of black beans and guacamole. Then she slid off my lap and snuggled up next to me. I relaxed into the sofa, my belly full of rice, beans, fish and sour cream. I put my arm around my wife. It was late afternoon and warm for March, and the sliding glass door to the patio was open to admit a pleasant breeze. I could hear the chuck-chuck-chuck of a squirrel outside, and the answering screech of a blue jay.
“Let’s take a vacation,” Safaa said. “Some R & R. Someplace quiet, like the Big Sur.”
“Mm, maybe. I want to enjoy being home for a while. Let Anna adjust. When I’m fully recovered I want to make a trip to Panama. I can’t leave Angie down there. You should have seen her, Safaa, she was so wretched. And maybe – since we’re keeping this money – maybe there’s something I can do for Niko. I don’t know. A specialist.”
“Excuse me, husband.” Safaa tapped a finger on my forehead. “If you think I’m letting you go back down there, you’re crazy. You barely-”
I put a finger on her lips, silencing her, and she bit it. “Hey!” I complained.
I would definitely return to Panama, but we could argue the issue when the time came. “Oh yeah,” I added, “I want to check on Saleem, let him know I’m still alive. The last time I talked to him I made him swear to look out for you and Hajar if anything happened to me. He must be-“
“You did what? What do you think I am, an old coat you can pass on to someone else?”
“Take it easy. I just meant he should look in on you, make sure you were alright. I need to see Imam Saleh as well. I want to thank him for defending m-” I sat bolt upright, slapping my forehead as I remembered something.
“What is it?”
“Imam Saleh. Before I left to Panama he asked me for help. He wanted me to investigate this new brother, this supposed convert who’s been trying to radicalize the younger brothers. I told him I’d get to it in a few days. I forgot all about it, subhanAllah.” I slid Safaa off my lap and stood.
“What, you’re going right now?”
I straightened my shoulders and thrust my chest forward. “I am Zaid Karim, private investigator,” I declared boldly. “Wherever evil is found, there shall I be, fighting to -”
“Oh, hush,” Safaa interrupted. “Go do you whatever you have to do, you beautiful, brave man.”
* * *
Author’s Note: Thank you for your readership and your comments! There was a lot of darkness in this novel, and for that I apologize. Like all my novels, Zaid Karim P.I. was partly autobiographical. So writing this book was cathartic for me, and allowed me to express aspects of my life in fictional form. It should be said again that the specific characters in this book are fictional.
I’m about to release a novel titled The Repeaters, Insha’Allah. It’s not Islamic fiction. The protagonists are a handful of immortals and a twelve year old Jewish boy. If you’re interested in science fiction and fantasy, you might enjoy it.
My next novel will be an expanded version of The Deal, featuring Jamilah Al-Husayni – Zaid’s bike messenger cousin. There will be little to no violence, and a lot of humor. So it should be something the whole family can enjoy. It will not be serialized here on MM but will be released directly for sale, only because I have to weave a new narrative with an existing one, and that does not lend itself to serialization. It will likely be completed sometime in spring 2018, Insha’Allah. As for this novel, Zaid Karim P.I., you can expect to find it in paperback and e-book form by December 2017.
Prayers Beyond Borders Offers Hope to Separated Families
On the border of San Diego, California and Tijuana, Mexico, several families live their lives torn apart—they were born on the wrong side of a wall. Now, faith groups are joining together to give them hope through prayer. Since the Mexican-American War in 1848, the boundary that divided the two countries transformed from an imaginary line, to a monument, to a simple barb-wire fence where people on either side could meet, greet, hold hands, or exchange a warm smile, to a heavily monitored steel wall stretching across almost 15 miles between San Diego and Tijuana.
In recent years, crime, drug trafficking, an influx of undocumented workers, and increasingly white nationalism created stricter immigration policies in the U.S., directly impacting those who live straddling both sides of the border. Included in these are families whose loved ones have been deported – parents, spouses, children, and other relatives – to Mexico, undocumented workers providing for their families, and relatives who have not made physical contact with each other in years, sometimes decades. They gather along the steel mesh barriers of the border wall at Friendship Park to touch each other’s fingertips and pray.
The documentary, “A Prayer Beyond Borders,” produced by CAIR California, MoveOn, and Beyond Borders Studios captured some of these emotive moments during a Sunday prayer service held by the Border Church in partnership with the Border Mosque. Christians and Muslims came together in solidarity at Friendship Park on September 30, 2019, and held a joint bilingual ceremony, led by Reverend John Fanestil, Pastor Guillermo Navarrete, Imam Taha Hassane, and Imam Wesley Lebrón.
Imam Lebrón, National Hispanic Outreach Coordinator for WhyIslam, witnessed the nightmare families separated at the border endure when he was invited to participate in this first meeting of the Border Church and Border Mosque. As a Puerto Rican, U.S. born citizen who never experienced the hardships of immigration, he was moved by what he witnessed. He said,
“I entered Mexico and reached the border at Friendship Park and immediately noticed families speaking to each other through the tiny spaces of an enormous metal wall. They were not able to touch except for their fingers, which I later learned was the way they kissed each other.”
He described families discussing legal matters and children crying because they could not embrace a parent who traveled for days only to speak to them briefly behind the cold steel mesh partition.
“Walls are meant to provide refuge and safety from the elements and they are not meant to prevent human beings from having a better life,” he explained, “As I stood behind that wall, I felt hopeless, angry, and had many other mixed emotions for our Mexican brethren who have been completely stripped of the opportunities many of us take for granted.” During the service he addressed the crowd gathered on the Mexican side of Friendship Park and recited the Adhan, the Muslim call to prayer. It was the first time the call was heard in Friendship Park, but not the last.
The Border Church and Border Mosque will continue to provide a joint service on the last Sunday of every month and are calling for a binational day of prayer on Sunday, October 27th. They will be joined by Christian, Jewish, Muslim, and indigenous spiritual leaders to “Pray Beyond Borders.” The event will be filmed and possibly live-streamed to a global audience with the objective of raising awareness and requesting financial support to address issues related to family separation in the region.
On October 7th CAIR California with MoveOn, Faith in Action, MPower Change, and a social media team and distribution partners released the film “A Prayer Beyond Borders,” With the digital launch of this film in English and Spanish they wish to reach millions of viewers in telling the story of the Border Church and the Border Mosque and bring more faith leaders and activists on board to protect families’ right to gather. Please join them at Pray Beyond Borders – A Binational Day of Prayer – Sunday, October 27th at Friendship Park.
“when the righteous cry for help, the LORD hears and delivers them out of all their troubles” (Psalm 34:17 – NIV).
“And seek help through patience and prayer, and indeed, it is difficult except for the humbly submissive [to Allah ]” (Qur’an 2:45)
Grit and Resilience: The Self-Help vs. Islamic Perspective
I don’t really care about grit.
Persevering and persisting through difficulties to achieve a higher goal is awesome. High-five. We should all develop that. No one disagrees that resilience is an essential characteristic to have.
Somehow, this simple concept has ballooned into what feels like a self-help cottage industry of sorts. It has a Ted talk with tens of millions of views, podcasts, keynote speeches, a New York Times best-selling book, and finding ways to teach this in schools and workplaces.
What I do care about is critically analyzing if it is all that it’s cracked up to be (spoiler alert: I don’t think so), why the self-help industry aggressively promotes it, and how we understand it from an Islamic perspective. For me, this is about much more than just grit – it’s about understanding character development from a (mostly Americanized) secular perspective vis-a-vis the Islamic one.
The appeal of grit in a self-help context is that it provides a magic bullet that intuitively feels correct. It provides optimism. If I can master this one thing, it will unlock what I need to be successful. When I keep running into a roadblock, I can scapegoat my reason for failure – a lack of grit.
Grit encompasses several inspirational cliches – be satisfied with being unsatisfied, or love the chase as much as the capture, or that grit is falling in love and staying in love. It is to believe anyone can succeed if they work long and hard enough. In short, it is the one-word encapsulation of the ideal of the American Dream.
Self-help literature has an underlying theme of controlling what is within your control and letting go of the rest. Islamically, in general, we agree with this sentiment. We focus our actions where we are personally accountable and put our trust in Allah for what we cannot control.
The problem with this theme, specifically with grit, is that it necessitates believing the circumstances around you cannot be changed. Therefore, you must simply accept things the way that they are. Teaching people that they can overcome any situation by merely working hard enough is not only unrealistic but utterly devoid of compassion.
“The notion that kids in poverty can overcome hunger, lack of medical care, homelessness, and trauma by buckling down and persisting was always stupid and heartless, exactly what you would expect to hear from Scrooge or the Koch brothers or Betsy DeVos.” -Diane Ravitch, Forget Grit, Focus on Inequality
Focusing on the individual characteristics of grit and perseverance shifts attention away from structural or systemic issues that impact someone’s ability to succeed. The personal characteristics can be changed while structural inequalities are seen as ‘fixed.’
Alfie Kohn, in an article critical of Grit by Angela Duckworth, notes that Duckworth and her mentor while studying grit operated under a belief that,
[U]nderachievement isn’t explained by structural factors — social, economic, or even educational. Rather, they insisted it should be attributed to the students themselves and their “failure to exercise self-discipline.” The entire conceptual edifice of grit is constructed on that individualistic premise, one that remains popular for ideological reasons even though it’s been repeatedly debunked by research.
Duckworth admitted as much in an interview with EdSurge.
There was a student who introduced himself having written a critical essay about the narrative of grit. His major point was that when we talk about grit as a kind of ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps,’ personal strength, it leaves in the shadows structural poverty and racism and other things that make it impossible, frankly, for some kids to do what we would expect them to do. When he sent me that essay, of course, I wanted to know more. I joined his [dissertation] committee because I don’t know much about sociology, and I don’t know much about this criticism.
I learned a lot from him over the years. I think the lesson for me is that when someone criticizes you, when someone criticized me, the natural thing is to be defensive and to reflexively make more clear your case and why you’re right, but I’ve always learned more from just listening. When I have the courage to just say, “Well, maybe there’s a point here that I hadn’t thought of,” and in this case the Grit narrative and what Grit has become is something that he really brought to me and my awareness in a way that I was oblivious to before.
It is mind-boggling that the person who popularized this research and wrote the book on the topic simply didn’t know that there was such a thing as structural inequality. It is quite disappointing that her response essentially amounted to “That’s interesting. I’d like to learn more.”
Duckworth provides a caveat – “My theory doesn’t address these outside forces, nor does it include luck. It’s about the psychology of achievement, but because psychology isn’t all that matters, it’s incomplete.” This is a cop-out we see consistently in the self-help industry and elsewhere. They won’t deny that those problems exist, they simply say that’s not the current focus.
It is intellectually dishonest to promote something as a key to success while outright ignoring the structures needed to enable success. That is not the only thing the theory of grit ignores. While marketing it as a necessary characteristic, it overlooks traits like honesty and kindness.
The grit narrative lionizes this superhero type of individual who breaks through all obstacles no matter how much the deck is stacked against them. It provides a sense of false hope. Instead of knowing when to cut your losses and see a failure for what it is, espousing a grit mentality will make a person stubbornly pursue a failing endeavor. It reminds me of those singers who comically fail the first round of auditions on American Idol, are rightly ridiculed by the judges, and then emotionally tell the whole world they’re going to come out on top (and then never do).
Overconfidence, obstinance, and naive optimism are the result of grit without context or boundaries. It fosters denial and a lack of self-awareness – the consequences of which are felt when horrible leaders keep rising to the top due, in part, to their grit and perseverance.
The entire idea of the psychology of achievement completely ignores the notion of morality and ethics. Grit in a vacuum may be amoral, but that is not how the real world works. This speaks powerfully to the need to understand the application of these types of concepts through a lens of faith.
The individual focus, however, is precisely what makes something like grit a prime candidate to become a popular self-help item. Schools and corporations alike will want to push it because it focuses on the individual instead of the reality of circumstances. There is a real amount of cognitive dissonance when a corporation can tell employees to focus on developing grit while not addressing toxic employment practices that increase turnover and destroy employees physically and emotionally (see: Dying for a Paycheck by Jeffrey Pfeffer).
Circumstances matter more than ever. You’ve probably heard the story (of course, in a Ted Talk) about the famous marshmallow test at some point. This popularizes the self-help version of delayed gratification. A bunch of kids are given a marshmallow and told that if they can avoid eating it for 5 minutes, they’ll get a second one. The children are then shown hilariously trying to resist eating it. These kids were then studied as they grew older, and lo and behold, those who had the self-discipline to hold out for the 2nd marshmallow were far more successful in life than those who gave in.
A new study found that a child’s ability to hold out for the second marshmallow had nothing to do with the ability to delay gratification. As The Atlantic points out, it had much more to do with the child’s social and economic background. When a child comes from a well to do household, the promise of a second marshmallow will be fulfilled. Their parents always deliver. When someone grows up in poverty, they are more attuned to take the short term reward because the guarantee does not exist that the marshmallow would still be there later. The circumstances matter much more than the psychological studies can account for. It is far easier to display grit with an entrepreneurial venture, for example, when you have the safety net of wealthy and supportive parents.
Valerie Strauss writes in the Washington Post that grit discourse is driven by middle and upper-class parents wanting their spoiled kids to appreciate the virtues of struggling against hardship. Unfortunately, this focus on character education means that poor students suffer because less money will then be spent on teaching disadvantaged students the skills they need to be successful. Sisyphus, she notes, had plenty of grit, but it didn’t get him very far.
Strauss asks us to imagine if a toxic dump was discovered near Beverly Hills, and our response was to teach kids how to lessen the effects of toxins instead of fixing the dump.
The grit discourse does not teach that poor children deserve poverty; it teaches that poverty itself is not so bad. In fact, hardship provides the very traits required to escape hardship. This logic is as seductive as it is circular. Pulling yourself up by the bootstraps is seen as a virtuous enterprise whether practiced by Horatio Alger’s urchins or Silicon Valley’s entrepreneurs (bootstrapping is a common term in technology finance circles). And most importantly, it creates a purported path out of poverty that does not involve any sacrifice on the part of the privileged classes. -Valerie Strauss
This approach is a way to appear noble while perpetuating the status quo. It provides the illusion of upliftment while further entrenching the very systems that prevent it. We see this enacted most commonly with modern-day Silicon Valley style of philanthropy. Anand Giridharadas has an entire book dedicated to this ‘elite charade of changing the world’ entitled Winners Take All.
The media also does its fair share to push this narrative. Stories that should horrify us are passed along as inspirational stories of perseverance. It’s like celebrating a GoFundMe campaign that helps pay for surgery to save someone’s life instead of critically analyzing why healthcare is not seen as a human right in the first place.
Islamically, we are taught to find ways to address the individual as well as the system. Characteristics like grit and delayed gratification are not bad. They’re misapplied when the bigger picture is not taken into account. In the Islamic system, for example, a person is encouraged not to beg. At the same time, there is an encouragement for those who can give to seek out those in need. A person in debt is strongly advised to pay off their debts as quickly as possible. At the same time, the lender is encouraged to be easygoing and to forgive the debt if possible.
This provides a more realistic framework for applying these concepts. A person facing difficulty should be encouraged to be resilient and find ways to bounce back. At the same time, support structures must be established to help that person.
Beyond the framework, there is a much larger issue. Grit is oriented around success. Success is unquestionably assumed to be a personal success oriented around academic achievement, career, wealth, and status. When that is the end goal, it makes it much easier to keep the focus on the individual.
The Islamic definition of success is much broader. There is the obvious idea of success in the Hereafter, but that is separate from this discussion. Even in a worldly sense, a successful person may be the one who sacrifices attending a good school, or perhaps even a dream job type of career opportunity, to spend more time with their family. The emphasis on individual success at all costs has contributed to the breakdown of essential family and community support systems.
A misapplied sense of grit furthers this when a person thinks they don’t need anyone else, and they just need to persevere. It is part of a larger body of messaging that promotes freedom and autonomy. We celebrate people who are strong and independent. Self-help tells us we can achieve anything with the right mindset.
But what happens when we fail? What happens when we find loneliness and not fulfillment, when we lack the bonds of familial solidarity, and when money does not make us whole? Then it all falls on us. It is precisely this feeling of constriction that Allah , give good news to those who are steadfast, those who say, when afflicted with a calamity, ‘We belong to God and to Him we shall return.’ These will be given blessings and mercy from their Lord, and it is they who are rightly guided.” (2:155-157)
Resilience is a reflex. When a person faces hardship, they will fall back on the habits and values they have. It brings to mind the statement of the Prophet that patience is at the first strike. He taught us the mindset needed to have grit in the first place,
“Wondrous is the affair of the believer for there is good for him in every matter and this is not the case with anyone except the believer. If he is happy, then he thanks Allah and thus there is good for him, and if he is harmed, then he shows patience and thus there is good for him” (Muslim).
He also taught us the habits we need to ensure that we have the reflex of grit when the situation warrants it –
“Whoever would be pleased for Allah to answer him during times of hardship and difficulty, let him supplicate often during times of ease” (Tirmidhi).
The institution of the masjid as a community center provides a massive opportunity to build infrastructure to support people. Resilience, as Michael Ungar writes, is not a DIY endeavor. Communities must find ways to provide the resources a person needs to persevere. Ungar explains, “What kind of resources? The kind that get you through the inevitable crises that life throws our way. A bank of sick days. Some savings or an extended family who can take you in. Neighbours or a congregation willing to bring over a casserole, shovel your driveway or help care for your children while you are doing whatever you need to do to get through the moment. Communities with police, social workers, home-care workers, fire departments, ambulances, and food banks. Employment insurance, pension plans or financial advisers to help you through a layoff.”
Ungar summarizes the appropriate application of grit, “The science of resilience is clear: The social, political and natural environments in which we live are far more important to our health, fitness, finances and time management than our individual thoughts, feelings or behaviours. When it comes to maintaining well-being and finding success, environments matter. In fact, they may matter just as much, and likely much more, than individual thoughts, feelings or behaviours. A positive attitude may be required to take advantage of opportunities as you find them, but no amount of positive thinking on its own is going to help you survive a natural disaster, a bad workplace or childhood abuse. Change your world first by finding the relationships that nurture you, the opportunities to use your talents and the places where you experience community and governmental support and social justice. Once you have these, your world will help you succeed more than you could ever help yourself.”
The one major missing ingredient here is tawakkul (trust in Allah). One of the events in the life of the Prophet that epitomized grit, resilience, and perseverance was the Battle of Badr. At this occasion, the Companions said, “God is enough for us: He is the best protector.“
“Those whose faith only increased when people said, ‘Fear your enemy: they have amassed a great army against you,’ and who replied, ‘God is enough for us: He is the best protector,’“ (3:173)
This is the same phrase that Ibrahim , while displaying the utmost level of resilience, said when he was thrown into the fire, and it was made cool.
There is a core belief in Islam about balancing between fear and hope. Scholars advise when a person feels despair, they should remind themselves of the traditions that reinforce hope in Allah’s forgiveness. When a person feels themselves sliding further and further into disobedience to Allah, then they should remind themselves of the traditions that warn against Allah’s punishment. The focus changes depending on the situation.
Grit itself is a praiseworthy characteristic
There is no doubt that it is a trait that makes people successful. The challenge comes in applying it and how we teach it. It needs a proper level of balance. Too much focus on grit as a singular predictor of success may lead to victim-blaming and false hope syndrome. Overlooking it on the other hand, enables a feeling of entitlement and a victim mentality.
One purpose of teaching grit was to help students from privileged backgrounds understand and appreciate the struggle needed to overcome difficulty. Misapplied, it can lead to overlooking systemic issues that prevent a person from succeeding even when they have grit.
Self-help literature often fails to make these types of distinctions. It fails to provide guidance for balancing adapting the advice based on circumstance. The criticisms here are not of the idea of grit, but rather the myopic way in which self-help literature promotes concepts like grit without real-world contextualization. We need to find a way to have the right proportionality of understanding individual effort, societal support, and our reliance on Allah.
Our ability to persevere, to be resilient, and to have grit, is linked directly to our relationship with Allah, and our true level of trust in Him.
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To Kill a Muslim – Part 1
Yahya noticed the obscene gesture that the man across the street gave him, but he ignored it, and chose not to tell his wife Samira. He knew how deep racism ran in these small towns. He would just have to be patient.
Nursing a warm beer, Chad sat on the ramshackle front porch with the rotting steps and peeling paint. His hand clenched tightly the beer can as he watched the filthy camel hugging family move in across the street. Liquid sloshed over his fist.
It was unbelievable. This was Alhambra, a white town in America. Trump’s America. Making America great again, putting the freaks and coloreds back in their places. Sure, there were wetbacks in Alhambra – you couldn’t escape them in California – but there were hardly any blacks, and there were certainly no terrorist camel huggers.
Until now. There they were across the street and two houses down, unloading a trailer hooked to a silver Honda Accord. It was a whole family of ragheads – a woman with her stupid oppressed scarf on her head, a little boy and girl, and the father. Chad studied the man with contempt. The guy was tall, maybe 6’1 or 6’2, and black. Well, maybe he was African or some such, ‘cause he wore one of those long, colorful African shirts. His skin was mud colored, and his hair was short under that stupid beanie. He was skinny though. Chad was pretty sure he could kick the guy’s ass. The man noticed Chad looking and waved. Chad flipped him the bird. The man frowned and went on moving his crap.
Chad spent a lot of time sitting on the porch nowadays, ever since he’d been fired from his loss prevention job at Walmart. That still made his jaw clench and his vision go red every time he thought about it. Some black dude – a gangbanger no doubt – had tried to shoplift box of tampons, of all things, and Chad stopped him. A scuffle ensued. Chad recovered the tampons, but the banger got away. And Walmart fired him. Said he’d violated the terms of service of his employment, which required no physical engagement of any kind. You were supposed to ask the thief to return the goods, but if they refused you were not supposed to stop them, follow them, or “engage” in any way, due to the liability to other customers if the encounter turned violent.
So the shade goes off scot-free, and Chad gets fired. A law abiding, hard working, white American gets fired for doing the right thing. It made him want to smash something. Actually it made him want to smash someone, ideally his Filipino woman boss at Walmart, but any foreigner would do.
So here he was, twenty two and unemployed, nothing but a high school diploma to his name, sitting on his mom’s porch. All his old high school friends had jobs and girlfriends. Some even had wives. A couple had gone to college.
It wasn’t right. His life wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. He’d been a track star in high school – hundred meters and hurdles – and was supposed to have gone to college on a scholarship, but he’d blown out his knee, and they’d all abandoned him. It was like, if you weren’t of use to people, they didn’t give a crap about you. You were disposable. Blood sucking leeches. They’d given his spot on the track team to a black kid, a sophomore. Kid probably couldn’t even read. Was that piece of crap out there now, living the life that should have been Chad’s? How could this happen in Trump’s America? That was the problem, that it hadn’t been Trump’s America back then. It had been Barack Hussein’s America, the Commie Muslim traitor, damn his terrorist soul.
He seethed with the unfairness of it. He was no genius, he knew that. But he’d been a good runner, talented. He’d had the opportunity to make something of himself, to be the first in his family to go to college. He could have been more than his parents. A teacher maybe, or even a lawyer. His mother survived on welfare and what she could beg, borrow or steal from her string of boyfriends.
As for his dad, sure, Chad admired him in some ways – the man had been a shot caller in the Aryan Nation prison gang, able to point a finger and have another man killed. He’d been looked up to and respected. And he’d taught Chad what it meant to be a proud white man, standing up for your race and not taking any crap from coloreds. But let’s face it, Dad had spent 90% of his adult life in prison, and in the end had died the way he lived, with a knife in his gut. That wasn’t what Chad wanted for himself.
Plus, if Chad was being honest, he’d evolved beyond this father’s way of thinking. His father always used to say that the coloreds – no matter the shade – were filthy and inferior and should all be eliminated, even if that meant a race war across the face of America. It was a certainty, according to him, that the race war was coming. RaHoWa, he used to call it – Racial Holy War. The coloreds were secretly plotting to wipe out white America. It was an assault on the white, Christian values that had built everything worldwide in the modern world.
But when Chad had worked at Walmart he’d been forced to work with people of all colors and even folks from other countries like Filipinos and Chinks. He´d asked a few of them about RaHoWa, trying to find out about their plans to destroy the white race, but they seemed genuinely clueless. Chad slowly realized that RaHoWa was a myth, and that the coloreds were ordinary people like himself. They liked the same sports teams he did, played the same video games, watched the same shows. Yeah, they ate some weird crap and some of them smelled different, and their music was garbage. And they weren’t as smart of course. That was a fact. White people were the smartest, they had invented everything. That was why they ran the world. But the point was that the coloreds weren’t evil.
He had come to the conclusion that what was needed was not a race war, but separation. Let the coloreds live in their own neighborhoods and go to their own schools. Let them marry their own women and breed their own brats. And Chad and the white people would do the same. Live and let live. Not the Filipino bitch who fired him of course, he still wanted to bust her head open. But the others, yeah.
But the Muzzies – the Islamics – that was a different story. They were terrorist, cult following traitors. Not normal people. Muzzies were evil and sick in the head. Everybody said so. Plus, they lied as part of their sicko religion. It was called takaya or some crap. What kind of twisted bullcrap was that? They beheaded people, for Christ’s sake. If you were Christian in their country they would cut off your head with a hunting knife. They were devil worshipers. They should all either be kicked out of the country or killed. Period. And then Mecca should be nuked, and that would be the end of it.
But instead of taking care of business, the government was letting them go around like normal people. Even Trump had wimped out. The evidence was right in front of Chad’s eyes. Ragheads in his neighborhood, on his street. It was insane. How could terrorists go around openly showing off their rags? Where was Homeland Security? That was a good idea, actually. See something, say something, right? He took his phone out of his pocket and called 911.
2. Moving Day
Yahya Mtondo noticed the young man across the street staring. He waved, and when the fellow gave him an obscene gesture in return he frowned. In the old days – that is to say, in his angry and lost years of his youth – he would have marched straight over there and punched the man in the face, and damn the consequences. But he wasn’t that man anymore. So here merely shook his head and turned back to the job of moving.
His wife Samira must have noticed his expression. “What’s wrong habibi?”
He forced a smile. “Nothing’s at all, mchumba wangu.” Usually he called her mpenzi wangu – my love. But when he wanted to tease her he called her mchumba wangu, my homemaker. It was actually a term of endearment in his native Kenya, or at least it was what his dad always used to call his mom, may Allah have mercy on them. But he knew it annoyed Samira. In any case, he wasn’t going to tell her about the young man across the street. Samira tended to worry – she even had anxiety attacks sometimes – and he didn’t want to give her anything more to stress over.
“Just tired from the fast,” he added. “But I love it. I feel so light and free. I’m a bird doing loop de loops. Oooh!” He spread his arms. “My feathers are as cool as ice.”
Samira rolled her eyes. “You’re such a nut.”
He had not been crazy about the idea of moving to this poor, mostly white enclave in Central California, about twenty miles northeast of Fresno. He knew from experience how deep racism often ran in such towns. And he had two strikes against him in these people’s eyes, since he was both African and Muslim. Not that he was ashamed. He was proud of his Kenyan heritage, and was grateful that Allah had guided him to Islam.
They were here because his wife had just completed her medical residency in Fort Worth, Texas, where they’d moved from, and Alhambra Community Hospital had unexpectedly offered her a fellowship in her specialty of oncology. The salary was not spectacular, but it was better than she’d earned as a resident. Between that and his income as a rideshare driver, plus the low property values here in Alhambra, they’d been able to buy a house for the first time, alhamdulillah – thanks to God for all His blessings.
The best part of all was that there was no ribaa involved. No interest. They’d gone through a group called Central Valley Islamic Finance, which helped qualified Muslims to buy cars and homes without interest. Yahya was deeply relieved about that. He ́d made plenty of mistakes in life, but so far he’d managed to avoid the sin of ribaa, sometimes making great sacrifices in the process.
It felt like an achievement. He could see himself on Yawm Al-Qiyamah – the Day of Resurrection – standing before some great angel who held in his hand a parchment listing Yahya´s sins, each with a small checked box: anger, resentment, cursing, jealousy, ingratitude, and more. But then Yahya ́s eyes would settle on the one little unchecked box – Ribaa. He would point to it excitedly, saying, ̈Look, look!̈ And he ́d hope that it might perhaps, offer him a chance for safety on that Day.
It was pretty sad, he knew, when avoiding a major sin was your last chance for salvation. Welcome to the 21st century. Or maybe that was a cop-out. He sighed.
̈Come on babe, tell me. What is it?̈ His sweaty-faced wife touched his cheek. She was always so alert to any sign of inner turbulence on his part.
He smiled. ¨Nothing.¨
She slid her arm through his. ̈Look at our house. Our house. SubhanAllah.¨
He set down the box he had tucked under one arm and studied the house. 701 Minarets Avenue. They had taken the street name as a sign. Their own little homestead, their own piece of earth – of course it all belonged to Allah, but it was theirs to care for. He would import a few elephants and a lion and call it Little House on the Serengeti. He chuckled at his own joke.
The house was small for a family of four – only 1,100 square feet. But it was cute – a little Craftsman bungalow built in 1901, painted teal with white trim, and featuring a small covered veranda to relax on when the weather go too hot, as it often did here in Central California. The yard was planted with wildflowers and native shrubs, while an immense magnolia tree grew in the front yard, casting shade over most of the house, its thick, waxy leaves glowing deep emerald in the morning sun. Some sort of songbird trilled from deep in the tree, praising God in its own language. Yahya loved it.
As an added bonus, Samira’s family lived in Los Angeles, only a four hour drive from here.
Allah the Most High had opened a door for them, and they’d walked through, taking the path that the Most Wise chose for them. Yahya knew in his heart that there would be good in this path, or Allah would not have set them upon it. That was trust, tawakkul. Doing your best, then putting your life in Allah’s hands and trusting Him to bring you through whatever obstacles you faced. Tawakkul was not, as some thought, naivete. Yahya had not lived an easy life. He ́d experienced terrible tragedies, and had walked through trench and terror, metaphorically speaking, just to stay alive. No, tawakkul was a choice and a mindset. It was faith.
As for the young man across the street, Yahya would make an effort to reach out to the neighbors, get to know them. Weren’t Muslims commanded to be kind to their neighbors? Only through kindness could an enemy become a friend.
He kissed his wife on the temple and bent down wearily to pick up the box.This was Ramadan, and Yahya’s energy level was at rock bottom. He hadn’t taken any food or water in many hours. Fortunately, all the family’s possessions fit into a small U-Haul trailer, and the moving was nearly done. That was one advantage of being poor, he thought wryly. It made moving easier.
Ten minutes later, hefting a 6-foot bookshelf and turning, he almost tripped over Sulayman, his four-year-old son, who had picked up a table fan by the cord. Yahya resisted the temptation to chide the boy. The irritability he felt was a byproduct of his hunger and weariness from the fast. Part of the challenge of Ramadan was to overcome that irritability and replace it with compassion. Instead of anger, to give love. Instead of resentment, to exercise generosity. Instead of self-absorption, to expand your sphere of concern to include your family, neighbors, the community, the Muslim ummah, and finally the world. That was Ramadan, and that was Islam.
Sulayman and his three-year-old sister Amirah were only trying to help in their little way. But yeah, they were getting underfoot. He was about to suggest they go play inside the house when he heard sirens approaching. It sounded like there were a lot of them, and they were close. Curious, he set the bookshelf down in the driveway. The sirens kept getting louder, and a moment later a black-and-white Alhambra police cruiser careened around the corner, then another right behind it, tires squealing. Yahya didn’t know what was going on – a burglary in the neighborhood, or a domestic dispute maybe? – but he wanted his family out of harm’s way.
“Samira,” he said urgently. “Take the kids into the house, please. Right away.” His wife had also paused to see the source of the commotion. She stood near the front door of the house, her hands gripping tightly on the box of dinnerware she was carrying. Like him, she was tall – about 5’10” to his 6’1” – and though she was Palestinian, her skin was a beautiful shade of brown that fell somewhere between copper and mahogany. Her purple hijab concealed long black hair that she typically wore loose beneath her scarf.
While Yahya was quiet and contemplative, Samira could be loud. She had a laugh that rang out, and a smile that stretched a mile wide. People were drawn to her brash and bubbly personality. Only those who knew her best understood the insecurities and worries that she hid beneath that bright and happy laugh.
As the wailing sirens mounted Samira dropped the box. Whatever was inside shattered when it hit the ground. She scooped up the kids, lifting them bodily off the ground, and disappeared inside the house.
What on earth? What had gotten into her? Yahya was about to go after her when the police cars skidded to a halt in the street in front of his own home. Doors were thrown open, and officers kneeled behind them, pointing their guns at his house. Yahya looked around in confusion. Was a fugitive hiding in his yard?
“Put your hands on your head,” someone bellowed through a loudspeaker, “and get down on your knees!”
Again Yahya looked around. Surely they did not mean him?
“You with the hat and the beard! Put your hands on your head and get down on your knees! This is your last warning!”
SubhanAllah, they did mean him! He considered protesting or at least asking for clarification. Then he looked at the barrels of the firearms pointing at him, one of which was bright yellow for some reason – some kind of phaser pistol? he thought crazily – and realized this was not the time for anything less than obedience. Moving slowly so as not to alarm the cops, he put his hands on his head and went down to his knees. Two offers charged forward, their weapons trained on Yahya’s chest. One pulled his hands behind his back and handcuffed him, then shoved him forward. He fell, turning his face to the side at the last second and striking his cheek on the driveway. The impact made him grunt in pain. He thought he heard the muffled cries of his wife or children from inside the house. They were probably watching through the window.
This was not something he would have ever wanted them to see. He struggled to rise up, to say to the officers, “Come on now, what’s this all about?” He was not personally afraid. It was never his way to be afraid of people or the things people did. He was good with God and trusted in the path. He just didn’t want his children to see their father being treated this way.
The cops tased him. He didn’t understand at that moment what was happening. Every muscle in his body seized in a terrible cramp. His limbs thrashed uncontrollably and his torso flopped like a dying fish on the floor of a boat. His vision went red as agonizing pain blasted his consciousness. He still heard his family screaming, and in the distance he heard laughter as well – triumphant, mocking laughter. The agony seemed to go on forever, then vanished without a trace, leaving no remainder of pain.
He regained control of himself and turned his head to look at the officers. The one who’d tased him stood rigid, his arms in a classic firing pose, his muscles quivering. He was young and slender, pasty white with red hair and a prematurely receding hairline. What Yahya noticed most of all, however, was that the man was petrified. His eyes were wide with fear. SubhanAllah, what was he so afraid of? He was staring as if Yahya were some mythical monster laying in the driveway, like an abominable snowman. Except he wasn’t an abominable snowman. He was an abominable Muslim, apparently.
“Hey,” Yahya said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. “It’s alright. I’m not-”
“Shut up, faggot!” one of the officers bellowed, and once again the electricity coursed through him. He spasmed and fell hard, striking his mouth this time. Then he felt hard objects hitting him, striking his legs and back. A hammering blow clapped the side of his head, and darkness descended upon his mind.
* * *
Next: Part 2 – The Black Jesus
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