Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero

by Saadia Faruqi

  “I don’t even know what a zoning meeting is, exactly,” Yusuf grumbled. He didn’t like not knowing things. He should have looked it up when Mr. Khan mentioned it in Urooj Diner.

  “It’s where they decide petitions about parking and roads and things like that,” Danial answered helpfully. “Like what you can build in a school zone versus a residential zone.”

  Yusuf didn’t answer. He took off his glasses to rub his burning eyes.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Danial asked. “I bet you stayed up all night planning our robot design.”

  Yusuf felt a pang of guilt. He shook his head. “Not really.”

  Danial raised his eyebrows. “What else could you be doing?”

  Cameron strolled toward them, his usual mocking grin fixed on his face. “Collecting pumpkins with his new friend, more likely.”

  Danial’s mouth dropped open. “Pumpkins?” he wailed. “You went to St. Mary’s without me?”

  Yusuf felt his cheeks grow warm. “Aleena was begging,” he said. “You know how she is.”

  Danial calmed down a little. “I told you younger siblings are a pain.”

  “Yes, you did,” Yusuf agreed, hoping Cameron would go away.

  No such luck. Cameron was openly laughing at him now. “You sure, Yusuf? It wasn’t because your new friend Jared begged you? You guys were really having a great time.”

  Yusuf jammed his glasses up his nose. “What? No . . . yes . . . uh.”

  “Your new friend? What am I, then? Old news?” Danial’s voice was shrill. “Jared is Ethan’s cousin, or don’t you care?”

  “Come on, that’s not his fault!” Yusuf protested.

  There was a rumble underneath their feet, and then an earsplitting whistle announcing the ten o’clock train. Yusuf waited while the train shrieked and crashed and hurtled through. It took less than a minute but felt like twenty. When the train was gone, he looked for Danial.

  His best friend was stalking away toward the Sunday school kids like a boy on a mission. Yusuf swung around to face Cameron. “What’s the matter with you? Why did you say that? Were you spying on me?”

  “I was there with my parents,” Cameron replied, shrugging. “I actually waved at you several times. You were too busy having fun to notice me.”

  Yusuf ran after Danial. Cameron followed. “What’s the big deal anyway? Aren’t you allowed to have other friends?”

  “Yes, I am.” Yusuf stopped. “No, I’m not. Wait . . .”

  Cameron’s laughter was like a big gust of wind across the construction site. The aunties looked at him in disapproval. “Whatever. This drama is too childish for me.”

  Yusuf gritted his teeth. “You can’t just say things like that and walk away. You made this mess. You clean it up.”

  Cameron’s face hardened. “Look who’s talking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The whole thing with Ethan in the changing room last week. What business did you have confronting him? He wasn’t hitting your behind with a towel. Why didn’t you just leave it alone? You’re not a hero like your dad, you know.”

  Yusuf stood in shock. Cameron had completely lost his mocking, easy grin. He looked almost like the kid they’d been friends with in elementary school. Earnest. Serious. A little mad at everything around him. Yusuf put a trembling hand to his glasses. “I wasn’t being a hero! I had to do that. It was my duty as a Muslim.”

  “Are you serious? Your duty?” Cameron’s whisper was furious. “Listen, just keep your head down and don’t make waves. Like your parents and my parents, and everyone else around here. Since when did you start to challenge things? Dangerous things?”

  Yusuf swallowed. Was he really challenging things that could end up being dangerous? He thought of Ethan’s ham fists and narrowed eyes. No! Ethan was just a big bully. He’d never really hurt Yusuf.

  Ethan’s father was another matter, though. Yusuf remembered how twisted his face had been as he stood on the 9/11 memorial stage, shouting about the enemy.

  “Everything’s okay,” Yusuf finally said shakily, even though he didn’t really believe it.

  Cameron shook his head in disgust and turned away. “You’re not as smart as they all say, dude.”

  After Sunday school, Amma handed the kids big trash bags and told them to clean up the street outside the construction site. “The people from the church should have a clean path to walk on as they leave,” she told them. “It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

  Danial took a bag and joined Saba and Rehana with his head held high. Yusuf sighed and walked beside Amma, holding a big bag for both of them. “I thought you didn’t care what people thought about Muslims,” he said after a while.

  Amma wrinkled her brow. “When did I say that?”

  Yusuf shrugged. It wasn’t anything she’d said, really. “Abba’s always saying we have to present this perfect picture of how we are, but you don’t always agree with that.”

  She bent to pick up a Coke can. “Your abba comes from a different background, Yusuf. He didn’t grow up here. He still feels like an outsider, even after fifteen years in this country.”

  Yusuf frowned. “So that’s why he’s always trying to be perfect?”

  “Exactly. He feels the need to prove himself.” She gave Yusuf a little smile. “Not me. I was born here; I belong here. I’m not going to apologize for being Muslim or try to do things exactly like everyone else. If I don’t like those violent football games on Friday nights, I shouldn’t have to attend them, right?”

  He nodded. He didn’t want to watch football either, especially if Ethan Grant was the captain of the Coyotes. “Is it because of 9/11? All this hatred of Muslims?”

  Amma stopped so suddenly that he almost bumped into her. “What do you mean?”

  He stopped too. “I’ve been researching 9/11 for my school report, and it’s all about the wars and everything. It’s very confusing.”

  Her sigh was so loud a few kids around them turned to see what was happening. “Suspicion of those unlike us is common human behavior. We don’t trust who we don’t know. But yes, 9/11 was terrible, and it really fueled the fire of hatred in this country.”

  Yusuf chewed his lip, wondering if he should tell her about Ethan and the incident in the gym. Principal Williamson hadn’t called Amma and Abba about it, but if they ever found out on their own, they’d be devastated. Especially Abba. Maybe it was better to tell them.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but a shout from nearby interrupted him. Everyone turned to see what was happening.

  A group of men with picket signs stood on the corner, closer to the church than the construction site, but walking toward them. They weren’t many, but they were big and bulky. Yusuf looked closer and recognized the motorcycle crew from Wicks Avenue—Mr. Grant’s friends. But wait, there were others too. People he recognized. A young man who worked at the grocery store downtown, and the lady from the post office near Abba’s store. And Mr. Thomas, a substitute teacher at his old elementary school. They all looked serious. And sort of mad.

  The Patriot Sons.

  The group got closer, and he could see what the signs said now.

  STOP BUILDING.

  GO AWAY.

  THIS IS OUR TOWN.

  Mr. Khan and Abba came outside to see what the commotion was. The other uncles and aunties joined them too. They stood with their arms crossed and their mouths in straight lines, silently watching the Patriot Sons grow closer. “Don’t say anything,” Mr. Khan warned. “We stopped building already. We don’t have to respond to their taunts.”

  The church doors opened and a stream of people came out. Yusuf hoped the Patriot Sons would leave, now that others were watching them. Abba always said bad guys weren’t so brave when they had witnesses. Yusuf got ready to wave at Jared, or Pastor Nielson, or anyone else he recognized.

  There was no one. He didn’t see familiar faces in the crowd. Not a single smile. They avoided the construction site and walked on the other side of
the street. In a few minutes, they were all gone. All except the Patriot Sons, who were now only a few feet away, holding up their signs and shouting, “GO AWAY!”

  Yusuf shivered, even though the breeze was warm and humid.

  Journal entry 7

  October 9, 2001

  I can’t believe it’s been almost a month since the 9/11 attacks. I feel like a totally different person, like someone took away all my happy thoughts and replaced them with dark, alien ones. I know I’m supposed to write in this journal every week, but it’s been so hard to find words that make sense. Jonathan doesn’t even speak to me anymore. He just turns away when he sees me, his lips tightly shut and his eyes fixed on a point on the floor. I want to tell him a corny joke, but he doesn’t look like he’s ever going to laugh again in his life.

  I miss him. I don’t have anyone else to hang out with in school, unless you count the two other Muslim kids in my class, Sami and Farhan. Nobody talks to them either. A few kids push against us in the hallways, or throw a ball hard and fast at us in the gym. Small things that tell us we’re not wanted.

  I want to scream that it’s not my fault. None of this is. But nobody’s listening.

  Amma says things will get better with time, they always do. “When my father died,” she told me once, “I felt like the world had ended. I loved him so much. But after a while it became easier to breathe, easier to go on with life.”

  I’m not sure this will ever happen to us. It’s not like we have to get over one person dying. There was so much destruction on 9/11, so many deaths. How do you ever forget that?

  America declared war on Afghanistan a few weeks ago, like it was no big deal to kill innocent people thousands of miles away. “We need to take revenge,” a news reporter said on TV. “Root out the mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks.”

  I felt sick when I heard that. The people in Afghanistan aren’t responsible for 9/11 any more than I am. Why should we be dropping bombs on them?

  Our neighbors are from Afghanistan, and they walk around like half-dead ghosts these days. “What will happen to our family?” they ask when they come to our house for prayers. Abba doesn’t have a reply, but we pray for their family, and their country, just like we pray for ours.

  Maybe that’s why I stopped journaling. Because there are too many questions without answers. Nothing to report except the worry that keeps following my family around like a black cloud. But now I’m back because I have something to write about. Two things, actually.

  It was Mrs. Jahangir’s last day at the school today. She was crying as she put all her things in a box. I’ve started sitting in her office at recess instead of going outside for a repeat encounter with Jonathan.

  “Why are you leaving?” I asked her. “Where will you work now?”

  “I can’t work here anymore,” she replied. “Everyone is horrible to me.”

  I stare at her, wondering who this “everyone” is. Her boss, the principal, is the kindest man. He’d been on vacation on the eleventh, but had come back the next day and called an assembly. He’d told all of us to take care of each other. No bullying, he’d warned. But then I remembered President Bush’s speech, and how it didn’t really matter.

  I hugged Mrs. Jahangir and told her I’d miss her. She kept crying and didn’t reply.

  The second thing that happened was that Abba’s contract wasn’t renewed for next semester. His boss at the university told him they didn’t need his kind there. Abba told Amma as they drank chai after dinner. It was past my bedtime, and I wasn’t supposed to hear, but I did. My chest squeezed and my eyes hurt, but I kept quiet. Abba went on a job interview to Atlanta the next day, and when he got back, he said everyone on the plane was staring at him throughout the flight. Two men came and sat next to him. “In case I tried anything,” Abba said in a bitter voice.

  I’ve never heard him speak like that.

  22

  The zoning meeting was scheduled for Friday, October 8, at six thirty p.m. Abba made Yusuf stay home from school because he said everyone needed to attend Jummah and pray very hard about the outcome of the meeting. “But I don’t even know what’s being discussed,” Yusuf protested.

  Amma was making French toast in the kitchen. She banged the skillet so hard on the counter, the angry sound echoed around them. “The Patriot Sons don’t want us to build our mosque, that’s all. Nothing out of the ordinary. So many cities in America go through the same thing every day. Zoning laws get violated all the time.”

  Yusuf watched as she poured milk and sugar into a bowl and whisked furiously. He didn’t think it was a good idea to tell her she had forgotten the eggs. And the cinnamon. “So, it’s our fault?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” Amma snapped. “Stop asking questions.”

  Abba reached over and put a hand on Amma’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, jaan,” he said to her in a low voice.

  Amma looked at him, then Yusuf. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. “No, it’s not our fault. Mr. Khan got permission from the city council before we started to build.”

  Yusuf relaxed. “Okay, then,” he announced cheerfully. “The meeting will be fine.”

  His parents exchanged glances. “I’m sure,” Abba agreed, nodding firmly.

  Yusuf poured some orange juice in his glass and went to wake Aleena. “Oh, by the way, Amma,” he called out from the hallway. “You forgot to add eggs to that mixture.”

  At Jummah, the trailer was crowded. Everyone had kept their kids home from school in the hopes of a massive prayer marathon. The middle schoolers stood in Abba’s parking lot under the sun. Saba, the hijab-clad seventh grader, nervously paced up and down. “I heard the city council is really mean,” she whispered, clutching her little purse to her chest.

  Danial nodded morosely. “My dad said it’ll be the toughest meeting he’s ever been in. He’s not a lawyer, you know. He’s in IT.”

  “Yeah, dude, we know,” Cameron scoffed.

  Danial scowled. “I’m just saying . . .”

  Yusuf could tell that the kids were all nervous. “It’ll be okay. It’s not our fault,” he told everyone, trying to smile.

  Danial rolled his eyes at him. “Do you eat some special breakfast every morning that makes you so disgustingly cheery?”

  Yusuf managed a small grin. “Just my mom’s French toast!”

  Sameena Aunty peered from the trailer door and gestured sternly. “Come on, children. The sermon is starting.”

  With a groan, they went inside and stuffed themselves into the back row. Mr. Khan gave a long lecture about prayer and perseverance, quoting verses from the Quran in Arabic and English. Yusuf almost dozed off, but Danial kept pinching him awake. “Pray for the meeting,” Danial hissed in his ear more than once.

  The rest of the day passed slowly. At six fifteen, they all gathered on the sidewalk outside the Frey Public Courthouse. “Ready?” Mr. Khan asked grimly.

  Nobody replied.

  The courthouse was an old red-stone building, almost as old as Frey itself. It used to be the home of the Frey brothers and their families, with rooms and kitchens added as time went on. Some of the original parts had been destroyed in a fire in the early 1900s, and three restoration projects had kept the rest of the structure alive. Now it contained not only the courthouse, but also a small museum about the Freys.

  Yusuf and Danial had visited the museum section of the building on field trips every single year in elementary school. They’d never entered the courthouse before.

  Officer Strickland stood at the wide, curving entryway. He had light brown hair in a buzz-cut army style. “Azeem, how are you?” he hollered. “Attacked any more bad guys recently?”

  Abba came forward to shake his hand. “No, no. Everything’s been quiet. Brother, how are you?”

  They shook hands like old friends. Yusuf supposed that’s what they were. They’d first met on the day of the attempted robbery of the A to Z Dollar Store in 2011. Officer Strickland had responded to Abba’s 911 call and
helped all the customers inside the store get outside to safety while Abba stood over the robber’s unconscious body. After that, Officer Strickland came over to the dollar store several times a year, just to say hello. Sometimes he brought little presents for Yusuf and Aleena, like toy cars or plastic bracelets.

  “Big crowd with you tonight,” he murmured as he waved all the Muslim families inside.

  Abba shook his head, his smile gone. “Zoning meeting.”

  Officer Strickland nodded sympathetically and pointed down the small hallway. “First door on the left.”

  The Muslim families all crowded into the room. It was the first time Yusuf had been inside a courtroom. To his disappointment, it looked nothing like Judge Judy’s courtroom. Instead of a judge’s bench, there was a long table at which sat five people Yusuf didn’t know—two women and three men. Almost all of them were white, and all looked very serious. A plaque in the center of the table read FREY CITY COUNCIL. Mayor Chesterton was the sixth person at the table, and he was the only one who even tried to smile.

  Yusuf looked around the room. Many of the seats were already taken. Yusuf recognized their next-door neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Oliver, and Jared’s grandmother, Mrs. Raymond. Jared sat next to her, staring down at his shoes. Miss Terrance and Principal Williamson were also there, and so was Pastor Nielson.

  Yusuf and his group settled in the front together, like a pack of sheep not sure exactly where to go. It was six twenty, and people kept streaming into the room in twos and threes, until not a single seat was left empty. When the clock on the wall struck six thirty exactly, Officer Strickland closed the door with a firm bang. Yusuf tried not to gulp.

  Mr. Khan and Abba sat in the front of the room directly facing the city council members. Next to them in the aisle was a microphone stand. Pastor Nielson came forward to give a prayer, looking apologetically toward the Muslims. “Amen,” he murmured, and the entire room echoed with “Amen.”