Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero

by Saadia Faruqi

  A woman from the city council stood up from her seat and began. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Carla Busby. We’ve called this meeting today in response to a complaint filed by the Patriot Sons regarding the construction of a religious building in Frey.” She looked around, her forehead wrinkled. “Where are . . . the Patriot Sons?”

  “Here!”

  Yusuf turned to look at the back of the room, where Mr. Grant sat with arms folded across his chest, his face dark. He was surrounded by men and women Yusuf had seen before: mostly the motorcycle group on Wicks Avenue, but also a few people from the neighborhood. The eighth-grade math teacher Mr. Hobson was also in that group, arms folded the same way as Mr. Grant’s.

  “Okay, then,” Mrs. Busby continued. “And the Islamic Center of Frey is represented by Mr. Khan, correct?”

  Danial’s father looked as if he’d rather be anywhere other than in the courthouse right now. “Yes,” he answered miserably.

  “Now I’d like to invite the mayor’s assistant, Jorge Diaz, to come up here and tell us about the paperwork that was filed by the Islamic Center.”

  A man came up to the microphone with a big file folder in his arms. “Ahem, yes, thank you. I’m Jorge Diaz, assistant to Mayor Chesterton. I’ve been working in this capacity for six years, and since then we’ve received eleven permit requests to build places of worship in Frey. Of those, five were approved, and the rest denied due to various reasons. The Islamic Center’s petition was one of those five that were approved. But so were many others, like the new Methodist church over on Darby Street—”

  “Nobody asked about the other churches!” Mr. Grant shouted from the back.

  The crowd started whispering like a swarm of angry bees. Yusuf gulped again. Was this how the entire proceeding would go? Mr. Grant intimidating everyone from his seat?

  Mrs. Busby didn’t like the interruption. She stood up again and glared in Mr. Grant’s direction. “Please don’t talk out of turn, sir.”

  Mr. Grant uttered an “ugh” loud enough for everyone to hear. Then he was quiet.

  Mr. Diaz continued, his voice trembling. “The Islamic Center had all their paperwork in order. They had all the correct permissions, and they had gotten the required seed funding for the initial year. They also submitted architectural plans and met all the zoning requirements.”

  A man on the city council raised his finger. “What are those requirements, Mr. Diaz?”

  Mr. Diaz looked at the mayor and then at the file in his hands. “Well, ordinarily there would be lots of requirements, such as parking lots and building height and other things. But the center is being built near the train tracks, which isn’t a residential zone, so most of those didn’t really apply.”

  The crowd started whispering again. Yusuf frowned. If none of the zoning requirements even applied to their mosque, why were they all there? What exactly was the Patriot Sons protesting?

  23

  Mrs. Busby called Mr. Grant to the microphone. He glared angrily at everyone as he spoke. “I’m the leader of the Southeast Texas chapter of the Patriot Sons. We are the group protesting the building of this Iz-lamic church, or whatever they call it.”

  Yusuf wanted to shout that it was called a mosque. How could an adult not know such a simple thing? But then he remembered what Miss Terrance had said. “Knowledge is power.” Maybe Mr. Grant was showing his power by pretending not to know something?

  A man from the city council asked the next question. “The mayor’s office says everything is in order with the permits, and the city has given them permission to build. The construction is fifty percent complete, as I understand. Is that correct, Mr. Khan?”

  Mr. Khan stood up and nodded. Then he added, “Yes, that’s correct,” in a too-loud voice.

  Mr. Grant scowled even more. “The mayor’s office did all this in secret. They didn’t give any of the residents the opportunity to protest.”

  There was a small silence in the room. Jorge Diaz raised his hand from his seat near the mayor. “We followed the same procedure for all religious buildings. We don’t generally allow citizens to protest or give input on any of the buildings being constructed.”

  The city council man offered a little smile. “Imagine the chaos if that were to happen. Would we protest at every gas station or every school being built? Every home? Why is this case special, Mr. Grant?”

  Mr. Grant’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s. He cleared his throat and scowled some more. Danial leaned toward Yusuf and whispered in his ear, “Because we’re Muslim, of course.”

  Yusuf elbowed him. Danial loved to state the obvious.

  Mr. Grant was looking at some papers. “The Patriot Sons are objecting to zoning regulations in particular.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Diaz already explained . . .”

  Mr. Grant went on as if nobody had interrupted him. “The Mooz-lims are building their temple in an area which is a mix of commercial and residential. New homes are being built on Cypress Road, just down the road from the train tracks. And there’s also the New Horizons Church to consider. It’s next door to the construction site, and members are worried that the traffic congestion will block their side of the road.”

  Yusuf turned to look at Pastor Nielson. Did his church really worry about the traffic? Most of the Muslims either walked or shared rides anyway. Frey was pretty small, but Mr. Grant was making the traffic situation sound like that of Houston or Dallas.

  The clock said seven o’clock. Yusuf shuffled his feet. He hadn’t been hungry at lunch, but now his stomach was rumbling. “Do you have any snacks?” he whispered to Danial.

  “Do I look like a baby?”

  Amma tapped Yusuf’s shoulder from Aleena’s other side. “You can have Aleena’s Goldfish.”

  He gratefully took a few orange crackers. Aleena was watching a cartoon on Amma’s phone, wearing pink cat-ear headphones and staring intently at the screen. “Thank you,” he told her, even though she couldn’t hear him. At least her cough was better today; otherwise Amma would have stayed outside the courtroom with her.

  The city council was discussing something quietly. “What’s happening?” Yusuf asked Danial.

  “Shhh!”

  Mrs. Busby stood up again. “We have decided to agree somewhat to the Patriot Sons’ request and allow for public opinions. The microphone is open, so if you’d like to say something in favor or against this construction project, please come forward. We will take the comments into consideration when we make a decision.”

  Yusuf realized he shouldn’t have eaten the crackers. He looked around desperately at the other Muslims in the room. What did this mean? Public opinion? If they got a lot of people against their mosque, would they be forced to knock down what they had built?

  “How is this fair?” he burst out, louder than he’d intended. The people around him turned to stare at him, but they didn’t look too angry. A few were nodding. Principal Williamson gave him a reassuring smile, and he tried to relax. Maybe public opinion would be in their favor? All Yusuf could do was wait and see.

  Mr. Parker was the first in line. “I’m a teacher at Frey Middle, and in my many years at the school I’ve had the pleasure of teaching quite a few Muslim students. They’ve always been good in their studies, and their parents are involved. Last year one of these kids won the state science fair and made me proud. This year, they’re taking us to a regional robotics competition. It’s my honor to call these people my neighbors, and they deserve to have a place to pray, just like I do.”

  Yusuf wanted to clap, but nobody else did, so he made do with a little high five with Danial. Mr. Parker gave a nod to the city council and walked back to his seat.

  Next was Miss Terrance. Her lips were pursed as if she had a lot of feelings bottled up inside her. “This whole proceeding is ridiculous, in my opinion! We’ve got churches being constructed left and right in this town, but nobody protests against them. I have no problem with anybody building a house of worship, as l
ong as they preach good things and don’t hurt anybody.”

  Several people in the room clapped at that. Then someone shouted from the back, “That’s the problem. These people don’t preach good things.”

  “Yeah,” someone else called out. “They’re terrorists, all of them.”

  Yusuf gripped the seat of his chair with both hands, wishing he was somewhere else. This was much worse than what had happened with Ethan and Sammy. These were adults. They were supposed to know better.

  After Miss Terrance left, a woman came up to the microphone—Mrs. Geller, one of Abba’s most frequent customers. “I never trusted these people,” she almost shouted. “Azeem has these Arabic writings on his walls, like he’s going to hex us all. They don’t belong here with regular folks. They should just . . . leave.”

  Yusuf froze. Leave? How could anyone say that so . . . callously? He turned and saw that Danial’s face was white. Yusuf gave his hand a little squeeze. A few seats down, one of Amma’s friends from the mosque was crying quietly, a tissue held to her eyes.

  Amma leaned forward and whispered over Aleena’s head, “Don’t listen to these people, darling. They’re just repeating the hate they hear on TV.”

  For once, Yusuf didn’t mind that she had called him darling. He felt bad for Abba, sitting in the front with Mr. Khan, hearing such terrible things about his shop. Yusuf bent his head and stared at Aleena’s cartoon. Even without the sound, he was able to follow along: a bear and a little girl went on silly little adventures together.

  At least twenty other people stood up and said things at the microphone. Some for the mosque, some against. Pastor Nielson went up and called Abba and Mr. Khan the best neighbors he’d ever had.

  Yusuf couldn’t listen anymore. He kept his head bent and focused on Aleena’s screen. At one point she put her head on his shoulder and dozed off. He kept watching.

  A movement on his right brought him out of his trance. Amma was leaving her seat and walking toward the microphone. He sat up straight. What was she doing?

  “My friends and neighbors, I thought it was time you heard from an actual Muslim.” Amma’s voice was strong and sure, like all the times Yusuf had been sick and needed reassurance that he’d be okay. “I’ve lived in this town for thirteen years. I volunteered as lunch monitor when my son was in elementary school. I worked with my husband to set up his store, which you all shop at. Before this, I lived in Houston. My siblings and I were born there.

  “We are Americans just like you. In all the time you’ve known me, have you ever seen me do anything bad? The families who are building a mosque here have always been model citizens of this town. This country. It hurts my heart to hear my neighbors protest my right to worship God, as if I am less than them. It’s the principle this great nation was founded on. It hurts my heart to see us all so divided, so angry.”

  Amma’s voice trembled, but she walked back to her seat with her head high. Several people in the room clapped, and some said, “Hear hear!”

  “Good job, Amma,” Yusuf whispered when she sat down again. She didn’t reply.

  Finally the clock struck eight, and the city council took an informal vote. “All those in favor, raise your hands, please,” Mrs. Busby ordered. Yusuf held up his hand, high up so that everyone could see. Then the people against the mosque got to vote, and Yusuf tried not to notice how many of his neighbors and teachers were holding up their hands.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Busby said, sighing, as the rest of the city council packed up their files. “We will review the meeting notes and send a formal notice with our decision next week. Thank you to all of you who took time to come here today and give your input.”

  Mr. Grant refused to sit down. “As you can see, most people are against this church being built.”

  Mrs. Busby stared at him. “Actually, only twenty-one out of sixty-seven were against the construction of this mosque. That’s not most people.”

  Mr. Grant made a deep, angry sound in his throat. To Yusuf, it sounded like a train right before it roared off into the distance.

  The crowd dispersed slowly. Mr. Khan and Abba looked relieved as they came back to their families. “Thank God that’s over,” Mr. Khan said, wiping his forehead.

  Mr. Grant turned to look at him. “Oh, no,” he said loudly, his words spitting fire. “It’s just beginning.”

  24

  On Saturday morning, Abba rose early. “I need to swing by the shop first. I forgot to put out food for Rusty last night.”

  Yusuf was already packing his backpack. He had the designs for their TRC robot ready, thanks to the sketches Jared had made. “Can’t you do that later? Rusty can catch one of the rats in the garbage out back.”

  Abba gave him a horrified look. “What rats? There are no rats in my garbage.”

  Yusuf grinned as they left. “That’s what you think.”

  Abba’s car was old and creaky, but unlike Amma, he let Yusuf roll down the window and stick his head out as they drove. “Doughnuts?” Abba asked as they passed a row of shops.

  “Only if we can get some for my robotics club.”

  Abba parked the car and took out his wallet. “Sure. Why not? Buy doughnuts for all your friends. They should see how generous we are.”

  Yusuf came back from the shop holding a box of jelly doughnuts, still thinking about what Abba had said. “Why do you care so much about what others think?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I mean, like buying doughnuts so that my friends will think you’re generous. It’s . . . weird.”

  Abba was silent, and Yusuf bit his lip. He didn’t want Abba to get angry or hurt. “Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”

  “That’s okay.” Abba sighed as he started the car again and began driving toward the dollar store. “I understand what you’re saying. Sometimes I worry too much about how people are viewing me. Us. But you see, it’s also important that the values we learn from childhood are actually visible to others. Being good and kind and generous are all important, and your friends should see those parts of you all the time.”

  Yusuf took out a doughnut from the box and gave Abba a smile. “Nothing wrong with that, I guess.”

  “But weird if it gets too much, eh?” Abba grinned. He seemed to be in good spirits today.

  “Why are you smiling?” Yusuf asked.

  “You have jelly on your cheeks, just like you used to when you were little.”

  Yusuf wiped his cheeks. “I thought you’d be worried about the zoning meeting yesterday. Amma looked wiped out.”

  Abba shook his head. “No, not worried. Didn’t you see how many people came out to support us yesterday? So many of our neighbors and friends. So many of your teachers. Even your principal was there.”

  “There were also Mr. Grant’s friends,” Yusuf pointed out sadly.

  Abba shook his head again. “Good always overpowers bad, that is God’s promise to believers. You must remember that, Yusuf. No matter how bad things get, we have to have faith that God will help us.”

  Yusuf finished his doughnut and started another. “But Amma was really different last night. I’ve never seen her so . . . sad.”

  “She’ll be okay soon, inshallah. It’s hard to accept that everyone doesn’t like us. But we cannot let that bring us down, can we, son? Things will work out, you’ll see.”

  Abba slowed down. They were at the intersection of Broad and Marbury Streets, with the dollar store straight ahead. A few people were already gathered out front. “Look at those shoppers. It’s still almost an hour to opening time, but they line up outside because they like my shop. They prefer to spend their money here, because they trust me.”

  Yusuf leaned forward. “That’s strange. They don’t usually start lining up this early.”

  Abba drove forward and reached the store. Yusuf’s stomach gave a big lurch. “Oh . . . no,” they both whispered together.

  The storefront was a mess. Someone had broken the glass on the door and thrown all sorts of trash�
��broken bottles, empty cans—across the main steps. The streetlight outside had been smashed to bits. On the store wall, right under the sign with Abba’s name, were the words GO HOME, MUSLIM SCUM in white spray paint.

  Abba got out of the car with slow steps, as if he was an old man. The people gathered outside came toward him, talking at the same time. One of them—Mrs. Cordoba, who owned the taco place across the street—hugged Abba. He stood awkwardly in her embrace, his shoulders heaving.

  Yusuf slumped back in his seat, his eyes hurting so much he had to close them. He wrapped his arms tightly against his stomach. I’m not going to cry, he told himself fiercely.

  But his self wasn’t really listening.

  Amma arrived half an hour later, along with Mr. Khan and Danial. Officer Strickland was already there, taking pictures of the damage. “Seems like your average delinquents, trying to intimidate you,” he told them.

  Abba’s face was haggard. “This is awful. We’ve never had this sort of trouble in Frey before. Who could have done this?”

  Amma tightened her lips. “The Patriot Sons, who else? This is retaliation for yesterday, obviously.”

  Officer Strickland held out a hand. “Now, ma’am, let’s not start accusing anyone.”

  “Why not?” she argued. “They’re accusing us of things that aren’t true. Saying we’re bad people, that we preach hate and put hexes on others. The whole town is accusing us—”

  Abba cleared his throat. “Farrah, stop.”

  Amma sobbed in her throat and walked away.

  “Please ignore my wife, she’s just upset,” Abba told Officer Strickland. “Did you get any fingerprints or anything?”

  The officer shook his head. “Not really. It’s difficult to get any prints on this scene.”

  Mr. Khan asked suddenly, “What about your security camera?”

  Abba groaned. “It only captures footage inside the store.”

  “Too bad.” Officer Strickland took a deep breath. “I actually agree with your wife. It probably was the Patriot Sons, even if we can’t prove it. They’ve been giving us trouble for several months now. Ever since that Trevor Grant moved back home and got everybody riled up.”