Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero

by Saadia Faruqi

  By the time we finished and headed back home, all four of us were grinning. “I found a new friend,” Abba said. It was nice to see him happy after such a long time. Maybe this is what floating like a butterfly really means.

  28

  Aleena came home at night, breathing deeply and smiling. “I got a new inhaler, see?” She showed Yusuf proudly.

  Yusuf hugged her over and over. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he told her.

  “Of course I okay!”

  He didn’t want to tell her that Danial had spent the entire afternoon after lunch reading asthma information from his laptop. Symptoms, warning signs, worst cases. “Your dollies missed you,” he finally replied.

  She settled into her bed with her blankets and dolls. “Can you make me a new game?” she asked.

  “You look exhausted,” he protested.

  “What’s that?”

  “Tired, but like a million times.”

  She yawned and shook her head stubbornly. “Not tired.”

  He lay down with her and snuggled under her covers. “How about I tell you a story instead?”

  “Dragons?”

  “Yeah, sure. There was once a dragon named Ethan. . . .”

  Amma peeked into the room when Yusuf was almost finished. “She’s asleep now,” Amma whispered.

  His eyes were closing too. “Can I just sleep here?”

  She paused and thought about it. “Okay, just for tonight.” She turned to leave. “Hey, Yusuf, she’s fine, okay? No need to worry.”

  Yusuf tried to smile. “Yes, I know.”

  At school, everyone was still talking about Saba. “Serves her right,” a kid named Jake said in social studies class. “Why does she wear that thing anyway?”

  Yusuf looked down at his desk, blinking rapidly.

  “Poor girl, I hope she’s okay,” Madison murmured.

  Miss Terrance had heard the rumors, of course. “I’m very disappointed in all of you,” she said loudly, her hands on her hips. “Nobody has any right to pull someone’s clothing off.”

  “Maybe it was . . . a joke?” Jared said in a low voice.

  The rest of the class erupted in noisy laughing. “A joke?” Yusuf couldn’t believe what Jared was saying. “Pulling off someone’s hijab is a joke to you?”

  “Why not? It’s just a hat, right?” a girl asked. “I pull off my brother’s cap all the time.”

  Miss Terrance rapped on her desk for silence. “Yusuf,” she called. “That’s an excellent point. Please explain to the class what the hee-jab is.”

  Yusuf felt like a rat trapped by a hunter. “Uh . . .”

  She beckoned him to the front of the class with sharp red nails. “Come here and tell everyone. I feel like we should hear this from someone who knows about it.”

  Yusuf wanted to shout that he really didn’t know much about the hijab. Amma hardly ever wore it, and she was always fighting about it with Sameena Aunty. And people like Ethan hated it enough to make it a symbol of something bad. The hijab was a mystery to Yusuf as well, so what could he say to the class? And why?

  Why did he suddenly have to be the spokesperson for every single thing relating to Muslims?

  Miss Terrance was looking at him with a bright smile and an encouraging nod. Slowly he walked up to her desk and cleared his throat. Was this what Aleena felt like during an asthma attack, not being able to breathe? He cleared his throat several times.

  “Muslim women sometimes cover their head, out of respect to God,” he began, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Not everyone wears it, like my mom doesn’t. But the ones who do wear it, they believe that their hair shouldn’t be seen by outsiders. People who aren’t their family.”

  Miss Terrance nodded her head slowly. “So, when someone pulls the hijab off . . . ?”

  Yusuf had a sudden image of Sameena Aunty as a teenager, wearing her hijab for the first time in high school. Her own best friend had ripped it off. Uncle Rahman’s journal was clear: after 9/11, friends became enemies, and families broke apart. “It’s part of your dress. If someone pulls it off, it’s just like pulling off your shirt or your pants. Leaving you naked.”

  Nobody in the class giggled at that. Yusuf was glad. They looked serious. They needed to. Maybe now Ethan would be punished.

  He wasn’t. A week went by, then another. Saba had come back to school after two days, wearing another hijab and holding a pile of books in her arms. She never looked up, never spoke to anyone. Yusuf tried talking to her a few times, smiling and saying hello, but she just walked past each time with a little shake of her head. It was as if she was saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t talk to anyone just yet.”

  “It’s not fair, nobody ever says anything to Ethan or to his dad,” Danial complained once at lunchtime.

  Cameron took a long sip from his water bottle. “What’s new? Bullies never get their due.”

  Yusuf watched Ethan at the other table, laughing loudly. Yusuf gritted his teeth. “Someone just has to be brave enough to do something.”

  Danial rolled his eyes at him. “And that someone is you?”

  Yusuf kept his eyes fixed on Ethan. “Why not?”

  “Because of what happened to your father’s store, obviously.” Danial gave him a disgusted look. “You and your dad both think you’re heroes, fighting against bullies. But guess what? We’re few and weak, while they’re strong. They will win, every time.”

  “I can’t accept that.”

  “You can’t . . .” Danial’s indignant voice became louder and more irritated.

  Cameron put his bottle down. “At least the store is good as new now,” he said, obviously trying to change the subject.

  Yusuf nodded without moving his head. Cameron’s dad had come to the store the day following the vandalism, armed with tools and paint. “We’ll have this mess fixed in no time,” he’d told Abba cheerfully. That’s when Yusuf knew. Cameron and his family were good, no matter what anyone said.

  The bell rang, and everyone dispersed. Before Yusuf knew it, another week had passed, and Ethan was still out in the halls, laughing at everyone and everything. Terrifying people. Once Yusuf found him kicking a boy named Julio in the shins repeatedly. It was after school, and Julio was sitting on the steps outside school waiting for his ride. “Get out of the way, Julia,” Ethan told him in between kicks.

  Yusuf stopped right next to them. “Stop kicking him,” he said loudly. Loud enough for the teachers standing outside helping with dismissal to turn around.

  Ethan stopped so suddenly he almost lost his balance. He gave Yusuf a glare and walked away quickly.

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Danial warned him as they walked home together that day. “You should stay away from the Patriot Sons.”

  Yusuf gave a small, hollow laugh. “You think I don’t know that?”

  Danial stopped at a red light. “Then what on earth are you doing? Don’t you remember all the Islamic stories we studied? When people persecute us, we stay silent and pray to God. We don’t rush into attack mode.”

  “I also remember the stories where the Prophet and his companions helped others who needed help. Like, constantly. Even when they had to sacrifice themselves.”

  Danial was quiet. The light turned green and they crossed the road. “Ethan and his dad scare me,” he finally admitted.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Toward the end of November, Yusuf decided to take Danial’s advice and focus on other things. The program for Miss Trashy was no longer glitching, which meant that it was time to code the actual sequences for the TRC challenge. He worked deep into the night, every night, writing lines of code and then deleting them. He felt like Van Gogh working on a painting, trying to still his mind of other disturbing thoughts.

  He searched for Jared on Scratch and sent him a message.

  Yusuf: Want to come over and help me with the code tomorrow?

  Jared took forever to answer.

  Jared: I don’t think so.

>   Yusuf: Why????????

  Jared: I’m not great at programming

  Yusuf: Come on . . . it’s not rocket science.

  There was silence. Jared didn’t respond. Maybe his grandmother didn’t allow late-night computer chats.

  On the last Saturday before Thanksgiving break, Tony brought the practice arena board he’d made in shop class. It was an exact replica of the one they’d be given at the TRC regionals in Conroe. Mr. Parker asked to see Miss Trashy do a complete TRC challenge on the board. Yusuf’s hands shook as he started his laptop, while the other team members set up a mini arena. Miss Trashy rumbled through, dodging obstacles, picking up garbage items and sorting them into three piles. She stumbled several times, and even rolled over once. “Nine minutes, twenty-six seconds,” Mr. Parker announced when she finally stopped. “You need practice, but it’s a good start.”

  When the club ended, Yusuf caught up with Jared sitting alone on the bleachers. “Want to come over for some coding practice?”

  Jared looked up. “You have Danial, don’t you?”

  Yusuf told himself he was just imaging the brisk tone of Jared’s voice. “Danial has forsaken me for another friend,” he joked, pointing. Danial and Cameron were bent over their LEGO Mindstorms figures, their heads so close together that their hair was touching.

  Jared studied the two. “Danial is always telling you not to be my friend. Because of Ethan.”

  Yusuf shrugged. “Forget Danial. He’s a pessimist. He always thinks badly of everyone and everything.”

  Jared turned to Yusuf again. “And you?” This time there was no mistaking the tone.

  Yusuf said, “Come on, Jared, lighten up. We’re friends, you know that!”

  Jared stood up. “Maybe. I guess.”

  “No maybe about it!” Yusuf exhaled sharply, relieved. “So, what’re you doing for Thanksgiving? We’re going to Houston, like always.”

  29

  Amma drove them all to Houston on Wednesday afternoon. It wasn’t a very long drive, but Aleena had to go to the bathroom halfway there, so they stopped at Buc-ee’s and refilled the gas tank. Aleena was hungry, so they bought sandwiches and juices from Buc-ee’s and ate in the parking lot. It was like an outdoor party, dozens of cars honking their horns and people walking about as if they had nowhere else to be.

  Yusuf couldn’t wait to tell everyone at Team Freybots that he’d eaten Buc-ee’s famous beaver nuggets. Sweet, buttery, and perfect.

  By the time they reached Nani’s house in Houston, the day had turned into evening. Amma had called from the car when they were five minutes away, and Nani stood on the porch waiting. She wore a plain white shalwar kameez and her gray hair was tied in a long, thin braid. “Welcome, welcome, how was the drive?” she cried as she hugged first Aleena, then Yusuf. “Ya Allah, how big you’ve both grown!”

  Aleena giggled. “I’m so tall now,” she boasted, stomping inside.

  Yusuf followed her, looking around. “Where’s Rahman mamoo?”

  Amma held up a finger. “Go help your father with the bags, please.”

  Yusuf made a face, but he did as he was told. Uncle Rahman’s blue Camry wasn’t in the driveway, but maybe he’d be back later.

  No such luck. Yusuf kept watching the door all evening, but Uncle Rahman never walked in. Finally Amma gave him a stern look and told him to come to the kitchen to help with dinner. As Nani took out the plates from a cabinet and handed them one by one to Yusuf, she told him all about Uncle Rahman’s latest adventure. “He’s gone to Seattle for a professor conference,” she told him. “Went last weekend but decided to stay for a few extra days to see the sights.”

  Yusuf frowned. “Really? He’s going to miss Thanksgiving?”

  Amma was ladling chicken curry and daal into bowls. She looked up and gave a little laugh. “I think there’s some girl involved.”

  Nani shook her head in disapproval. “He’ll be back tomorrow,” she muttered.

  Amma leaned over and hugged Nani from behind. “Mama, come on. It’s time Rahman settled down, don’t you think? I’m glad he’s found a good Muslim girl, and he’s doing the right thing by meeting her family.”

  Nani gave a grumpy little smile. “In my day, nobody made friends first. We just . . . got married. Then we met everyone.”

  Yusuf and Amma exchanged amused looks. Nani was always telling stories about the good old days in Pakistan. “Is that how you and Nana got married?” asked Yusuf.

  There was a small silence, like he’d said something wrong. Nana had died from Covid a year and a half before, and Nani still got sad when she talked about him. “Sorry . . . ,” Yusuf began.

  Nani brushed a tear from her eye and smiled at him. “It’s all right. That’s how everyone got married. Your nana, God give him a high status in heaven, came to my father and asked for me, and it was decided.”

  Yusuf hugged her, then picked up a set of plates to carry to the kitchen table. They wouldn’t be eating in the dining room until tomorrow, when the whole family was gathered. “Maybe that’s what Rahman mamoo is doing?” he guessed. “Asking for his girlfriend’s hand in front of her father.”

  “Hmph, ‘girlfriend’! What’s the world coming to?”

  Sarah khala and her family arrived at ten in the morning on Thanksgiving Day, hugging everyone and exclaiming how tall all the kids had become since Eid. Aleena and Khala’s daughters, Aisha and Hira, ran upstairs to play. Yusuf hung out in front of the television with their son, Saleem, who was in fifth grade. “I got all As this semester,” Saleem bragged. “I’m going to be on the honor roll again.”

  Yusuf had forgotten how much his cousin liked to talk about himself. “Wait till you get to middle school. You’ll forget all about grades.”

  Saleem’s face fell. “Really? Is it as bad as they say?”

  “It’s not bad, exactly. Just . . . different.”

  Saleem’s forehead cleared. “It’s probably because you live in Texas. When I tell people my nani and cousins live here, they all look at me with pity.”

  “What? Why?” Yusuf asked. Saleem shrugged and fiddled with the remote. “I really don’t know.”

  Amma called them to the kitchen to help with food preparation. “It’s not fair. Do we have to?” Saleem whined.

  Sarah khala pointed to Yusuf, who was already rolling up his sleeves. “See how that one’s so helpful to his mom all the time? You should try to be like him.”

  Amma gave Yusuf a sideways hug. “It’s true. He’s so helpful around the house. And he helps his sister a lot too.”

  Saleem threw them an annoyed glance. Yusuf reddened. “Amma, stop,” he whispered.

  “Sorry,” she whispered back, and released him.

  Nani bustled into the kitchen, waving knives about. “Come on, less talking, more working!” She gave the boys a big bowl of vegetables to chop. Ginger and garlic, potatoes and shallots. Yusuf peeked into the pots on the stove. Mutton for the biryani, eggplant and potatoes for a side dish. On the counter lay a full chicken, waiting to be roasted.

  Soon Aleena and the other girls wandered in, demanding to help. “I know!” Sarah khala said. “How about we make cupcakes for dessert?”

  “Hooray!” Aleena shouted.

  “Can we go now?” Yusuf asked. “Saleem and I want to play video games.”

  “Yes, go!” Amma agreed. “Just don’t let Nani see you.”

  The boys rushed away, laughing. Abba and Ismael khaloo were in the living room, watching football. Yusuf whispered, “Better to play upstairs, or they’ll give us a job to do too.”

  A couple of hours later, when Yusuf walked back down the hallway to get some snacks, Uncle Rahman’s door was open, and a suitcase sat open on the bed. “You’re back!” Yusuf shouted, spotting his uncle near the window.

  Uncle Rahman turned and grinned at him, opening up his arms. “Great to see you again, kiddo!”

  Yusuf hugged him tighter than usual. This wasn’t just Rahman mamoo anymore. It was also Rahman from the journa
l in 2001—a boy just like him.

  “Everything okay?” Uncle Rahman asked, letting him go.

  Yusuf nodded. “I just missed you a lot.”

  Uncle Rahman ruffled Yusuf’s hair. “I’m glad I was able to get the flight out of Seattle today. The weather wasn’t too good, and I was worried.”

  Yusuf couldn’t imagine Thanksgiving without his uncle. “Nani would have been so mad.”

  “I have no doubt about that!”

  Yusuf looked around the room, remembering snippets from Uncle Rahman’s journal. There was a desk in the corner, old and beat-up. A window above it looked onto the backyard. This had probably always been Uncle Rahman’s room, even when he was a kid.

  Yusuf looked at the far wall. The poster of Muhammad Ali was still there, yellow and peeling. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” If he closed his eyes, he could imagine Uncle Rahman as a kid, sitting at this desk, writing his social studies report. He had a sudden thought. “Is this where you wrote your journal?”

  Uncle Rahman looked startled, then he nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s been a long time.”

  “It was a good idea, to write down everything that happened.” Yusuf took a deep breath. “It’s helped me figure out a lot of stuff.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Uncle Rahman asked. “Your amma told me what’s been happening in Frey recently. I’m glad my journal is helping.”

  Yusuf was still staring at the poster. “Why did you like Muhammad Ali so much?” he suddenly asked. “You weren’t into sports, right?”

  Uncle Rahman shook his head. “It wasn’t about the boxing,” he replied. “Although don’t get me wrong, Muhammad Ali was one of the greatest boxers of his time. No, it was about his principles.”