Zara Hossain Is Here

by Sabina Khan

  “I’m not going to get hurt, Ammi. This is my fight too. Why should I let a racist like Tyler dictate where I can live?”

  “Do you think it’s only Tyler?” Ammi says. “There are hundreds like him, thousands who don’t want immigrants, refugees, Muslims, any of us coming into this country. Even the federal government is trying their best to make it harder for us.”

  “You’ll be fighting for the rest of your life, beta,” Abbu says. “And it will still not change the hearts and minds of people like that.”

  Even though, on a basic level, I completely understand that my parents will always want to protect me, I’m angry that they want me to give up. But maybe I’m also angry because, on a deeper level, I know what they’re saying is true. Even if I somehow manage to stop two people, hundreds, maybe thousands, more will take their place. I see it every day, at school and online. The hatred is palpable, and people are no longer shy or reluctant to express their true feelings. Racists are becoming more emboldened every day, and it’s not just in Corpus Christi; it’s happening all over the country. But still, I’m determined to stay strong.

  “Look, beta, we can’t force you to stay in Pakistan with us,” Abbu says. “And it’s not that we don’t admire your ambition and drive. But you have to understand that as parents it’s extremely difficult to watch your child suffer or be in danger.”

  “But if you are determined to come back here, then we’ll support you,” Ammi says. “We’ll always support you, no matter what.” She takes me in her arms and hugs me tightly. I can feel her worry and fear, but also the incredible amount of love she has for me. The thought of living half a world away from them makes me tear up again, and then we’re both crying.

  “Tum ma beti ki achchi jori banti hai,” Abbu says with an indulgent smile. “Let me get something to mop up the floor.”

  Chloe has invited me to her house to meet her parents over brunch. I can’t tell which one of us is more nervous. I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans before ringing her doorbell. I changed my outfit multiple times before deciding on dark jeans and a cream-colored blouse with little flowers embroidered into the collar and cuffs. If it wasn’t for the jeans, I’d feel like I was dressed for an interview. I braided my curly hair, leaving just a few tendrils to frame my face, and added some small gold hoops to complete the outfit.

  The door opens, and Chloe’s standing there with a stupid grin on her face.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re not hiring right now,” she says.

  “Shut up, I didn’t know what else to wear.”

  A woman wearing a floral-print dress appears beside Chloe and smiles.

  “You must be Zara,” she says. “Please come in.”

  Her dark hair is threaded with gray and her eyes crinkle in the corners just like Chloe’s. It’s like I’m looking at an older version of Chloe.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Murphy,” I say. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Oh, it’s our pleasure,” she says. “And you can call me Patricia.”

  I smile politely, but I’m not at all comfortable calling a grown woman, my mother’s age, by her first name. I was taught to call all adults either aunty or uncle. All desi people I know do that. I call my non-desi friends’ parents either Mr. or Mrs. Something, but I never use their first names.

  But I don’t want to cause any awkwardness with Chloe’s parents, so even if her mom wants me to call her Nefertiti, I will.

  We go into the living room, and her father is there reading his paper. He looks up when we walk in and comes to stand next to his wife.

  “I’m Joshua,” he says, “and you must be Zara.”

  We exchange pleasantries, and soon we’re all sitting around the dining table, where a variety of dishes have been neatly arranged. There’s frittata and eggs Benedict and hash browns and fruit. My stomach groans loud enough to betray my hunger.

  The food is delicious, and Chloe’s parents seem like really nice people. Except I know how they really feel about Chloe and me. The conversation is extremely benign, and it’s strange that we’re all pretending to ignore the massive rainbow elephant in the room. The whole thing makes me realize that some people would rather live in a state of denial than accept the fact that their children are who they are.

  “So what are your plans after high school?” Chloe’s father asks.

  I put my coffee cup down slowly.

  “Well, I had planned to apply to a few schools out east, but it looks like I might have to reconsider my options.”

  “Oh?” Chloe’s mom is holding her cup in midair, her pinkie finger pointed at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. Do people really do that?

  “There have been some issues with our green card application,” I say. “So things are a little up in the air right now.”

  “I see,” Joshua says. “That’s unfortunate.”

  As Chloe’s parents sit silently and marinate in their white privilege, I wish desperately for this awkwardness to end.

  Thankfully, Chloe suggests that we take a walk around the lake behind her house, and I quickly agree.

  “So, that was nice,” I say once we’ve crossed the street and walked into the park area.

  “If by nice you mean freaking weird, then yes, I agree,” Chloe says.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I say. “They were very nice.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say. But just before you got here, they were telling me they don’t understand how your parents are okay with you being bisexual.”

  “Why, because we’re Muslim?”

  She nods. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t even be telling you this.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say. “It’s not your fault your parents think like that.”

  “It just makes me so mad. They’re such hypocrites.”

  “At least they’re making an effort. And things have been getting better with the counseling and everything, haven’t they?”

  “I guess,” she says with a sigh. “But fundamentally they’ll never change, I know that.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “All signs point to YES. I’m just glad I’ll be going away to college next year so I don’t have to deal with the awkwardness anymore.”

  “Well, you’ll still visit though, won’t you?” I say.

  “I guess, but I can only imagine how uncomfortable family holidays will be for me.”

  * * *

  Nick comes over after dinner, and we take Zorro for a walk.

  “So, are you really going to leave?” he says after we’ve walked in silence for a bit.

  “Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice,” I say.

  I stop to pick up a small stone and hurl it out in front of me. It sails over the water before falling in, and I watch as the ripples slowly move out.

  He raises his arm, and I step under it to rest my head on his chest. I’m going to miss him so much it hurts to even think about it.

  “I mean … we could get married.”

  I pull back and look up at him, fully expecting to see a grin on his face. But he looks dead serious.

  “Ha-ha, very funny, Nick,” I say, shaking my head at him.

  “I’m not joking,” he says. “If we got married, you would get your green card and you wouldn’t be forced to leave the country.”

  “We’re seventeen, Nick.”

  “In Texas, we can legally get married as long as we have parental consent. Annnnd you know your parents love me.” He grins, and I don’t know what to do with him.

  “Nick, you’re sweet. Hilarious but sweet.”

  “Look, I know it won’t be the real thing. Obviously, you’re dating Chloe. And you know how I feel about Priya. But she thinks this is a great idea.”

  I stare at him. “You actually told Priya? Are you stupid?”

  “I think what you’re trying to say is that I’m a genius. It’s the perfect solution. You’d get to stay, and Priya is in on the whole thing.”

  “You’d really do th
at for me?” I turn to look him in the eyes.

  “You’re my best friend, Zara,” he says softly. “I’d do anything for you.”

  I lean in and kiss him on the cheek.

  “I know,” I say, hooking my arm in his. “But I still think you’re an idiot.”

  It’s November, and I’m scrambling to keep up with schoolwork and college applications as winter break looms ever closer.

  I’ve decided to apply to universities both here in the states and in Pakistan. If I get a scholarship offer, along with a spot here, then I can change my visa status and remain in the US as a student. But that’s not for sure, so I’ve also sent off applications to a couple of universities in Karachi that have an international relations program.

  I feel more at peace, now that I have a plan of action. But every little thing I do has a sense of finality to it, as if it’s the last time I’ll ever get to do it. Time spent with Chloe has become a precious commodity, and we both know it even though we try not to talk about it.

  Leaving Zorro behind with Nick is going to be the hardest thing of all, and I know his family will take good care of him, but now, every time he jumps into my arms, my heart breaks a little more. I’m going to miss being woken up every morning by him jumping onto my bed and nudging me with his cold, wet nose until I get up and play with him.

  The Monday before Thanksgiving, I walk into the living room and see Abbu and Ammi standing up close to the TV, eyes glued to the screen. Senator Delgado is being interviewed by a reporter about a potential bomb threat targeting her offices in San Antonio. No one has been arrested in association with the planned attack yet, but an anonymous online anti-immigrant group did claim responsibility before posting its manifesto all over social media.

  It only takes a few seconds to find on my phone since it’s already trending. This is their direct response to the speech Senator Delgado gave at the rally a few weeks ago, and they mention me and my family by name, along with dozens of other activists and Dreamers who helped organize the event. I can’t even imagine the devastation such an attack would have caused.

  I hear a noise outside and go to the window. I push the curtains aside slightly and gasp.

  “What is it, Zara?” Ammi says.

  “Reporters.” I do a quick count. “At least a dozen of them. And vans too.”

  “They must be here because of the attack,” Abbu says.

  “What should we do?” I ask.

  “Call that Ms. Anderson,” Ammi says. “Maybe she can help.”

  I call but it goes straight to voice mail. She’s probably swamped dealing with their own chaos. Next I try Shireen Khala, who answers right away and promises to come over immediately.

  “How did you get here without the reporters seeing you?” I ask as soon as she’s knocking on the back door.

  “I parked a block away and walked through your neighbor’s backyard.”

  “Shireen, can you do something about all this?” Ammi says. She’s not taking this well, nervously pacing up and down the living room floor.

  “Let me go out and talk to them. I’ll tell them you have no comment.”

  She steps outside and is immediately swarmed by reporters, who stick their microphones and cell phones in her face. I watch discreetly through the window, and I’m in awe of how calm and composed she is as she tells them that she’s our lawyer and that we have no comment at the moment and to please respect our privacy.

  Unfortunately, this does not make them leave. In fact, it looks like they’re now planning to camp out in our front yard.

  Shireen Khala comes back inside just as the phone rings. It’s Ms. Anderson.

  “Zara, I’m sorry I missed your call. I assume you’ve seen the news?”

  “I have. Is everyone there okay?”

  “Yes, but it’s a zoo here right now. Senator Delgado wanted me to bring you all here, just to be safe. We’re sending a car for you.”

  “Okay, but what should we do about all the reporters in front of our house?”

  “Don’t say anything until you’ve spoken to Senator Delgado,” Ms. Anderson says urgently.

  “Our lawyer already told them we have no comment.”

  “Okay, good. Please bring her along if possible.”

  “Of course, and please ask the driver to come to our neighbor’s house. I’ll text you the address right now.”

  As soon as I hang up, I send her directions and tell Ammi and Abbu to pack an overnight bag each. Then I call Nick while I pack my own stuff. He’ll see the reporters any minute now and worry.

  “Nick, can you take Zorro? Senator Delgado is sending a car for us and wants us to stay somewhere safe.”

  “Oh my God, are you guys okay?” he says.

  “Yes, we’re fine, but I need you to come to the back door and grab Zorro.”

  He’s here in minutes and gives us all big hugs.

  “My parents said to call them if you need anything at all. They’ll keep an eye out here and let you know if the reporters leave,” he says before slipping out the back with Zorro and a few of his favorite toys.

  The car service arrives soon after, and all of us pile in. The driver takes us to a very nice hotel in San Antonio where Senator Delgado and Ms. Anderson are waiting for us. They usher us through the lobby to our suite and ask us to meet them in one of the conference rooms downstairs after we’ve freshened up.

  When we go back down, they’re waiting for us with refreshments.

  “I’m so sorry you’re in this situation,” she says once we’re sitting down. “I feel responsible for drawing attention to you. How can I help?”

  “You already helped us by expediting our green card process, Senator Delgado,” Ammi says. “We’re very grateful that you’re helping our daughter.”

  “Hopefully those reporters will get tired of waiting and leave soon,” Abbu says.

  “I’m just glad that no one got hurt,” I say. “I read the manifesto online. I can’t believe some of the things that were on it. Have they caught the people responsible yet?”

  “They’re working on it,” Senator Delgado says. “So hopefully it shouldn’t be long now.”

  “What about all the other people that were named? Are they all safe?”

  “Yes, we’ve arranged safe accommodation for all of them and their families until the perpetrators have been apprehended.”

  “It’s very kind of you to do this,” Ammi says. “I have to ask you, Senator Delgado, how do you deal with so much pushback and still continue with all of your work?”

  “Well, Mrs. Hossain, it’s precisely because of the pushback that I must keep going,” Senator Delgado replies. “That’s why I’m so impressed with your daughter. She refuses to stop fighting, and that’s what we need from our young people.”

  We go back up to our rooms, and I check in with Nick to see how Zorro’s doing.

  “She told Ammi that she’s impressed with me because I won’t stop fighting,” I tell him.

  “How much did you have to pay her to say that?” he quips.

  “Shut up, Nick,” I say. “You’re just jealous because someone thinks I’m cool for a change.”

  “All those reporters probably think you’re cool too,” he says. “I don’t think they’re leaving anytime soon.”

  “Ugh, that’s great. Just what I need, when I have so many tests this week.”

  “I talked to your teachers this morning, and they said your safety comes first. You can always take the tests next week.”

  “Thanks, Nick. I should go check on my parents now. Thanks for watching Zorro.”

  “Call me if anything happens.”

  We hang up, and I lie down in bed and stare up at the ceiling. Ammi and Abbu are in the adjoining room, probably already asleep. I miss Zorro, the warmth of his little furry body pressed against mine. I wonder for the umpteenth time how someone can hate people so much that they would want them dead, simply because they look different. I want to get a look inside their collective head to fin
d out what it is about people like me that triggers such intense feelings of hatred.

  As it has done so many times over the last few months, my mind goes back to Tyler. I go over every single interaction with him in my mind. Was it something I said or did? Did I somehow make him feel inadequate or cheated? I’ve heard the comments before. About how all the immigrants were taking all the spots in colleges and universities with their superior SAT scores and AP courses and high GPAs. A girl I peer-tutored at school claimed that she didn’t do well on a math test because the Asian students took all the high marks. She’d make fun of them because they studied so much and never did anything else. I remember wanting to ask her what exactly was stopping her from studying just as hard. But I already knew her answer to that.

  That was the reason people like her resented us. Because we worked hard and pushed ourselves. I can’t recall ever seeing Tyler actually pay attention in class. He was obsessed with football and the popularity it garnered him. So maybe that’s why he hated me. Or maybe it was just that when he looked at me, he saw something he didn’t like. A brown face with a Muslim name.

  I have spent so much time and energy going over this in my head lately, but I remember: The problem doesn’t lie with me. He’s the one with the problem, the one who doesn’t want to coexist with people who aren’t exactly like him.

  I think about Tyler’s father. The lengths to which people like him will go to hurt others has convinced me that there is something inherently evil at play. How do I deal with someone who’s convinced that his right to exist in this world trumps mine?

  We stay in the hotel for the next couple of days. Nick says the number of reporters outside our house has dwindled, but a couple are still there. I’m getting worried about all the schoolwork I’m missing, but on the plus side, I’ve been able to shadow Senator Delgado all day, watching her as she works to push her immigration reforms through. It’s a real-life lesson in politics and social justice, more valuable than anything I’d be learning at school.