Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Marisa tapped me on the shoulder, and I jumped. “Everything all right, darling?” she asked. She wore a brilliant green scarf tied around her neck. I remembered when I first started at Radio Toronto how much I had wanted to be just like her.

  I nodded yes, but my body betrayed me and tears threatened. Alarmed, Marisa asked what was wrong, and then the story of the attack came spilling out in a giant emotional wave.

  Afterward, Marisa perched on the edge of my desk, concern and sympathy etched on her face. “I just can’t believe that happened in Toronto!” she said. “People come here from all over the place. Maybe those men were from the United States.”

  “They made sure to tell my cousin that he was taking videos of their city.”

  “It’s your city too, Hana. You’ve lived here for years,” Marisa said.

  “I was born here,” I said.

  Marisa blinked. “Of course, that’s what I meant.” She stood up, thinking. “Imagine how often this type of harassment happens to people and it doesn’t make the news. I think we should devote one episode of your show to discussing what happened to you. We could start a conversation that might help others. What do you think?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t confided in Marisa to take advantage of the incident. “I’m not sure I would be comfortable doing that,” I said.

  Thomas had joined us in our tiny office, and he looked at me carefully, gauging my reaction.

  “Consider it your responsibility as a journalist,” Marisa said. “Just run us through the day, what you were doing downtown. Talk about how you were showing your cousin around the city, how scary the attack felt. Maybe you could post a picture of yourself, to give listeners some context,” she said, warming to her theme.

  My heart sank at her words. I pictured the blue hijab I had been wearing, one of my favorites. A very poor choice of camouflage. I should have worn a red-and-white maple-leaf hijab instead.

  Marisa reached out and squeezed my shoulder, taking my silence as reticence instead of discomfort. “People will be interested in hearing your side. They want your perspective. They will be sympathetic, Hana. This will be a good story about your community.”

  “Because this time the Muslims were the victims?”

  “Exactly!” Marisa beamed at me. Behind her, Thomas’s face remained neutral, but I could feel his unease. “Please just think about it. Okay?” Marisa asked.

  I looked down at my shoes. Sneakers today—great for running. “I’ll think about the story,” I said.

  Hemingway allegedly said there’s nothing to writing. “All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Being a visible Muslim felt a bit like that too, sometimes. This time.

  * * *

  • • •

  At the Thinking Wall, Thomas eased beside me, adjusting his body so that his hands were folded behind him, digging into the brick at the small of his back.

  “Marisa was trying to be kind,” he said. “Her intentions are good.”

  “Her intentions are always above reproach,” I said. “It’s left for others to deal with the impact of those good intentions.”

  Thomas looked at his feet and the breeze ruffled his dark curly hair. “I wasn’t born here,” he said. “I immigrated with my parents and sister when I was eleven, from Chennai. I had to take ESL classes for years because I didn’t know any English. I still don’t understand the spelling rules, your obsession with the silent g.” He smiled. “I used to watch TV constantly, to mimic the way Americans spoke.”

  “Is that why you’re such a sellout now?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. He caught my eye and we laughed. “You don’t have to tell this story. Not if it’s too painful,” Thomas said.

  “But my pain makes for good storytelling, right? It makes me more relatable.”

  Thomas looked away. Our laughter had been spontaneous, a subtle acknowledgment of all that we shared, despite our different outlooks. I liked that we could laugh together. Even if I wasn’t sure we were laughing about the same thing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rashid convinced me to accompany him and Fahim to the baseball diamond on Friday morning, two days after the downtown attack. The restaurant would open late that day, after the jumah prayer, and the weather was fine.

  While Fahim and Rashid practiced hitting and pitching, I sat in the empty wooden bleachers and worked on editing my Secret Family History podcast. I had finally cornered Kawkab Khala and convinced her to finish our interview. As I played over our conversation, I allowed myself a tiny flare of excitement. The rest of my world might be on fire, but this podcast was shaping up to be excellent. Perhaps I would show it to Marisa and Thomas, an example of an introspective program that talked about the everyday experiences of people of color, without having to turn everything into a painful lesson.

  Working on that secret project also gave me something to think about besides Aydin and my plans to sabotage Wholistic Grill. I had studiously avoided checking on the progress of my rumor spreading. I was too busy, I told myself. Perhaps it also felt strange now, after everything that had happened downtown.

  I took out my phone and messaged StanleyP. We hadn’t communicated in a while; he hadn’t even commented on my last few podcast episodes. My listener count had been rising steadily, but I missed my friend.

  AnaBGR

  It took me a while, but I think you might have been right.

  He replied immediately, as if he had been waiting for me to message.

  StanleyP

  I usually am. What am I right about this time?

  AnaBGR

  Feeling bad about something I did re: competition.

  StanleyP

  Welcome to Regretsville. The rent is high and the amenities are pitiful, but at least you can wallow among beautiful company.

  AnaBGR

  I blame my Muslim guilt.

  StanleyP

  The guilt will keep you honest. In fact, I’m tendering my official resignation as your revenge consultant. We’re both in uncharted waters now.

  AnaBGR

  I thought revenge made the world turn.

  StanleyP

  Pretty sure that’s chai.

  AnaBGR

  You didn’t say “chai tea.” Now I know you’re one of my people.

  StanleyP

  And you’re one of mine. Thanks for the advice the other day.

  AnaBGR

  Did it work? Are you in luuuuurve?

  StanleyP

  Please stop. And no. Just . . . invested.

  The word stung. Invested. My friend had gone from assuring me his feelings would pass to feeling invested. My bot buddy was my friend, my ally, my cheerleader. He had hinted at something more, and I had felt a pull toward him as well. How had those feelings been so easily replaced? Or was he playing with both this mystery girl and me? I quickly typed.

  AnaBGR

  Investments are good. So long as you don’t have a diversified portfolio, if you know what I mean.

  StanleyP

  Nah, I’m an all-in kind of investor.

  Whoever this girl was, I hope she knew how lucky she was to have caught the eye of someone so kind and principled. I thought back to Aydin, the way he had stepped up to defend me without hesitation. He had bought me an ice cream to cheer me up, though he didn’t even like me. I thought of his dark gaze on mine and revised that statement. He didn’t want to like me—and yet he did. We had that in common at least.

  StanleyP

  What about you? Any new investments in your life?

  AnaBGR

  Not sure how I feel about this metaphor, actually.

  StanleyP

  Don’t change the subject.

  AnaBGR

  No new investments. But . . .

  St
anleyP

  I knew it!

  AnaBGR

  . . . maybe some potential profits from an unexpected source.

  StanleyP

  I have no idea what that means, but I’m intrigued. Keep me posted.

  I had no idea what I meant either. I looked up from my phone at my cousin and brother-in-law. Fahim was still pitching, throwing his entire weight behind each throw, while my cousin methodically knocked each one into the outfield. No wonder Rashid was applying for an athletic scholarship. He was really good.

  I caught my cousin’s eye and tapped my wrist. It was time for jumah, and I didn’t want to be late. We had to stop by the house to pick up Baba; attending weekly congregational prayers at the mosque was the highlight of his week. I was looking forward to Imam Abdul Bari’s comforting sermon as well.

  * * *

  • • •

  The mosque was walking distance from our house, but we drove to make it more accessible for Baba. Yusuf met me in the parking lot as Rashid helped Baba from the car. He shook hands with everyone before leading me to one side.

  “Have you heard the rumors about Wholistic Grill?” My friend grinned, barely able to contain his glee.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. My family was waiting for me.

  “Apparently one of their workers was injured on the job and has threatened to sue. I heard they also have a rodent problem and they failed their health inspection. And it turns out their meat isn’t actually halal.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read online,” I muttered, thinking rapidly. I had made up one of those rumors and encouraged two others, but they seemed to be taking on a life of their own. What had I started?

  “I thought you’d be happy,” Yusuf said, puzzled. “This is great news for Three Sisters. Lots of people have been getting in touch about the protest. People will want to hear from you, as the daughter of the owner of a neighborhood institution. Could you say a few words? All of this is going to make a real difference, Hana.”

  “No,” I said shortly. “It won’t make a bit of difference, actually.” I walked away from Yusuf, back toward my family, but he followed.

  “What do you mean?” he pressed.

  Thoughts buzzed around me. “All these people sharing this ‘reliable’ information about Wholistic Grill—have they been eating at Three Sisters instead?” I asked slowly. The rumors had been circulating for nearly two weeks, and our restaurant had not benefited by one extra cent. If anything, business had gotten worse. “These people, so worried about authentic halal meat or preserving the legacy businesses in Golden Crescent—I haven’t seen them at our restaurant. Their outrage hasn’t filled our register. Mom is planning to close the store.”

  Yusuf’s eyes widened at my words. “I didn’t know things were that bad.”

  “They are, and attacking Aydin’s business hasn’t—won’t help,” I amended. I had thought myself so clever. I had thought I was taking StanleyP’s advice. I had expanded on his words and put everything into destroying Wholistic Grill, even after Aydin pleaded with me to delete the online allegations. I had hoped the virtual mob would take up the cause and frequent Three Sisters instead of Wholistic Grill, maybe sink his business before it even opened.

  I felt foolish now. Why hadn’t I thought to take active steps to help Three Sisters? My time would have been better spent working on our restaurant’s website or encouraging my mother to revamp the menu or invest in a modest renovation, or even using social media to engage in targeted advertising. Instead I had delighted in trolling Aydin to give myself some sense of power. It had been for my benefit only; it hadn’t helped Three Sisters at all.

  With a sinking sense of horror, I realized I had transferred my rage and hate onto someone who was neither the source of my frustration nor responsible for our failure, just as our downtown attackers had done to us. Anger was easier, feeling justified in my tactics more satisfying. Trying to change my world was the harder path, and less likely to succeed. My face burned with shame.

  “I’ll make sure the protest has a huge turnout,” Yusuf vowed now, mistaking my silence for despair. “A thousand—no, five thousand people. You’ll see, Hana. Wholistic Grill won’t know what hit them.”

  My friend meant well, but I knew his efforts wouldn’t help. I sighed and thanked him anyway. Rashid was right—Yusuf really was an ullu. But I didn’t have to be one.

  * * *

  • • •

  Zulfa stood at the main doors of the Toronto Muslim Assembly, handing out flyers. She looked pretty in a long-sleeved floral dress that reached to the ground, black hair tucked beneath a tan hijab. She stopped distributing long enough to give me a hug as I passed by.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked, sympathetic.

  “I’m fine,” I said automatically, not sure what she meant.

  “If you need to talk or need some advice on how to handle all this attention, let me know,” Zulfa said.

  What was she talking about? If anything, I should be making sure she was okay, after the extra work I had created for her PR machine with my rumors.

  She pasted a cheery smile back on her face and stuck a coupon into my hand. “Free gourmet milkshakes with every artisanal organic burger purchase, for a limited time!” she said, swiftly switching gears. “We’re trying to get people excited about our opening. Everyone loves free stuff, right? I hope you’ll be able to make it, Hana. I know Aydin would love to see you.” Her smile was friendly as she moved on to the person approaching behind me—Rashid. Of course he would be lurking nearby.

  My cousin greeted Zulfa with a goofy smile and took one of the flyers. “I will be at the opening,” he said. “Will you allow me to buy you a milkshake?”

  She laughed and swatted at him with her stack of flyers. “They’re free with the purchase of a burger. Are you going to cheap out on me?”

  Rashid vehemently shook his head. “For you I would buy a dozen burgers. Or perhaps we could meet later for chai?”

  I steered my cousin away. “You’re eighteen,” I reminded him. “Your mom asked us to keep an eye on you, not send you back with a wife.”

  His eyes were still trained on Zulfa. “I enjoy the company of older women. My ammi would be relieved that I had finally settled down.”

  I pushed him in the direction of the men’s area of the prayer hall before glancing down at the flyer. More close-ups of mouthwatering food set on simple white plates, clearly the work of a professional photographer. Even the advertisement was printed on heavy card stock, giving the restaurant an upscale feel. The care that Aydin and Zulfa had put into the project was clear in every perfectly posed poutine, and I felt even worse about trying to destroy them.

  Rashid and Fahim helped Baba find a chair in the prayer hall. Unlike in other mosques, there was no formal separation between men and women in the Toronto Muslim Assembly.

  After the adhan, the call to prayer, the congregants settled down to hear Imam Abdul Bari’s words. His sermons were usually jovial and punny; today he spoke on the importance of unity. The imam was wearing a blue robe; I wondered if he had a Hawaiian shirt beneath.

  Around me, women dressed in colorful hijabs and dresses, jeans, or skirts sat on the floor, cross-legged or with their knees up, listening. A few of the younger ones nearby glanced over at me and then nudged their friends. I made eye contact and smiled, assuming they were customers I had interacted with in the past, but they looked away. Weird.

  “Prophet Muhammad showed kindness and love, even to his enemies,” the imam said. I closed my eyes at his words. Et tu, Abdul Bari?

  “He was silent in the face of their taunts and with patience cleared the garbage they hurled at him. He stood firm in the face of hostility, intent on his goal: changing his society. While he showed his enemies compassion, he was always just, because he was in the habit of constantly checking his niyyah
, his intention. Brothers and sisters, I urge you to reflect on the famous words of our beloved Prophet: ‘Actions are judged by intentions, so each one will have what they intended.’”

  After the sermon, the crowd prayed together, the ritual movements a well-orchestrated dance, each step familiar and comforting. Bow from the waist. Up again. Bow down in prostration. Sit upright, then prostrate once more.

  An enveloping peace drifted over me as Imam Abdul Bari recited Arabic verses from the Quran in his deep, melodic voice. “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmathullah. Assalamu alaikum wa rahmathullah.” The prayer concluded with the symbolic greeting of the angels that Muslims believed kept us company throughout our lives.

  Around me, other young women continued to cast glances my way. I wiped my mouth and fixed my hijab, but the staring continued. What was going on?

  The prayer hall emptied slowly, and I spotted Aydin slipping out the side entrance. Our eyes met and he nodded briefly before disappearing. I walked into the hallway to locate my shoes and spotted my cousin standing beside the main entrance.

  “Hana Apa, look!” There was barely concealed excitement in Rashid’s voice as he passed me his phone. He pressed Play on a saved video.

  The image was shaky at first, but as it cleared, I heard a man shout in a tinny voice: “You planning an attack on Toronto?”

  I flinched, remembering those words. “What is this?” I asked Rashid.