by S. Nahar
I saw something shiny and silver in one of the protester’s hands. Immediately, I felt my blood go cold. Oh Allah, please don’t let it be what I think it is.
Then, he pulled it out.
“Fudge,” I muttered.
“What is it?” asked Kanza, urgently.
“It’s a gun.”
Right after I said that, we heard a gunshot.
Chapter 49
Their Greatest Fear
Amira Sarker
The masjid was silent after we heard the gunshot. No one moved. No one spoke. A deadly silence fell over the Muslims, a distant gasp and a hoarse cry for help. It was from the brothers’ side.
Kanza and I, were trying our best to keep the sisters where they were and not go outside, especially if a man had gotten shot. My eyes welled in tears, the anguished cry for help had only strengthen, and the brothers were scrambling to him the fallen man.
Not you, Tanwir. Please, don’t let it be you.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, a sob ripping from my chest as the lump in my throat only grew. He couldn’t be dead nor could he be injured. We were bonded by blood, bonded by our parents, bonded by our forefathers. He was my brother, and I needed him alive.
Not now. Please, Allah. Protect him. Save him.
I couldn’t lose him, no matter what. Calming down, I looked outside the window again; the crowd was hitting the doors, their thundering fists banging against the feeble wooden gates, each punch louder than the next.
A crash followed after. Kanza and I, yelped in surprised, our backs pushing against the only entrance to the sister’s side just in case. The chanting outside only escalated, the slurs becoming a mass of twisted lies and bloody threats. Fear latched onto me, pulsing my veins with adrenaline as if this moment was a flight or fight situation.
“Where are the cops?!” Kanza shouted.
“They’re going to kill us. Oh Allah, help us,” a sister cried.
I sat next to her and embraced her. “It’s okay. Allah will protect us. Don’t lose faith,” I reminded myself and them.
“How can you say that when we’re on our deathbeds right now? The police aren’t here. The brothers are trying to hold the crowd off and in the midst of it. Someone has been shot!” she sniffled, as she wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
The sister was young. She looked like she was still in high school with dark coal-like eyes that were wide with terror. Her eyelashes were long and thick with a hint of jet black eyeliner on her waterline. She seemed as anxious as a wild animal trying to run away from hunters.
She was petrified.
“I can say that because Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) was in situations worse than this, and Allah helped him. Allah helps the believers and will never stop helping us. Allah loves us, we just need to have faith in that,” I spoke softly, trying not to frighten her more.
“But—”
“Amira is right. Allah never lets us down. Right now the world is in chaos against the Muslim ummah (community), but in the end our struggles will be rewarded. We just can’t lose sight of our religion right now, so we must have faith in Allah,” Kanza reiterated.
Allah always came through for believers. Whatever happened was for the best. When Aisha died, I thought it was the worst thing to ever happen. I truly believed that my life was cursed. That wasn’t the case. Aisha’s death taught me how to be a grown up early. It gave me a maturity that not many people possessed at my age.
Aisha’s death made our family bonds stronger. Death was a scary thing, but sometimes beautiful lessons were born from it.
The girl sighed. “You guys are right. I’m just scared.”
I held her shoulder with one hand in a comforting gesture. “We all are, but we have each other to protect.”
She smiled at me. “Thank you for helping me calm down.”
Before I could even respond, the clamoring of an ambulance was heard nearby, sirens ringing like bells as they pushed through a crowd of inked hate.
Immediately, all the sisters ran to the windows, eyes wildly searching for their rescuers. The brothers instructed that we stay in the masjid for our safety. The crowd started to calm down, but the question still lingered through the air.
As paramedics rushed into the building, a stretcher was wheeled out with a middle-aged man on it. His beard was tainted in his own blood and a bullet wound that drowned itself on his forehead. His body didn’t move, nor wince when the paramedics began to stick tubes in his mouth.
I felt my heart drop, recognizing the honorable man who led the previous prayer, the Imam. Soon enough, the paramedics shook their heads, knowing it was too late. He died.
My body shook. I had heard a lot of hate crimes, seen anchors on TV’s give their condolences to the dead, but nothing compared to had actually experiencing it and became a victim of another person’s animosity. Perhaps my dream the other day had nothing to do with my mother, but of me and how close death had come to snatching my life.
The blade of a short life threatened my existence, and this crime that I experienced may have killed another. It all happened so quickly, so fluidly like a motion in water that I didn’t realize how life flashed before one’s eyes, how I could have been the Imam.
Knock Knock.
“Come in.”
Tanwir appeared with tear stained cheeks and crystal eyes. “It’s safe now.”
“Will the Imam be okay?” Kanza asked.
He solemnly brought his gaze to the ground. “Only Allah knows,” he said.
A sob was heard behind us. We turned around to see a woman crying. Some sisters surrounded her, offering their shoulders for her to cry on, but the woman was too grief-stricken. She seemed to be mumbling about her husband.
Realization dawned on me, the wife, that woman lost her husband.
Before I knew it, I was in front of her. I took one of her hands and held it firmly between my palms. Her face was tear-stained, and her breathing was uneasy. She had pale skin, and large eyes that lined with sorrow as she stared up at me, searching for someone to tell that it was all a nightmare, that her husband would be waiting for her when she came home.
My heart broke.
“I know it’s hard right now, but he died fighting for Islam. May Allah reward his bravery. He died protecting his community and I don’t know what’s more honorable than that. We can’t do anything for him now except make duaa (small prayer). May Allah grant him the highest place in Jannah and reunite him with his family in the Hereafter,” I prayed. “Amen.”
Shattering before my eyes, her legs had given out as the truth settled within. Following my instinct, I wrapped my arms around her when she collapsed and let all her sobs out.
“No. I-It can’t be. Somebody, please! T-Tell me it’s not real!”
“Allah knows best,” I whispered. “Shh. Everything will be okay. I promise.”
No one knew when they would die. Only Allah knew. Death was painful, almost unbearable at times. The heavy ache on one’s heart was hard to ever forget, however, good came out of everything. Allah would take care of this widow and her family because Allah never abandoned us when we needed Him.
He would always be there.
***
Silence fell upon every one as we all walked down the steps of the masjid. The crowd started to act up again. Jabbing taunts and racial slurs at us yet we didn’t care as we tried to comprehend how the day started off peacefully and ended in something that put our faith to the limits.
The police yelled and shouted at the crowd to disperse, but their attempts were futile. Hatred could not be silenced. It was a reckoning force that would always exist, one that couldn’t be diminished even with the holiest of waters and the purest cause. It would always threaten to shoot the weak.
What happened to the world? How can human beings continue to hate when the damage already took effect? How do we allow such injustices to happen?
Those were questions that didn’t linger in the minds of politician
s or bystanders. They were hopeless echoes to people but not after today. Voices needed to be heard, and I was going to do everything in my power to make my voice heard.
Chapter 50
The Real Terror
Damon Winters
I casually sat on my bed in my new place to live. My cousin let me live with him while I went to university because dorm rooms were so expensive. First year college students didn’t have much money unless they get a small “loan” of money from their parents.
Anyway, I sat on the couch flipping through channels, bored out of my mind. My cousin, Aiden, was out on a date with his girlfriend so I was home alone. I decided to watch the news, which had been entertained with America’s new leader. It was a puppet show for dummies.
I angrily watched his victory speech. The stuff he said about minorities, African-Americans, Muslims, and the Hispanic/Latino community really boiled my blood. I couldn’t understand how my country could let him win. Didn’t they care?
I started to remember my father. He had similar views, but didn’t agree with everything the crazy man said. However, the election itself hasn’t scared me at all. I was more worried for all the hate crimes, especially revolving around Muslims.
Amira was a practicing Muslim girl, making her a bright target for demented people. I stayed awake at night consumed with fear for her safety. There had been terrible men that would go up to Muslim girls and tell them that they deserve to be attacked for covering or even believing in God.
Muslims were their scapegoats. Once upon a time, I had thought the same. I thought Muslims deserved to be hated, but like my friends had taught me, not all Muslims were Luqmaan. Many were average Americans who were just trying to get by another day of hard work. They weren’t any different than the rest of us, but this president made me see the horror of my old beliefs.
Man, he made me seem like an angel.
Amira didn’t deserve the hate. With the increase in hate crimes, I could only pray for her to be safe. I never really prayed, but the Imam at a local mosque nearby told me about duaas. They were like short prayers, so maybe if I said some to Allah, He’d protect Amira.
Speaking of Islam, it seemed as if I fell in love with the religion every single day. Yes, it did require a lot, but it was reasonable. The Muslims had the most propaganda for years, but the more hate the community got, the more people learned about the real Islam.
Honestly, it was so inspiring to hear the Imam Zakir talk about it. He spoke with such pride in his religion that I felt it through his every word. He told me about Islamic history from the Prophet to the empires. He told me about the discoveries that shaped the world, the science in the Qur’an, and the history of Algebra.
Muslims were far more impressive than I gave them credit for.
After a couple minutes of searching through channels, a specific heading halted my movements.
“Currently, a mosque is being surrounded by Anti-Islamic mobs that are armed. Authorities are on their way as we speak,” the news anchor said.
I squinted my eyes. What I saw made the hair on my arms stick up. Amira was there. That was the state she was in right now. I pulled out my phone quickly and dialed her number.
Please be alright, I thought as the phone rang.
After an eternity of ringing, she picked up.
“Hello,” she whispered.
Relief flooded me. “Amira! Are you okay? Are the cops there? What’s going on?” I asked, as I put my coat on, grabbing my keys. I’d be damned if I let anything happen to her.
“I have to go. I’m sorry,” then she hang up.
Something about her voice really worried me. Her voice sounded like she was talking about the death of her sister. It was monotone and dead, void of the bubbly personality that I was used to. If anything, I knew Amira was terrified, which meant something really bad happened.
I got in my car and sped off.
God, if you’re there, please protect Amira, I silently prayed.
***
The crowd was still shouting as I pushed my way through them. My sanity would be gone unless I found Amira.
“Amira!” I shouted.
I wildly searched for her. When I saw the paramedics drag a body that was covered in a white sheet, I felt my heart sink.
It couldn’t be.
Where was Amira?
Was she alive?
My thoughts raced against time and I frantically searched for her. Did this angry crowd take away my love? Were they responsible for her death? Anguish was replaced with anger. Even if it wasn’t Amira, they took the life of an innocent individual. Who were they to judge someone they didn’t know? My fists clenched and unclenched.
These Muslims weren’t evil, the crowd was.
I stood up at the top of the steps. “All of you shut up!” I shouted.
The crowd kept their ongoing roar. At this point, my mind went into overdrive with rage. All I could see was red.
“Could I borrow that?” I asked an officer next to me, gesturing to his speaker.
He nodded.
“I said, be quiet!” I yelled loudly into the speaker, my voice emulating the sound of violent thunder.
Slowly, one by one, the differing faces in the crowd quieted down to hushed whispers. All of them gazed at me in wonder, some in anger for interrupting their protest while others seemed indifferent. Police officers and investigators were at the scene and arresting people, however, even they seemed to halt and look up at me.
I took a deep breath. Allah, please let Amira hear this.
“I used to think this country was golden. I used to think that anybody had a real chance here, not just white people. The American Dream was said to be for everybody. Everyone is supposed to be treated equal here. America is the land of the free, yet we’ve oppressed those searching for freedom. “
Silence fell upon the crowd. Even the news reporters hushed.
“Do you guys understand what you’ve just done? You killed somebody. Your hatred caused the end of someone’s life. Not just anyone, but an important member within the Muslim community. What if he’s a Muslim? He’s still a human being. Whatever happened to human rights? Doesn’t the Ninth Amendment of our Constitution guarantee that? Yes, you all exercised your right to protest, but all of you also managed to violate another right.” I said, disappointment lacing my words.
Shame fell upon some of their faces. The others scoffed as if Muslim didn’t deserve the rights I just mentioned.
“I’m sure everyone is wondering why I’m defending Muslims, but the truth of the matter is I used to think like all of you, until I met a Muslim. Their religion isn’t teaching about terrorism. It’s not teaching them to kill and rape people. It’s teaching them how to be good families, loving neighbors, nice friends, amazing parents, and how to achieve paradise in the afterlife. How is any of that wrong?
“We’re the ones prosecuting them. We’re the ones destroying their countries. We gave the weapons to terrorist groups during times of war. We trained those terrorist groups because we thought they were for democracy. Don’t you all understand? We created terror organizations. They run on hate, and now we run on hate too. How are we any different?” I asked, softly.
Murmurs went around. I scanned the area looking for Amira, until my eyes caught the stare of beautiful brown eyes that seemed to beckon me to her. Arms were wrapped around her quivering body. The man holding her reassembled Amira. I slowly smiled at them both, much to Amira’s surprise. Thank you, Allah, for keeping her safe.
“Today, the real terrorists weren’t ISIS or Al Qaeda. Today, it was the Americans. Until you all take responsibility for your actions, you have the blood of that Muslim man on your hands. Let it be a reminder to all about the consequences of hatred,” with that I stepped down the steps.
I ignored the reporters and walked through the crowd. My head was held high as I heard some people in the riot yelling, others still throwing stuff at me. I knew I did the right thing, and I did it for the w
hole world to see.
It wasn’t enough to change people, but it was enough to give Muslims hope. It was enough to give me courage to take the biggest step of my life. It was time. No more stalling or excuses. It was time to become a part of the Muslim community.
Chapter 51
A New Path
Damon Winters
To say I was terrified was an understatement. I had no idea what life would be like after I did this. Will my father disown me? Will my brothers cry that I left their religion? Will I even be considered family anymore to my relatives?
Thoughts like those overwhelmed my mind as I continued to press the gas pedal, feeling the thrill of speed and wind slap against my car. Like my hazy mind, the trees blurred behind, taking my past with it because I was blinded by my potential future. My heart thumped loudly in my chest, a thundering rhythm racing with my car’s speed, chasing after it as questions and confirmations swirled within my mind. A constant beat that drummed louder and louder as my thoughts pierced my heart with negativity.
Your parents won’t care for you if you convert.
I pulled over.
They’ll disown you.
My knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, biceps straining against my shirt and my chest tightening. My father was going to be so disappointed in me. He hated Muslims.
He believed all the bullshit the media reported. He believed all Muslims were extremists. He believed that Islam was backwards, a religion that lost its time long ago.
I used to be just like him. It was the only thing we had in common, the only idea that brought us together, the only father and son moment we shared. My eyes burned, thinking of all my errors, all my mistakes. I had labeled Amira and all her Muslim friends when they had done nothing wrong.
I was no different from my father.
If I told my family about my spiritual predicament, they’d destroy me. I’d be alone again in this cruel world, where the weak were silenced and the strong prevailed through any means. My voice would be among the crushed voices of other Muslims. I’d be the scapegoat. I’d be the one everyone deemed as an extremist.