I can feel Taylor tense. He sits up straight. “That right? You get spooked yesterday? That happens—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I think—” It takes me a moment to find the words. “I think the only person Ibrahim wants to hurt is himself.”
Taylor fastens those gray eyes on me. “They’re the most dangerous kind, Naeem,” he whispers.
I shiver, stay silent. A stray paper bag gusts up, droops down on the pavement.
“Naeem, a guy like that—”
“A guy like that?” I repeat. Like Tareq in the car, with nowhere to go? And Ibrahim?
I see him turning in those three-way mirrors, so many versions of himself, flashing back. Nobody’s son, Shirin-Auntie had said. What happens when you put your hand through the mirror and there’s nothing, just vapor? What do you reach for? A raw hurt swells up in my throat. “Lowlifes! That’s who does this, right? What you thought I was?”
“Whoa, whoa, buddy. Slow down there.”
“I’m out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not doing this anymore.”
I see the flicker of anger, a tiny vibration. Sanchez is just a few feet away, ready to pounce. They can turn on me in a second. “Tareq is your friend, right? He had it all lined up. Months of work! And you’re messing it up for him—”
“I know that.”
He grimaces. “It doesn’t work that way, Naeem. You can’t just bail.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No way.”
“That’s bull!”
He flinches, as if a tiny whip cut his cheek.
I dig out Salim’s card. “I’ve talked to my lawyer.”
Taylor jerks up from the bench and smacks the fence. It rattles, shrill and metallic. Sanchez moves toward me, his face dark. I flinch, ready to fight. But Taylor puts up a warning hand. Then he returns to the bench and sits, kneading his fists between his knees. His shoulders slump. He looks old, so old. I never saw this before.
“Naeem. You’ve got this all wrong. It wasn’t what you think. We actually like you. You have a future. We thought—I thought—you had something.”
This time I’m not as afraid. He’s grasping at air. Two-bit informer leads to a future, a career?
“I did have something,” I say. “I do.”
We sit in silence a while. I wait for him to tempt me. Another door. But it never comes.
“Is your name even Taylor?”
He turns, surprised. Then he looks away.
And that’s when I know it’s time to leave. I press my palms on the bench and rise. I feel light-headed. Taylor is still sitting, gazing at the playground. He looks contemplative.
“Hey,” I say.
He lifts his head.
“Thank you.”
He’s confused. He has no idea why I’m thanking him.
Taylor isn’t bad. He isn’t good, either. I don’t know what’s good or bad anymore.
He just showed me. That I’m not such a screw-up. That I can do something. Do it all the way. On my own.
Abba that morning, standing in the kitchen. It is my choice, he said.
And maybe that’s all courage is, I think. Choosing.
I head out of the park. And then I realize: that’s the first time I’ve walked away from him.
A thin light shows beneath the door crack.
I cringe. My parents must be furious. Turning the key, I slip inside, take off my sneakers, sand scattering softly to the mat. It’s quiet and still in here. In the kitchen my amma is sitting at the table. Her head is bowed; I can see her slender neck, the careful part in her hair. My chest contracts. I’m sure she’s crying. But no, she is just reading a prayer book, quietly, her lips moving. When she hears me, she startles. Even with her tired eyes, the scolding ready on her lips, she is joyous.
“Naeem,” she says. “You’re here.”
“Yes, I am, Amma.” I can’t believe how glad I am to be home.
I slide into the chair opposite her. We don’t talk. We don’t have to. Midday glare is starting to seep through the blinds. The faucet gives a tap-tapping into the sink. Amma, I see, has set out the evening preparations—chopped onions, eggplant chunks already spotted brown, curry leaves curling up on the wooden board.
“You were not at your friend’s,” she says.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“I knew that.” She kneads her temples, wisps of hair around her eyes. “Zahir showed me, on your computer.”
I nod.
“You are in trouble?” she asks softly.
I’m sure my heart is going to break my rib cage. My parents never knew anything. My brushes with the law. The stupid pen and the calculator. My work with Taylor. None of it. I was a stranger among them, winged and secret. But maybe not. Maybe Amma always could see right into me, the shape of my hurt. I thought I was hidden, and I was not.
“No, Amma, it’s okay.”
“I did not think so.” Her voice catches. “I read about boys getting in trouble in the paper. Mixed up in wrong things. They are not good.”
“No, Amma. They’re not.”
There’s a clatter of a garbage truck going by. Amma stirs up from the table, pulls out a plate of luchis that she puts in the microwave, and sets them down before me. They are warm, popping with moist heat. They melt against my teeth and tongue. I am ravenous. I did not know how much I needed this.
A faint buzzing, my phone, resting near my arm. A number flashing. Tareq, desperate. Wanting to meet. Come on, Naeem. You’re my closer. My bhayia. I feel a pang. He is a brother and I’ve left him behind. If Ibrahim gets skittish on him, it’s a lost gig. No money. Nothing. The whole sting could collapse.
The phone stills. Then it buzzes again, jumping a little on the table.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asks.
I shake my head. Then I look down at the remaining luchis, dimpled with steam. Once again I remember when I was so little, how I walked around our flat, pressing my palm to doors. Amma, where are you? I had cried. There were always more doors yawning open, out there, in me. This is what we all do: push a door, click on a site, and we don’t know what chute we’ll drop down.
But here, in this kitchen, the blinds glowing with sun, the door is open and this is what I find. Our rooms, Abba rising, pushing his callused feet into his slippers. Zahir swimming up from his dream-sea of numbers and dragons and superheroes, rubbing his eyes awake. A plate of luchis warm from the pan. They are around me. I am not alone.
Abba stands in the doorway, rumpled from sleep, his pajama bottoms wrinkled. It is Sunday, their one day off, and Amma always lets him sleep in. He has yet to do his prayers. I give him a cautious smile. He offers one. “You are back?”
Then I set my hand on Amma’s. I can feel the atoms and molecules, life and connection, jumping through her veins. But I am looking at my father.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I am.”
Though based on real issues and events, Watched is entirely a work of fiction.
I wrote this book while buffeted by painful headlines—the terrorist attacks in Paris, sting operations and further attacks in the United States, and the rise of ISIS and their slick recruitment of young people. My aim is to tell the human story behind the headlines, to explore the complicated choices and pressures teenagers—especially Muslim teenagers—face when their world is so riven and made precarious by violence, extremism, intolerance, and mistrust.
For a while, I had been hearing about the “watching” going on in neighborhoods, college classrooms, and student groups. Then, in 2014, a series of articles by Associated Press reporters Matt Apuzzo and Adam Goldman revealed a special unit of the New York Police Department that targeted Muslim communities in New York City and New Jersey, using many of the techniques depicted in the novel: informants, cameras, and the infiltration of mosques and student organizations. The demographic unit has since been dismantled, though surveillance and sting operations are regular features of counterterrorism op
erations by law enforcement agencies and the FBI. Recently, after a lawsuit brought by Muslim individuals, mosques, and a nonprofit, arguing that blanket surveillance of Muslim communities was unconstitutional, New York City agreed to appoint an independent civilian to monitor the NYPD’s counterterrorism activities.
To learn about surveillance and counterterrorism, please visit marinabudhos.com/books/watched, where I list many of the books, films, websites, and organizations that were vital to the creation of this novel. I consulted many resources to build this story, but all errors are mine.
Watched is not meant to be a conclusive answer, but the opening of a conversation. Please join.
I was born in Jackson Heights, and it is fitting that I finally set one of my novels there. However, this book could not have been written without the help of many generous people who helped me find the story and the way back to the neighborhood of here and now:
Megha Bhouraskar and Minu Tharoor’s dinner conversations set me on this path; S. Mitra Kalita served as my guide to Jackson Heights. My friendship and conversations with Annetta Seecharran, former director of SAYA!, and Kavitha Rajagopolan, thinker extraordinaire, were invaluable. Seema Ahmed and Rasel Rahman of Chhaya offered insight into the community and their own personal stories. New York Times reporter Matt Apuzzo answered questions on surveillance and informants. Diala Shamas and Ramzi Kassem of CLEAR gave their time and expertise; Ramzi read the manuscript, offering factual corrections. Luis Francia and Midori Yamamura gave me a place to crash, and Neilesh Bose made sure I did not butcher the Bangla. Thanks too to the young people at henna tables on Seventy-Fourth Street who laughed and talked with me.
My dear group—Bonnie, Christina, Alice, Anne, Alex—have buoyed me through the years, along with my Montclair writers’ group pals.
The idea of Watched was tested with student audiences—thank you, readers, for crowd-sourcing my next book!
William Paterson University granted me Assigned Release Time, while the Virginia Center for the Arts and a grant from the New Jersey State Arts Council gave me refuge for writing. Thanks to John Rowell and John Pietrowski of New Jersey for crucial readings.
Thank you to Stacey Barney for your support over the years, and to Sue Bartle, for nagging me to get on with “your” book.
Early chapters were sensitively read by Sangeeta Mehta, Shirley Budhos, and Deborah Wolfe. Sasha Aronson—now you have to read the whole thing! Rafi Aronson—you’re not far behind.
Marc Aronson—as always—present for every step and worry, every hopeful hour.
Wendy Lamb and Dana Carey: I have felt in secure, thoughtful, and inspiring hands. You know how to respect the process while pushing me further than I thought possible. Thank you to Colleen Fellingham and Alison Kolani for meticulous, patient copyediting. I’m grateful to Angela Carlino for her striking cover design, and for her attention to each stage, and to Ken Crossland for the interior.
Marina Budhos is the author of award-winning fiction and nonfiction. She first explored the lives of immigrant teenagers in Remix: Conversations with Immigrant Teenagers and the novels Ask Me No Questions (for which Watched is a companion book) and Tell Us We’re Home. With her husband, Marc Aronson, she cowrote Sugar Changed the World: A Story of Magic, Spice, Slavery, Freedom, and Science, and the forthcoming Eyes of the World: Robert Capa, Gerda Taro, and the Invention of Modern Photojournalism. Budhos has received a Rona Jaffe Award for Women Writers, has been a Fulbright Scholar to India, and is a professor of English at William Paterson University. She lives in Maplewood, New Jersey, with her husband and two sons.
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