Amina's Voice

by Hena Khan

  As the minutes creep by, and our parents aren’t in sight, Mustafa starts to fidget. He checks his hair in the rearview mirror, examines the start of a pimple on his chin, puts his hood up, and slouches in the seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “I can’t sit here any longer. I’m going to check out what happened,” he finally says. “You coming?”

  “Mama said to wait here.”

  “Well, you can wait if you want.” And with that, Mustafa jumps out of the car. I scramble to follow him, my heart pounding again with a mix of fear and nervousness. Together, we run across the wet grass and up the steps to the community building.

  Mustafa pulls open the carved green door of the community hall. I take a deep breath, like I’m about to go underwater, and slowly enter the foyer. Its small sofa, side table filled with pamphlets and flyers, and a few chairs look pretty much the same as always. Maybe things won’t be as bad as I imagined. But, then, as we continue into the main hall, I gasp.

  It’s unrecognizable, as if a tornado swept through, picked up furniture, and threw it against the walls. Tables and chairs are turned upside down, and the floor is littered with cracked frames. I recognize them as the calligraphy that a local Moroccan painter recently donated. Two wood display cases are knocked onto their sides, and all the treasures from around the Muslim world are broken and scattered. The microphone and podium on the stage, where I heard a presentation by a children’s book illustrator a few weeks earlier, are destroyed.

  Something in my chest breaks into pieces as I survey the room. Worst of all are the walls, once creamy white, now covered with black spray paint. My eyes scan the hateful phrases written in thick, crooked lines—sloppy writing that screams Go Home, Terrorists, Towelheads, and bad words so terrible that I squeeze my eyelids shut tight. The writing cuts deep, as the fear of whoever could do something like this grips me. I reach for Mustafa, feeling dizzy, and realize that I’m holding my breath.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers. “You look like you’re going to puke.”

  I nod but hold Mustafa’s hand tightly as we walk down the hall past the bathrooms. As we pass the little library, one of my favorite parts of the Islamic Center, I see that the books have been knocked off the shelves and many are in shreds. I peek in horror, unable to bear the thought of anyone mishandling the Holy Quran—tearing out the pages and apparently stomping on them. Mustafa mutters under his breath, and his eyes seem darker than usual as he scans the room.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he says. “I can’t see any more.”

  As we step outside into the cool air, we both take deep breaths.

  “Who would do this?” I finally ask when I can.

  “I wish I knew!” Mustafa’s voice is thick with anger. He bites his lip.

  “I thought we asked you to stay in the car.” Baba sounds reproachful as he hurries toward us from the side of the building.

  “You were taking so long, we got worried,” Mustafa says. I can tell he’s trying his best not to cry.

  “Did you go inside?” Baba asks.

  “Yeah,” Mustafa mutters. “Do the cops know who did this?”

  “I wish you had listened to us,” Baba says. “It’s cold out here, but come wait with us for a few more minutes. I don’t want you to go into the mosque building, do you hear me? It’s wet and smoky and a mess in there . . . and the police are still collecting evidence.”

  We nod. The last thing either of us wants is to go into the mosque and see more destruction.

  We follow Baba to where Mama and Thaya Jaan are talking to Hamid Uncle and a couple of other people who have arrived. Imam Malik is standing aside speaking to a police officer and a reporter. A van labeled CHANNEL 7 NEWS arrived while they were inside. I spot blue-checkered pajamas under Imam Malik’s brown leather jacket and figure that he rushed out of his house as soon as he heard what had happened.

  I would have laughed with Mustafa about that if this weren’t all so terrible.

  “Let’s go,” Mama says wearily as she sees us. She seems distracted and says to no one in particular, “I just can’t believe that this happened.”

  I don’t want to believe it either. All I want is to crawl back into bed and wake up again, to find out that all of it was just a bad dream. Hamid Uncle clears his throat loudly and doesn’t acknowledge us, which is very out of character.

  “It’s going to be hundreds of thousands of dollars in repairs between both buildings.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Maybe even more if they find out there was structural damage.”

  “But it could have been so much worse,” Salma Auntie says. “If that person in a passing car hadn’t noticed the smoke and called the fire department, and if they hadn’t come so quickly, the entire building could have burned to the ground.”

  “I know,” Mama says. “We’ll have to try to be grateful, but it’s hard. This just feels so violating, and terrifying. I thought we were part of this community, and now to think that someone wanted to . . .” Mama looks down at me and stops talking.

  Imam Malik shakes hands with the reporter and walks over to us. Tons of other cars are pulling into the parking lot now, and I want to tell them to turn around and go home and not go inside the Islamic Center.

  “Assalaamwalaikum.” Imam Malik’s usually smiling face is drooping. “What a nightmare.”

  “What are the police saying?” Mama asks. “Do they know who did this?”

  “The police are opening a full investigation, but it’s going to take time before we get any answers.”

  “What if they come back?” I ask.

  Imam Malik pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. The people who did this are shameless cowards. They won’t dare to come back. And even if they try, we are working with the police to set up additional security.”

  “We have to catch them. Whoever did this can’t just get away with it!” Mustafa speaks to the ground and acts like something is in his eyes. “They need to pay for what they did.”

  “I’m angry too, but let’s be patient. We’ll see what happens,” Imam says gently as he puts his arm around Mustafa. “Leave it in the hands of God and the police, who are working hard.”

  “Any idea how long before we can reopen, realistically?” Mama asks.

  “It’s going to be many weeks, if not months.” Imam shakes his head sadly.

  “We are going to have to let all the groups we invited to our events know that they won’t be happening anymore,” Mama adds.

  The Quran competition! For weeks I’ve been dreading it, but now that it’s being snatched away, I’m surprised by how badly I want it back. I think about how excited all my friends have been about the cotton candy and the dunk tank, and how hard everyone has been working to prepare. And I suddenly feel cheated and angry.

  “Yes, if you could please notify everyone, it would be helpful—and one less thing for me to manage right now.” Imam Malik shifts his weight as if the burden resting on him is too much to carry. “Now, I’m sorry, I have to go speak to the others who have arrived.” He puts his hand over his chest and then rushes off.

  We wait while our parents finish their conversations. It’s only when my stomach starts growling fiercely that I remember we haven’t eaten anything all morning. Finally, we head back to the car, and as we walk, I catch up to Mustafa and tug on his arm.

  “What?” he asks without stopping.

  “I was praying that I didn’t have to be in the Quran competition,” I whisper. I don’t want anyone else to hear me.

  “And?”

  “And . . . look what happened.” I wave my hand around, pointing toward the buildings.

  “What?” Mustafa snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. It doesn’t work like that. This has nothing to do with you.”

  I stand in place, blinking rapidly.

  “Listen.” Mustafa’s voice is softer, and he stops walking. “Did you spray-paint those walls or set that fire?”

  I shake my head.

 
; “Then it’s not your fault. Okay? Some really evil people did that.”

  “Do you think they will catch them?”

  “I hope so.” Mustafa scowls. “It’s just so freaking unfair. What kind of person would want to destroy a place where people gather to pray and learn?”

  I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about who they were, and why they were smashing things or spraying the walls. Instead I just pray for things to go back to the way they were before, back to before this horrible night, back to before I wished my way out of the competition, back to before I heard Thaya Jaan say what he did about music, and back to before I messed everything up with Soojin and Emily. The heaviness that has settled around my heart is getting to the point where it is slowly being crushed. I’m afraid I will never feel normal again.

  22

  “Turn it up.” Salma Auntie hands Mustafa the remote control with a frustrated scowl. “I can’t figure this thing out.”

  I’m squished in the middle of the sofa between Hamid Uncle and Mama as everyone crowds around the TV in the family room, waiting for the five o’clock news to begin. Even though it isn’t even dark outside yet, after all the early morning drama at the Islamic Center, it seems much later than it actually is. I’m glad that the house has filled up with friends. After we came home in the morning, we quietly ate leftovers from the party the night before, which felt like a million years ago. Then we went upstairs to try to nap. I lay in bed, trying to ignore the phone ringing constantly, and replayed everything I’d seen that morning in my head. The words “Terrorists” and “Go Home!” kept flashing through my mind, and a flood of feelings—fear, anxiety, anger—clouded my thoughts. I am home. Where else would I go?

  A few hours later, Rabiya rang the doorbell. She was holding a large white bowl covered in foil, and Salma Auntie stood behind her carrying a big tray.

  “Put these in the kitchen,” Auntie said after kissing me on the forehead. I remembered that Salma Auntie always cooked massive amounts of food when she was stressed out. The bowl was filled with vegetable rice, and the tray held meat pastries.

  Imam Malik arrived with his family soon after. He had changed out of his pajamas into jeans, but the sadness and worry hadn’t left his eyes. I could see it even when I tickled baby Sumaiya, making her shriek with laughter. She lunged for me and touched my cheeks with her chubby fingers, like it was just any other day.

  The grown-ups settled into the living room and launched into a long conversation about the details of what had happened that morning. Their voices were somber as they compared notes, but at times someone would speak loudly in anger. While they talked, they drank the chai that Mustafa and I made and mindlessly chewed on tea biscuits and dried fruit and nuts. We all hovered around our parents, preferring to be nearby instead of playing in the basement like usual. I sat on the bench of my piano since all the other seats were taken.

  “Shh,” shushes Auntie, “it’s starting.” Mustafa turns the volume on the TV even louder.

  Everyone quiets down and stares at the blond woman on the screen, the same reporter we’d seen that morning. “We’re here at the scene of a serious attack of vandalism and arson at the Islamic Center of Greater Milwaukee,” the woman says.

  The camera pans through the destruction of the community building and then swings right to show the mosque. Somehow, the scene appears even worse on camera and almost unreal, like a war zone. I gasp when I see the images of the interior of the mosque, which is charred and almost unrecognizable. The once gold-trimmed panels are covered with soot, and the carpet is blackened. Imam Malik is walking through the mosque, pointing at the ceiling, which has been damaged by flames, and talking with a police officer, who is then interviewed about the arson.

  “We don’t have any suspects at this time, but we are asking the community to please come forward with any information that can lead us to whoever committed these crimes.” The officer stands stiffly and speaks directly into the camera.

  The reporter next asks Imam Malik questions about the history of the Islamic Center, and his voice shakes as he answers. And then, as quickly as it started, the story is over. The anchors switch to news about a rash of robberies in a neighborhood on the other side of town. Mustafa turns off the TV, and everyone sits quietly with grim expressions on their faces.

  “The police have been taking this seriously.” Thaya Jaan breaks the silence. I’m surprised to hear his voice. Even though his face shows that he’s very troubled by everything that has happened, he hasn’t said much about it.

  “Muslims have far more friends than enemies in this country. Some people don’t understand Islam or are misled and fear us. But I’m getting so many calls of support from our friends and neighbors in the community,” Imam Malik says.

  “It’s true,” Hamid Uncle adds. “Even with things like this, I’m still convinced there’s no better place to be a Muslim in the world than in this country.”

  I think about what Baba said about Thaya Jaan wishing our family had gone back to Pakistan and worrying that his brother wouldn’t like our lives in America. But Thaya Jaan, surprisingly, nods in agreement.

  “There are many things about life here in America that are very good,” Thaya Jaan says. “And I’m starting to think you may be right.”

  I shift on the bench, and my elbow strikes one of the piano keys. The sound startles everyone, who are already jumpy and on edge.

  “Why don’t you play us something, geeta,” Baba suggests. “It might help.” When I look at him with surprise he gives me a sly look.

  I hesitate and glance at Thaya Jaan to see his reaction. He doesn’t say anything and only smiles slightly. Did Baba already talk to him about music like he said he would?

  “Go on,” Mama pushes. “It’ll be good for us to take our minds off of everything.”

  I spin around to face the piano, glad to be doing something other than just sitting, listening, and worrying. As I run my fingers over the smooth keys, a warm, comforting feeling settles over my shoulders and moves down my arms. I flip through the songs I’ve been practicing in my lesson book and decide on Beethoven’s Sonata number 8. I take a deep breath and start to play, letting my emotions pour out through my fingertips.

  After the first few measures, I forget everything for a moment and feel whole again, in spite of what happened earlier in the day. I play as if no one is listening, basking in the richness of the sound. Finally, as I hit the last note, I remember that I’m not alone and turn around.

  Baby Sumaiya squeals and bangs her toy on the coffee table, drooling with a big toothless grin. But everyone else has tears in their eyes—even Thaya Jaan.

  23

  My school cafeteria is packed with people. They are sitting in rows of chairs facing a microphone set up on one end of the room. Imam Malik and a police officer stand side by side and are taking turns answering questions. Baba and Hamid Uncle sit behind them.

  It feels strange to be in the school at night, since I skipped during the day. Mama let me stay home after she saw how wiped out I was in the morning. I hadn’t been able to sleep last night either and had bad dreams about what had happened at the Islamic Center. Mustafa ended up staying home too, and we both helped to spread the word about the meeting that Mama and others had set up with county officials. The rest of the day I watched three hours of sitcom reruns on television until my head started to hurt. Now, at night, I realize that I’m going to be missing The Voice and wonder if my favorite contestant, Javier, will make it to the next round.

  The cafeteria is filled with faces I recognize from the community, like Dahlia and her parents, Sami’s family, and Sister Naima and her husband. And there are so many others who have come, like Pastor Stevens, Rabbi Weiss, local officials, my principal, and a bunch of teachers from my school and the others in the county. Mrs. Barton is sitting next to a man I recognize from the photos on her desk as her husband. And Ms. Bixler and Mr. Nelson are there too. Ms. Holly sits in the row behind them, her
usual smiling face drawn and tight. But when she meets my eye, she gives me a sympathetic look.

  Everyone in the room is bursting with questions, which Officer Jenkins nervously answers, his face red under a crew cut. I feel sorry for him as he struggles to explain things that are unexplainable. A lady, elegant in her bright pink-and-purple-printed African dress with a matching head wrap stands up, her body stiff with anger.

  “Our center is known for being active in the community—we work with local charities and have a free health clinic. We help people. So I just don’t understand why. Why would someone want to do this to us?”

  Officer Jenkins shifts, and his face grows even redder.

  “Our best guess is that this was a simple act of hate. We don’t believe that anyone specific in the community was targeted. Whoever did this was looking to send a message of fear, aimed at all Muslims.” Several people murmur in agreement.

  It worked. I’m scared.

  An older man with graying hair in a suit stands next.

  “Have you made any arrests yet?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Officer Jenkins replies as he mops his brow with a napkin. “We are exploring all the leads we have, and we will keep you informed.”

  My head starts to ache again.

  “We have time for one more question,” Imam Malik says as a flurry of hands fly up. He points to Sami’s mom, who has been waiting.

  “I just want to know how we can make sure this won’t happen again. How can we feel safe in the future?”