Amina's Voice

by Hena Khan

  Imam Malik nods toward Officer Jenkins, who says, “We are working with the leadership to set up additional security measures at the Islamic Center, including a more sophisticated surveillance and alarm system. We also need everyone to be extra vigilant for any suspicious activity.”

  “Thank you, Officer Jenkins, for taking the time to talk with us tonight. Let’s give the kind officer a round of applause,” Imam Malik says.

  Officer Jenkins holds up his hands as the applause starts. “Before I leave, I just want to say I know that this a terrible, challenging time for the Muslim community here in Milwaukee. On behalf of the entire police force, I can say that we are all deeply saddened by this hate crime. It’s simply unacceptable, and it’s un-American. We will do whatever we can to prevent anything like this from happening in the future and to make sure justice is served.”

  Everyone’s applause grows louder.

  “Thank you, Officer, for all that you are doing to get to the bottom of this and keep our community safe,” Imam Malik says again. “If everyone else can stick around for a few more minutes, we need to talk about the cleanup effort and ways you can help.”

  I rub my eyes, finally feeling sleepy. I’m sitting next to Thaya Jaan, who’s nodding off in his seat. The people who are standing in front of the door move to the side, and it opens again. I blink a few times when I see Soojin’s mom walk in, and right behind her is Mr. Park and Soojin. With them is a tall man with blond hair.

  Mama is sitting near the door, and she quickly rises to greet them. She gives Mrs. Park and Soojin hugs and shakes hands with the others. I sit glued to my seat, wondering what to do. Does Soojin want to talk to me? I’m still sitting there, debating with myself, as Mama motions for me and Thaya Jaan to come over.

  “Hi, Amina dear,” Mrs. Park says as I approach them. “We’re so sorry to hear about what happened at the mosque.”

  “We wanted to come earlier to offer our support but got delayed at the restaurant,” Mr. Park adds.

  “Thank you so much.” I hug each of them and give Soojin a sideways glance, uncertain about what to say or do. But Soojin comes closer and gives me a big hug, squeezing me tight.

  “Are you okay?” she asks with worry in her eyes. “This is so scary, and so crazy.”

  “Yeah,” I gulp as a flood of relief rushes through me. Soojin’s acting like her regular self.

  “We saw the story on TV. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have something like this happen at our church.”

  I nod. “I wanted to call you and tell you right away.”

  “You should have.”

  I pause. “I felt too bad about everything that happened at school. I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Soojin shakes her head slightly as if she wants to dismiss the thought.

  “It’s not okay,” I insist. I play with the zipper of my jacket, and the words come rushing out. “It was wrong of me to say anything about Emily. I should have known better and been more careful and—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Soojin cuts me off. “That doesn’t matter right now.” She waves her hand around the room.

  “But I have been worried about it. At the same time that I’ve been worried about all of this.” I can’t let any more time go by before clearing the air. “I hope you can trust me again.”

  Soojin pauses.

  “I can, Amina. I know you. I’m sorry too. For yelling at you.”

  I nod, too relieved to speak. The handsome blond man introduces himself to Mama and Thaya Jaan next. “I’m Mark Heller,” he says, flashing a set of perfect teeth. “I’m here to offer my help.” Heller? Could it possibly be?

  “Are you Emily’s dad?” I blurt out.

  “Yes, that’s me. Emily was very upset by what happened. She told me last night what good friends you are. I heard about this meeting and decided to stop by on my way home.” He smiles at me, and I notice that his green eyes are the exact same shade as Emily’s.

  “Thank you,” I manage to squeak. After all that happened, Emily said we were good friends?

  “It’s the least I can do,” Mr. Heller continues. “What happened is just appalling. We all have to stick together in times like these.”

  Everyone murmurs in agreement.

  “I own a construction company,” Mr. Heller continues, addressing Mama. “And I’d like to offer my services to help your community rebuild. I can do the repairs at cost, and only charge for materials and labor.”

  “Wow, that’s so nice of you,” I interrupt. A wave of gratitude washes over me, and my eyes fill with tears.

  “Yes, that is an extremely generous offer. Let me introduce you to the others.” Mama wipes her eyes too and smiles widely as she leads Mr. Heller toward Imam Malik and Baba. Mr. Heller places a firm hand on my shoulder as he walks by.

  “Everything is going to be okay,” he says.

  I nod, my heart full again, but in a good way this time. I pull Soojin, who’s been listening to everything, over to a couple of empty chairs along the wall.

  “Did you hear that?” I say. “I haven’t been nice to Emily at all, and now . . . her dad is being so great.”

  “She’s not a bad person, Amina. I think we just saw her hanging around with Julie before and thought she was like her. She’s actually—”

  “I know. She’s nice. I was so worried about Emily becoming friends with you that I didn’t notice she was trying to be friends with me, too.”

  “It’s okay, Amina. I think she still wants to be friends with you.”

  “Do you think she’s still mad at me?”

  “No. I talked to her about it later. She got your note. And she believes that you weren’t trying to hurt her or anything. She’s okay.”

  I hug my friend again, so glad that she came. The meeting has wrapped up, and people are standing together in small groups talking. Mustafa is stacking empty chairs with Yusuf and putting them away. Imam Malik and Baba are talking to Mr. Heller. He’s right, I think. Everything is going to be okay. Insha’Allah.

  “Hey!” I remember suddenly. “How was the swearing-in? I should have said congratulations to you and your parents.”

  “It was really cool! We were with all these people who moved to the US from all over the world.” Soojin described the hall and the way it all worked. “So, I guess it’s official!” she adds. “We’re going to have the party in a couple weeks.”

  “So . . . should I call you Susan now?”

  “Well, not yet.” Soojin’s grin is slightly sheepish. “After all that, when it was time to sign the final papers, I just couldn’t imagine not being Soojin anymore. Kind of like you said.”

  “Wait, so you’re going to stay Soojin?”

  “For now. I don’t feel like a Susan just yet.” Soojin giggles. “But who knows? Maybe I’ll feel like a Natasha later!”

  “Or maybe a Fiona!” I laugh.

  “Oh no, never a Fiona. I was just humoring Emily. No ogre names for me!”

  Mrs. Park walks up and holds out her hand. “Come on, girls. A long day like this calls for some frozen custard. I asked your mom, Amina, and she said you can come to Kopp’s with us.”

  Sweet! I take her hand and pull up Soojin behind me. As much as I love the creamy dessert and loading it up with all my favorite toppings, the idea of spending time with my best friend again is even better. It sounds like the perfect plan.

  24

  The room is cavernous, with high, slanted ceilings and exposed wooden beams that give me the feeling of being in a giant barn. At one end is a small stage with colorful handmade quilts hanging on either side of a giant gold cross. The stage holds a podium with two big potted trees on either side of it and a large bouquet of pink and white roses in front. A line of tall windows directs rectangular beams of light on the polished and shiny pews.

  I inhale deeply, trying to appear calm even though my heart thumps wildly as I walk up the steps to the stage, where Imam Malik is standing. He gives me an encouraging nod a
nd steps to the side of the podium, allowing me to take my place behind it. The microphone on the podium is a little too high for me to speak into, so I adjust it just below my mouth. Don’t forget to breathe.

  And then I find the courage to take a peek into the huge crowd seated in front of me.

  The room is packed with faces, most of them familiar. My parents, Mustafa, and Thaya Jaan are sitting with Rabiya’s family on one side of the room. Behind them sit Sister Naima and her family. In front of them are a smiling Soojin and the rest of the Park family. Next to Soojin I see Emily and Mr. and Mrs. Heller.

  I smile and unfold a piece of paper with the words I had typed out earlier and try to ignore the trembling in my hands. When my brain manages to command my hands to stay still, my leg starts to quiver, but at least it’s hidden from view behind the podium. You can do this. Relax.

  “Assalaamwalaikum. My name is Amina Khokar, and I’m going to recite surah Fatiha for you today,” I begin. “But first I want to thank my friend Soojin Park and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Park, for generously arranging to have our Quran competition here at the Milwaukee Central Presbyterian Church.”

  Everyone claps and cheers for the Parks, and Mr. and Mrs. Park bow their heads. It was only two weeks earlier that I came up with the idea of hosting the competition at the church Soojin’s family attends. Soojin thought it was a great plan, and we asked her parents, who are on the steering committee of the church, for their help. The committee overwhelmingly agreed and even pitched in to the college fund for the winner.

  Imam Malik happily accepted the offer to host the competition. And then they decided to open up the lawn for the interfaith carnival and raise funds for rebuilding. Even with Mr. Heller leading the efforts to rebuild the mosque and community center, it was going to be months before it would open. My school championed the carnival planning, led by Ms. Holly, who formed committees of students and volunteers from the local synagogue and Emily’s church. She also got a music school to set up a stage outside, where our band and chorus would hold a winter concert dress rehearsal.

  “Always take any chance you get to perform in front of an audience,” Ms. Holly told our class.

  And now, just a couple of weeks later, everything came together and was finally happening on a beautiful, cool, sunny November afternoon.

  I don’t recognize my own voice as it echoes through the speakers. I’m the first of fifteen students competing, since each participating Islamic school program entered five top contestants. At home a week earlier, I finally confided to the imam about how panicked I was about speaking in front of a crowd.

  “Does this have something to do with John Hancock?” he asked with a small smile.

  “Yeah. What should I do?”

  “How about if you go first?” Imam Malik suggested.

  “What? First? How does that help?”

  “You won’t have to sit through the other students speaking,” he explained. And then he encouraged me to recite the opening verses of the Quran. Not only is it the first passage that I learned as a child, but since I utter them in every prayer, it makes it less likely that I’ll freeze and forget my lines.

  “You know, I still get really nervous every time I speak in front of an audience,” Imam Malik confessed.

  “You? But you do it all the time.” I was shocked. The imam delivers the weekly Friday sermon, speaks every Sunday, and gives lectures regularly. He always seems so relaxed standing in front of a group, like it’s one of his favorite things to do.

  “I know,” Imam Malik explained. “But even still, every time before I start to talk, my palms sweat and my nerves kick in. I’ve just learned to ignore it and to push through. Because once I start speaking, I realize that it’s going to be okay.”

  My throat starts to dry up as I stand on the stage and study everyone who has come together to help my community. Just push through, like Imam said. I wait for the applause for the Parks to die down and continue to speak.

  “Surah Fatiha,” I start. “The Opening.” And then I recite the words I learned as soon as I could put sentences together. Even though I’ve said them thousands of times in my life, over the past week I worked with Thaya Jaan to focus on the sounds of each letter with the rules of Quranic pronunciation. I stare at the Arabic letters on the page, imagining them as musical notes in my piano book. My voice is like the keys, following the instructions of the letters, vowels, and other signals on the page. In this way, with my vocal cords as my instrument, I glide through the verses, wavering slightly at first, but getting stronger as I continue. As I speak, I think of the meaning of the words that praise God for his gifts and protection and seek his guidance to overcome every difficulty.

  “Ameen.” I finish and quickly hurry off the stage through the applause, back to my seat between Soojin and Emily. I spot Ms. Holly in a rear pew, and she gives me a big “okay” sign.

  “Good job,” Emily whispers. Her eyes are shining. “That sounded amazing.”

  I smile at her, surprised by how easy it is to think of Emily as a friend already. The day after the community meeting, when Mr. Heller came to make his fantastic offer of support, I went into school early and found Emily in the gym before the bell rang. I didn’t even have to deliver the long apology I had practiced at home—Emily saw me and, like Soojin, gave me a hug and said how sad she was about what had happened at the Islamic Center. She didn’t even want to talk about Justin or Bradley or how sorry I was for blurting out her secret. That was history. I still felt guilty for what I had done but promised myself that I would never betray a friend’s trust again.

  The next contestant is a tiny boy, hardly seven or eight years old, with a neat bow tie and hair that hangs over his eyes. He walks confidently to the stage. As he recites a short surah, I’m jarred by the power of his voice. He takes a deep bow when he’s done. And then it’s Mustafa’s turn. My brother is dressed the nicest I’ve seen him in a long time—looking sharp in tan slacks and a maroon button-down shirt. His hair is gelled in his messy style, and he’s freshly shaved. I hear some girls whispering and wonder if they’re talking about how cute he is.

  Mustafa is reciting a passage of the Quran that I don’t know. He’s kept his promise to the imam and, after he was caught skipping Sunday school, has been taking his participation in the competition more seriously. And he’s been working with Thaya Jaan many nights long after I go to bed.

  What I don’t expect is how much Mustafa sounds like a younger version of our uncle. His voice rings clear and steady, filling the church with lyrical notes and giving me goose bumps. A few moments after he starts speaking, I realize my jaw has dropped and my mouth is actually open. I don’t want to make him laugh and quickly shut it as he continues to masterfully glide through the verses. His face is serene, and he only glances at the open book in front of him occasionally.

  My brother never sings around me. Ever. And even though he bought a used acoustic guitar last year, it’s more for decoration and to act cool while strumming a chord than anything else. I’ve always assumed I’m the only one with musical talent between us. But I’m wrong.

  “Mashallah,” Baba whispers in the pew behind me, uttering the word used to praise in God’s name.

  I recognize the concluding phrases of Mustafa’s passage that refer to forgiveness and God’s mercy. And then he finishes and bows slightly while the room bursts into thunderous applause. I join in, clapping the loudest. I’d hate to be the one going next.

  The last contestant is a thirteen-year-old girl from Sheboygan, who is also really good as she recites the final verses of the Quran. And then everyone waits for the judges from each of the participating schools to decide the winners. The room pulses with nervous energy. Finally, Imam Malik runs back up to the stage, looking flustered and excited at once. He announces the third- and second-place winners, two students from the other schools—a tall girl with braces and the bow-tie boy with the big voice. When it’s time to announce the first-place winner, I hold my breath as t
he imam says, “And the winner is our very own . . . Mustafa Khokar.”

  I turn around in my seat and see Baba clap Mustafa on the shoulder as my brother looks up, genuinely stunned. I grin at him, and his face slowly spreads into a wide smile as he realizes what’s happening. With a wink for me, he walks up to the stage, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe it. My heart swells with pride as I watch Mustafa shake Imam Malik’s hand and accept a big gold trophy with an open book on top. Next he takes the theme park tickets, holding up the envelope and ducking his head as he says thank you into the microphone. But then, as Imam Malik hands him the college money, Mustafa leans into the microphone again.

  “I’d like to donate part of this to help set up a little kids’ basketball league at the Islamic Center when it reopens,” he says, and the room erupts into cheers. His cheeks turn redder as he continues to speak quickly, waving his hands to settle everyone down.

  “We’ll use it to buy equipment,” he says. “I’m sure some of my friends from the Greendale team will help me coach.”

  My brother looks more confident and sure of himself with every word he says. I’m certain he and his team are going to be a huge success.

  25

  “Go on! Give it your best shot! You can’t get—” SPLASH! The small seat he’s perched on gives way, and Imam Malik falls into the water. He comes up sputtering and shivering, even though he’s wearing a wet suit and scuba goggles, while Sami dances around him and trash-talks.

  “Oh yeah!” he cackles. “I got you.”

  “The imam is so great.” Soojin laughs from where she stands next to Rabiya and Dahlia.

  “Yeah. You’re so lucky that you’re part of such an amazing community,” Emily adds.

  “So are you guys,” I say as I look around at all the different people from their churches who have gathered together. The carnival is spread out across the expansive church lawn, and parents and friends work at a dozen booths. Justin and his mom are running the bean bag toss. I spot Bradley handing out prizes for a basketball-shooting game.