Muslim Girl

by Umm Zakiyyah

  “And her mother was kind enough to let me speak to some of Inaya’s friends from Saudi Arabia,” Sister Amal said, sending Inaya’s heart racing as Inaya halted her steps next to Sister Amal.

  “And maashaAllah,” Sister Amal said, “I think the poem they wrote for her tells us that she was a blessing to them too.”

  Inaya’s eyes widened, and she had to resist the urge to snatch the paper from Sister Amal’s hand.

  “And this was written in the heart of the Muslim world by girls who were Arab, Pakistani, Indian, British and American,” Sister Amal said, a proud grin on her face, “and that alone should tell us the immense blessing we have in having Inaya amongst us.”

  Sister Amal turned to smile at Inaya, and Inaya dropped her head, unable to meet Sister Amal’s gaze.

  “And I think I speak for all of us when I say these words are a message and an inspiration to all Muslims.”

  The hushed silence in the gymnasium was a clear sign that hearing this poem would not be a surprise only to Inaya, but to the entire community of Muslims present that day.

  We have no idea what we’re going to do without you,

  “The girl who gets things done.”

  But I suppose we’ll have to figure out a way to still learn, Do things right, and have some fun!

  Thanks for teaching us the meaning of friendship

  And love for Allah’s sake.

  Thanks for telling us to pray and cover—

  Without taking a break!

  Thanks for teaching us that Islam is a religion of action, Not a religion of words.

  Thanks for reminding us that saying

  No! to Allah (about anything) is absurd.

  We’re going to miss you, Inaya,

  Our beloved sister, “cousin”, and friend.

  But like you always say, “Keep the faith, girl,

  And, insha’Allah, we’ll meet in the End.”

  ***

  “Congratulations.”

  Inaya was trailing behind her mother in the parking lot of the Muslim school when she heard this word for the umpteenth time. She already knew that whoever was speaking was talking to her, but Inaya had no desire to turn around and acknowledge their presence. Inaya was exhausted, mentally and physically, and she doubted she could last another minute at the school.

  Veronica turned and smiled, halting her steps to shake the person’s hand.

  “Are you Sister Amal’s daughter?” Inaya heard her mother say. “You look just like her.”

  “Yes,” the soft voice replied. “I go to school with Inaya.”

  At these words, Inaya jerked her head in the direction of the speaker and halted her own steps—and she found herself looking into the eyes of Nasra.

  Nasra smiled at Inaya, a smile that told Inaya that Nasra knew her secret—and that Inaya would never be safe.

  “As-salaamu’alaikum, Inaya,” Nasra said cheerfully as she reached out to shake Inaya’s limp hand.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised, maashaAllah,” Nasra said, her words sending Inaya’s heart racing. “Like I told you,” she said with a smile, “I always knew you were someone special.”

  Chapter 13

  An Example

  “But couldn’t you have asked me first?” Inaya stood in front of the stove stirring the spaghetti sauce she was preparing for dinner that Saturday evening. Her mother sat at the kitchen table shredding cheese as she nursed Abdullah, who was hidden beneath the small blanket that lay over Veronica’s shoulder.

  “I wanted it to be a surprise,” Veronica said.

  Inaya glanced over her shoulder and saw the look of satisfaction on her mother’s face. Inaya gritted her teeth and turned back to the stove.

  “It was…embarrassing,” Inaya said.

  Veronica laughed. “You’re too humble, sweetheart.” She shook her head. “But now you’re an example to all those stuck-up Arabs and Pakistanis.”

  Inaya flinched at the cruel words, but she could think of no intelligent response.

  “They always think they know Islam better than us.” Veronica huffed. “But most of their children don’t even pray or cover.”

  Inaya stiffened in anger. Was that what this was about? Proving to the “cultural Muslims” that the Americans were better? That the converts were the only “real Muslims”?

  “They walk around looking and acting like kaafirs.” Veronica twisted her face in contempt. “They even have boyfriends and girlfriends.”

  It took a moment for Inaya to gather her composure enough to speak. “All Muslims struggle, Mom,” Inaya said, her voice shaky from nervousness and annoyance. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Yes, nobody’s perfect,” Veronica said, a smug grin on her face as she glanced at Inaya. “But at least we’re not ashamed to tell the world we’re Muslim.” She grunted. “But these people do everything they can to hide it.”

  Inaya’s face grew warm, and she became overwhelmed with shame.

  Quietly, Inaya stirred the sauce until large bubbles surfaced. Steam rose and warmed her chin, and she wished her family had never left Saudi Arabia. Inaya never imagined that she would become so weak, and so quickly. She thought of Nasra and wondered at the girl’s strength and faith. How did she do it? And with so much ease…

  The shrilling of a phone interrupted Inaya’s thoughts.

  “Can you get that, Inaya?” Veronica said, turning to her daughter. “It’s probably Anisa saying she’s on her way.”

  ***

  “Inaya, maashaAllah!” Veronica’s best friend beamed as she stood at the front door of the apartment studying Inaya as she held Inaya’s hands.

  Anisa still wore her voluminous black jilbaab that hung from the top of her head and fell to her ankles. Her face veil was flipped back, revealing the honey brown of her face, which seemed to glow next to her dark brown eyes lined in black eyeliner and mascara.

  “You’ve grown so much,” Anisa said as she squeezed Inaya’s hands before letting go.

  Inaya smiled, unsure what to say as she stepped aside to let Sister Anisa inside.

  “As-salaamu’alaikum, stranger,” Veronica said after emerging from the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her shirt before drawing her friend into a hug. “I thought you were avoiding me or something.”

  Anisa laughed and shook her head. “You were always the paranoid type.” She sighed. “Driving forty minutes in my car is definitely not my idea of a good time.”

  “I guess I should’ve come to you then,” Veronica said after releasing Anisa.

  “Oh please,” Anisa said, waving her hand. “And drag that poor baby out the house for nothing? I wouldn’t let you even if you offered.”

  Anisa glanced around. “Where is he anyway?”

  “He’s sleeping,” Veronica said with a smile. “But don’t worry, he’ll wake up in a few minutes insha’Allah. Then you’ll wish he was asleep.”

  The friends laughed as Inaya closed the door and locked it, a polite smile on her face.

  “Are you hungry?” Veronica asked as Anisa removed her jilbaab, revealing a long-sleeved T-shirt and wide-legged jeans, her face still framed by a black khimaar.

  Anisa shook her head as she handed her jilbaab and face veil to Inaya. “Not yet. Right now, the only thing I’m craving is your company.”

  Inaya hung Anisa’s jilbaab on the coatrack then started for the hallway that led to her room.

  “Oh, Inaya,” Anisa said, prompting Inaya to turn around. “Sit with me before you disappear to do whatever it is you teenagers do nowadays.”

  Inaya hesitated as she thought of all the homework she had to do, and the work for the BOSS club.

  “Okay,” she said finally. She followed Anisa to the couch.

  “Did you hear about the award Inaya won today?”

  Inaya’s face grew warm at the pride in her mother’s voice. Veronica settled into the recliner across from them, and Inaya avoided her mother’s gaze as she sat down a comfortable distance from Anisa. But Inaya maintained a sti
ff smile similar to the one she wore when she’d accepted the award.

  Anisa lifted her eyebrows in pleasant interest then shook her head. “No, I didn’t.”

  “The Muslim weekend school has this mid-semester award ceremony every year,” Veronica said, unable to keep from grinning widely. “And they choose the most outstanding teacher and—”

  “No!” Anisa interjected, laughter in her voice as she looked at Inaya. “Are you serious?”

  Veronica nodded. “Dead serious.”

  “MaashaAllah,” Anisa said, shaking her head in admiration of Inaya.

  “I was so happy to see how shocked all those Arabs and Pakistanis were.”

  Anisa drew her eyebrows together as she met her friend’s gaze, smile fading. “What do you mean?”

  “Inaya’s the only Black person there,” Veronica said, pride in her voice. “The only American actually.” She grunted. “Unless you count the handful of White women who come to pick up their children after class.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But most of them aren’t even Muslim.”

  Anisa frowned momentarily then looked at Inaya. “That’s a lot of pressure for a sixteen-year-old,” she said.

  Inaya was surprised to see sympathy in Anisa’s eyes.

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea for her to teach there?” Anisa added.

  Veronica contorted her face and glared at Anisa. “Of course it’s a good idea. They need to see what a real Muslim looks like.”

  An awkward silence followed as Veronica folded her arms. “I’m tired of all their stupid racism.”

  “But…” Anisa looked troubled as she glanced uncertainly at Inaya. “…isn’t Inaya in school now? I mean—”

  “Oh come on, Anisa.” Veronica rolled her eyes. “Leave it to you to make me feel bad about the first good thing that’s happened to us in months.”

  Inaya lowered her gaze at her mother’s use of the pronoun us. Though Inaya was flattered to have received the award, she didn’t think of it as a good thing, at least not right then. She wished her mother hadn’t talked to Rafa behind her back. If only her mother knew how humiliated she felt…

  “I’m sorry, Ronnie,” Anisa said, her voice apologetic. “It’s just that I remember how much pressure my parents put on me when I was growing up, and—”

  “Your parents weren’t following the Sunnah,” Veronica said with a grunt, referring to the prophetic example. “So of course you grew up under pressure.”

  Anisa widened her eyes in shock. “What?” She shook her head, a wounded expression on her face. “That has nothing to do with what I’m saying.”

  “Inaya isn’t like you were,” Veronica said. “She knows her deen.”

  “Come on, Ronnie,” Anisa said, her voice a plea of reason. “Even if my parents knew the Sunnah after they became Muslim, it wouldn’t have made my life easier.”

  “The Sunnah is balanced, Anisa,” Veronica said. “Your parents asked you to be fully American while you practiced Islam.” She shook her head. “The only difference between you and the next kaafir was an African wrap on your head.”

  Anisa’s jaw dropped, and Inaya felt as if she were intruding on a private conversation. She wondered if she should leave to her room.

  “And that head-wrap,” Anisa said sarcastically, “was the barrier between me and a normal life.”

  Anisa contorted her face as she regarded her friend. “You really surprise me, Ronnie. Do you really think Islam is about wearing all black, covering your face, and putting your hands in the right position when you pray?”

  “I don’t trivialize any part of Islam,” Veronica retorted. “To me, all those things are what Islam is about.”

  “Then you’re wrong, ukhti,” Anisa said. “Dead wrong.”

  Anisa shook her head. “Islam is about only one thing, and that’s believing in Allah and holding on to that until you die.”

  Veronica raised her eyebrows skeptically. “And you actually believe we don’t have to do anything about that belief?”

  “Of course we do,” Anisa said. “But nobody’s perfect. Nobody can do everything right.”

  “But we should try.”

  “Yes, we should,” Anisa said. “But we’re human, so most of us won’t put in the effort we should.”

  Veronica wrinkled her nose as she glanced at Inaya. “I refuse to teach my daughter that defeatist ideology.”

  “It’s not defeatist, ukhti.” Anisa lowered her voice, as if trying to reason with her friend. “It’s reality.”

  “Then what’s the point of being Muslim if I don’t put any work into it?”

  Anisa narrowed her eyes as she regarded Veronica. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  Unsure what to say, Veronica met her friend’s gaze unblinking, a defiant expression on her face.

  “The greatest work you can put into being Muslim isn’t in your clothes or the school of thought you follow,” Anisa said. “It’s in your heart.” She shook her head. “And no jilbaab or niqaab or scholar can help you if you don’t work on your heart.”

  A thoughtful silence settled over the room.

  “I know that,” Veronica said finally. “But you can’t fix your heart without obeying Allah.”

  Anisa nodded. “But we all sin.”

  Veronica rolled her eyes. “That’s the same old song these foreign Muslims sing when they do wrong.”

  “But I’m not talking about them, Ronnie,” Anisa said as she glanced at Inaya. “I’m talking about us, all of us.”

  Anisa sighed. “Till today,” she said, “I wonder how differently my life would have turned out if my parents hadn’t made me think I had to be an example to the world.”

  At these words, Inaya turned to her mother’s friend, interest piqued. But Anisa’s gaze was distant as she looked at something beyond the living room.

  “I wish they had just told me the truth.”

  Inaya stole a glance at her mother, but Veronica’s expression was hard to read. Veronica was nibbling at her lower lip, her eyes on her hands folded loosely in her lap.

  “That the best I could hope for was just dying as a believer,” Anisa said.

  She shook her head. “I wish I knew I didn’t have to be an example to anyone,” Anisa said, her voice barely above a whisper as she emphasized the last word. “Except myself.”

  Chapter 14

  Hope

  “Good luck,” Mr. Rhodes said as Inaya followed the other students out the homeroom class one Monday morning in mid-December.

  Inaya creased her forehead as she halted her steps to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry?”

  “Good luck,” he repeated as he smiled and handed Inaya a white envelope.

  “What’s this?” she said as she accepted the envelope cautiously. She glanced at her full name printed neatly on the front. Inaya Christina Donald.

  “You’re one of the finalists for the Distinguished Student Award.”

  Inaya grew beside herself in excitement. What if she actually won? But she maintained her composure as she smiled at Mr. Rhodes. “Thanks.”

  “This nomination makes you automatically eligible for the Future Hope Scholarship,” he said. “You’ll find instructions inside for applying.”

  “Thanks.” Inaya was unable to keep from grinning.

  As soon as she was in the hallway, she tore open the envelope and eagerly read its contents.

  To the Parents of Inaya Christina Donald:

  It is with great pleasure that we inform you that your daughter has been nominated for our school’s Distinguished Student Award. Each year, we select one student for this honor based on his/her outstanding academic achievement and specific recommendation by administration, faculty, and fellow students.

  The student who is chosen receives a $1000 award to be remitted after he/she is eighteen years old. However, all nominees are eligible for the Future Hope Scholarship, which funds up to four years of the student’s undergraduate studies for up to $25,000 a year.

  If you
r son/daughter is chosen as our Distinguished Student this year, he/she will receive the Distinguished Student’s Scholarship, which funds up to eight years of the student’s education and college fees for up to $30,000 a year for undergraduate studies and up to $50,000 a year for graduate studies...

  Inaya screamed in excitement and immediately cupped her hand over her mouth in embarrassment as she noticed students glancing at her curiously.

  Still smiling, Inaya quickly folded the papers and returned them to the envelope before stuffing the envelope into her backpack. She couldn’t wait to get home to tell her mother.

  ***

  “I hope they don’t skip over you because you’re Muslim,” Veronica said as she leaned against the wall next to the foyer. She had just finished reading all the contents of the envelope that Inaya had handed to her.

  Inaya was still wearing her black jilbaab and pink khimaar she had put on before getting in the car with Kayla. Her cheeks grew warm as she looked at her mother.

  “I don’t think they’d do that.” But Inaya’s voice was subdued as she thought of her conversations with Mrs. Ford.

  “Well,” Veronica said as Inaya slipped off the outer-garment and hijab and hung them on the coat stand by the door, “it says this is sponsored by Future Hope Baptist Church.”

  “Really?” Inaya reached for the papers and took them from her mother, heart racing. The name of the church sounded familiar…

  Inaya’s eyes skimmed the part of the letter that she hadn’t bothered to read, and sure enough, there it was, the name of the church that Mrs. Ford attended. Inaya’s heart sank as she realized her chances were slim.

  “If you do win,” Veronica said, “I think it would be really good for da’wah.”