The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf: A Novel

by Mohja Kahf

  They'd never seen Cham people before. The Cham lady was Khadra's height and the man was not much taller and so slight of build he looked like an Indiana winter wind could knock him flat. In his arms was the tiny, fragile, wrinkled Cham baby.

  Dr. Abdul-Kadir examined the baby with a stethoscope from his black bag. He didn't say anything. He then took out an ear doo- giemabob and looked in baby's ears and nose and throat. Aunt Trish was holding her breath the whole time. When the doctor said the baby was "alhamdulilah okay," she let out a little laugh and blew her nose. Not just Aunt Trish.

  When Tayiba Thoreau moved into Fallen Timbers, there was quite a stir. For one thing, her family had a dog. They were Muslim and they had a big blond hairy dog named Custer. What's more, her father was a white man, a white American man who was a Muslim.

  "Nuh-uh," Khadra said, jealous that Hanifa saw the new girl first. She had floor-scrubbing chores. But at least her friend had raced right over to give her the scoop.

  Who had ever heard of such a thing: a white American man, Muslim? "CIA plant?" some of the grown-ups whispered. "FBI?"

  The four kids rode their bikes over to see the new family. They ogled: Tayiba was mod. They had never seen a mod Muslim girl before. She wore platform shoes with holes through the heels, bellbottom jeans, a breezy peasant blouse and large sunglasses that rested atop her hijab-a jaunty little kerchief tied at the side of her head. A hijab with a side tie? Hanifa and Khadra looked at each other.

  Tayiba was three years older than Khadra, plus she came from Chicago. So, of course, she was loads more sophisticated than any of them. Her father was from Nebraska and her mother from Kenya.

  "It's haram to have a dog, you know," Khadra lost no time telling Tayiba.

  "Is not," Tayiba said, scratching behind Custer's ears.

  "Is too." The animal was jumping around Tayiba's knees and Khadra eyed the interaction closely for signs of dog drool. "And you better wash your hands seven times."

  Tayiba turned away, bristling at Khadra's know-it-all airs about religion.

  Her dad was a very pale white man with almost white-blond hair. Khadra did not know hair could be that blond for real. He was the Dawah Center accountant. He also gave "Why I Embraced Islam" lectures regularly at mosques across the nation.

  Tayiba's mom, Aunt Ayesha, did secretarial work at the Center part-time. She was thin-lipped, pointy-nosed, and sharp-tongued. Her oval, upwardly slanted face with aristocratic features was as darkest blue-black as her husband was palest white. She came from a family of schoolteachers in Mombasa. If she fixed a certain look on you through her turquoise cat's-eye glasses that were studded with tiny rhinestones, you were pinned to the spot and forgot whatever foolish thing you were going to say.

  Tayiba's sister, Zuhura, was a lot older, practically a grown-up to Khadra and them. She went to Indiana University, Bloomington. A well-spoken girl, she had adult conversations about social justice in Islam with the learned Uncle Kuldip and with Khadra's father and the other uncles and aunties. Aunt Ayesha, standing next to her husband, managed to maintain a stern gaze even as you could see she was beaming at her daughter's eloquence. Zuhura looked like a taller, plumper version of her mom, not like her dad at all.

  "She's full Kenyan," Tayiba said. "My mom's first marriage."

  It took two people to handle Tayiba's hair, which bulged enormously under her headwrap. When she let it out of its bundle, it bounded out, with a span nearly a yard wide. Khadra couldn't even believe how big it was.

  When Tayiba had to wash her hair, everything came to a screeching halt. "I can't go biking with you today, I have to wash my hair."

  "So? Wash it and get your booty out here," Khadra called up to Tayiba's window, annoyed. What a blow-off. "Wash my hair" -like that takes all day.

  Tayiba rolled her eyes. "You don't understand. I have to WASH my HAIR," she said. "It's not like washing your little ole hair, girl. It is a whole THING of its OWN."

  It felt weird calling Tayiba's dad "Uncle Joe," the way the kids in the community called all the Muslim grown-ups "aunt" and "uncle." "Joe Thoreau" just did not seem like a proper Muslim name. Uncle Joe was so white he had that blotchy pink type of face that white men had. The kind that, when it loosened and got jowly on older men like the school principal, made Khadra's mom shudder because she said it looked like the underneath parts of a man's body that should be covered. Why didn't American men grow beards like decent folk?

  After a while, Tayiba's dad changed his name from Joe to Yusuf. Then he grew a beard. And sent the dog away, to his brother in Chicago. He started to fit in at the Center much better.

  ... the presence of the heart with God, always or most of the time, certainly has primary over the ritual acts of worship.... Indeed, the rest of the realm of worship is sanctified by this conscious remembrance, which is itself the ultimate aim of the practical act of worship....

  -al-Ghazali

  Hanifa cartwheeled across the masallah-the prayer space-of Salam Mosque.

  "Betcha won't!" Khadra had dared, and that was all it took -Hanifa was off, a flash of arms and legs. She was like that, a daredevil.

  "You too!" she said to Khadra, flushed and laughing.

  Khadra, after looking over her shoulder, had just lifted her arms high in the air when an uncle walked in. She stopped short, and then she and her friend dissolved in giggles, and couldn't help having intermittent giggle fits all the rest of that day in Sunday school.

  Masjid Salam Alaikum, or Salam Mosque, was a storefront space in the black part of Indianapolis and had served the local Muslim community before the Dawah Center was a gleam in a bearded engineering student's eye. The Salam community welcomed the influx of immigrant Muslims in a cautious embrace, only to find the Center siphon off some of its members toward the (very white) south side of the city to work at the Dawah office. Meanwhile, earnest young Dawah members like the Shamys attended juma at Masjid Salam and felt free to tell the Afro-American brethren how to run things, despite the fact that, as far as the number of years in Islam went, many of the birth-Muslims hadn't been awakened to their Islamic consciousness any earlier than the converts had converted.

  Masjid Salam was where Khadra and the other Dawah children went for weekend Islamic school. The name of the mosque was taped in homemade lettering across the big front window. Blackeyed Susans and spindly Queen Anne's lace grew up to the windowsill in summer. It used to be a travel agency and there was still a poster of a spinning globe in one corner of the window. A faded calico curtain was pinned up across the window.

  There was a new-carpet smell to the flat, cheap office carpet in the masallah, where masking tape marked prayer lines for men and women, with open space between them that got filled up only on Fridays. A cubby shelf for shoes stood in the foyer. At the rear of the prayer area was a little hallway that led to a small dim bathroom, freshly painted white to cover up graffiti and grease stains from previous renters. Spray cans of cleanser stood under the chipped porcelain sink and on the floor next to the toilet was a plastic jug for washing yourself. The jug looked like it might have been red once but was faded to a dusty salmon color. Taped up by the scratched mirror was a piece of notebook paper with "Cleanliness, is part of iman!" scrawled earnestly in black magic marker, the letters blurry where water from somebody's elbow-rinsing had splashed them.

  In the narrow back hallway was a map captioned "The Muslim World." The countries that were mostly Muslim were dark green. Light green meant they had a lot of Muslims, yellow-green and yellow meant they had some, and the pink and dark pink countries had next to none. The U.S.S.R., Khadra was surprised to see, was light green. China was yellow. The U.S. was only pink. Muslims didn't count for much here.

  That's all there was to the mosque: the open masallah area and the back bathroom and hallway. The prayer space was where everyone sat: men, women, children, and where everything happened: lessons, meetings, elections, dinners. And of course, prayers.

  First position, qiyam. Standing, feet p
lanted hip-distance apart for balance, focus, before you raise your arms in allahu. "Straighten your lines, close the gaps-stand shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot," the imam at Salam Mosque said before he called the first allahu. "Shaytan gets between you if you leave a gap." Like one of the pushy boys in the lunch line at school, Khadra imagined. She squinched close up against Tayiba and tugged Hanifa's arm to pull her into line. "No pushy Shaytan gonna get between us, hunh."

  "Walk addaleeeeen, "called the imam.

  `2laaahmeeeen, " the congregation responded. Khadra loved the `ameens.' The strong vibrations of the men's voices and the murmurs of the women made her feel safe. Sandwiched between them, she was right where she belonged. Everyone knew her, and who her mother and father were; little jihad whimpering down the prayer line was as likely to get picked up by Aunt Fatma or Aunt Khadija as by his mother.

  You went into ruku, the bow, with your knees locked and back straight as a table-someone should be able to put a full glass on your back without spilling. You whispered your subhana-rabial-atheems, looking down at your toes in their own little lines. Here comes the signal to rise-

  "Sami allahu li man hamida, " everyone rose from ruku. Khadra's father and all the uncles in Western pants had to pick wedgies out of their butts at this point. But those who wore loose shalvars or dashikis were good to go.

  "Rabbana wa laka alhamd, " one congregant responded loudly.

  Now you dropped into sajda, prostration. No flopping elbows on the floor, because that's a dog posture and Muslims don't do dog. Humility yes, dog no. Seven surfaces only touch the mat during sajda: Palm, palm, knee, knee, foot, foot, forehead. There, after three subhanas, you whispered your private prayers, nose brushing the bumpity carpet. You left room for a baby. If Khadra's brother Jihad was lying there, say, she should be able to make the sajda over him. (And maybe give him a little belly tickle along the way).

  When the portly Uncle Abdulla imamed, his curly-haired little girl Sabriya giggled and threw herself on the round mound of his back and clambered up for a piggyback ride. He let her play, just like the Prophet Muhammad let his granddaughter play on his back when he led the entire Muslim umma in Medina. Khadra sneaked a peek to see why the sajda was so long. Uncle Abdulla waited until the girl had a good grip on his neck, then said allahu akbar" in a slightly choked voice, and rose, lifting her up-up-up on his back. She squealed with such delight that some people in the prayer lines tried to suppress smiles and think of God. Others managed to smile and think of God at the same time.

  American converts found the juloos posture hard. You sat with legs folded under you, thighs pressed against calves. "Americans hardly ever sit on the floor," Khadra's mother observed. "Their bodies forget how to pray after sitting up stiffly at tables and desks, working to gain the wealth and glitter of this world."

  "You forgot to fold your hands, Auntie Dilshad. Mama, why did Auntie Dilshad forget to fold her hands?" Khadra had never seen anyone put their hands down by their sides after the first allahu akbar. "And why is there a piece of rock in front of her?"

  Her mother said "Hush."

  Dilshad Haqiqat salaamd out of prayer mode and said, `It's okay, beti, it's how Shias pray."

  The Shia members of the congregation were the Haqiqat family from Hyderabad, Uncle Zeeshan and Auntie Dilshad and their girls, Insaf and Nilofar. "The rock is from Karbala," she went on. "Where the evil caliph of Syria killed the grandson of the Prophet."

  Her mother steered Khadra away. "We need to go get our shoes," she said.

  All the Sunnis knew the Shias had wrong beliefs but tried to be polite and not talk about it. At least, not in front of them.

  For Sunday school each class took a corner of the mosque and sat on the floor around the teacher. The children were taught by a rotating roster of aunties and uncles anchored by Uncle Taher, who was black and round and immense, with a large, mournful face. He was like a mountain that moved. Khadra used to be scared of him when she was a very little girl, newly arrived, and would run to her seat, heart pounding, when he lumbered around the corner.

  Uncle Taher taught them the Five Pillars. "Tawhid, " he said on the first day. "One God. La ilaha ila allah. That's it. That's Islamlearning to surrender to Oneness. Learn that and you can go home." Tawhid took up half the year. Even after the Tawhid unit, it seemed like every other lesson went back to Tawhid some way or another.

  "God don't look at your skin color. How come?"

  Hakim's hand shot up out of his heavy parka. "Because it's only one God created everyone, so all men are equal."

  "That's right," Uncle Taber said. He blew on his fingers and rubbed his hands together. Outside, the snow was falling. The mosque heater was on the fritz. Four portable space heaters glowed red in the masallah.

  Tayiba raised a mittened hand. "What about women?"

  "`Man' include women," Uncle Taher said. "It's just the way we talk."

  "So men and women are equal too?" she said.

  "God don't care whether you a man or woman, anymore than He look at black or white," Uncle Taher said. "The Quran says, `God don't suffer the reward of anyone's deeds to be lost, male or female.' None of that matters with God."

  Tayiba slid back onto her bottom, satisfied.

  "And who was the first Muslim?" Uncle Taher went on.

  "Abu Bakr," Eyad said. He wore a blue woolen cap with a big yellow puffball.

  "Nah," Uncle Taher said. "Not the first Muslim." Eyad was crestfallen. His puffball fell to one side.

  "Ali," Danny Nabolsy said. His little brother Ramsey fidgeted beside him.

  "No." Uncle Taher paused for effect. "Abu Bakr was the first man, "he said, and Eyad's cloud lifted a little-vindication. "And Ali was the first child. Ten years old-and doesn't that show a child can do something important?" he said, and they all sat up taller on their ankles. "But what I asked you was, who was the first person to become Muslim, the very first?"

  "Oh-I know!" Hanifa raised her hand so high that she needed to hold it up with the other hand. Uncle Taher called on her. "Khadija!" she fairly sang.

  "That's right!" Uncle Taher boomed, and she beamed with the glory of it. "The Prophet's wife, Lady Khadija. And who was number one in the deep after the Prophet's death, that everyone went to with their how-come questions?"

  "Aisha!" Khadra said, with a triumphal glance at Hakim.

  "That's right. And who was the person closest to the Prophet's heart?"

  This time Hakim's hand went up first. "Fatima," he said, without so much as a sideways look at Khadra.

  "Show me how you pray," Uncle Taher said, sitting cross-legged in the masallah with a brown leather kufi on his head. The kids lined up, girls on one side, boys on the other. Malik Jefferson started to raise his hands for the first "allahu."

  "Hang on," Uncle Taher said. "It's not the hundred-yard dash. You want to focus. You want to hold on to your nia-your purpose and intent."

  Khadra, Hanifa, and Tayiba gave Uncle Taher a workout with their questions. Are birthdays haram? Mama said birthday parties are vainglorious. What is vainglorious? How come the Islamic year is only 1398? How come Muslim men can marry non-Muslim women but Muslim women can't marry non-Muslim men? Will all non-Muslims go to hell? He called them the "How Come Girls."

  "Do everything with nia," he admonished, as the children filed out.

  As far as they could see, to the east and to the south and to the west, nothing was moving on all the vastness of the High Prairie. Only the green grass was rippling in the wind, and white clouds drifted in the high, clear sky.

  "It's a great countrj Caroline, " Pa said. "But there will be will Indians and wolves here for many a long day. "

  -Laura Ingalls Wilder, Lime House on the Prairie

  Zuhura stood on the porch of the Dawah Center Home Office in a full skirt, one hand on her hip, the other shading her eyes from the sun as she looked out across the street at a red pick-up truck, around which a klatch of locals hostile to the Dawah was gathering. The Center was only
a mile from the Fallen Timbers Townhouses at the edge of Indianapolis, but technically lay within the city limits of Simmonsville, a small, economically depressed town. Many of its residents were not so happy about the Muslims doing God's work there, and some of these were the men Zuhura was watching.

  The Dawah Center was not a mosque like Salam, but a nonprofit outreach office, a dream begun by devout but impoverished Arab and Indo-Pakistani graduate students in the mid-1960s and run from filing cabinets in the home of one or the other of its board members. Until recently, that is. The Center only had a shoestring budget and was lucky to have found a Victorian fixer-upper on this quiet, old-fashioned street lined with maple, black walnut, and elm trees. It had a big backyard with three crabapple trees and one mulberry that the Dawah children picked bare in June. A large side yard spread with gravel served as the parking lot; a freestanding garage served as a garden shed. A flagstone path led to a charming outbuilding behind the house. This had been insulated and converted into small guest quarters. There was a root cellar, used mainly as a warehouse for Dawah literature.

  Dutchman's breeches, Johnny-jump-ups, and wild violets crept here and there over the flagstones. A deep bank of tiger lilies camouflaged the chain-link fence on one side of the yard. Tall lilacs grew along the fence shared with the back neighbor, and a pussy willow bush filled one corner.

  On the oaken front door was a small placard of Quranic calligraphy:

  Let there arise from among you a band of people, inviting to all that is good, enjoining what is right, and forbidding what is wrong. They are the ones to attain felicity