by Mohja Kahf
Hakim leans back. "So how are you, Khadra? I heard that youwell, that you kind of went off the deep end. After Juma."
"Oh? Nah," she says, with a dismissive gesture. She resents that, "off the deep end." What did it even mean? Yeah okay, maybe some of those nights she'd spent in the apartment alone could be described as off the deep end. "I just-I needed to regroup. You know, rethink some things."
"Pulled a Ghazali, did you?"
The eleventh-century theologian and university teacher had dropped out of his very structured Islamic life for a while and left Iraq to wander around seeking enlightenment. Went to Syria, as a matter of fact. Lied and said he was going on Haj but really went to Syria.
"Yeah, I guess so," Khadra says, not going there. "How 'bout you? What've you been up to?"
"Well," Hakim pauses, as if considering whether to tell her. She eyes him encouragingly. "I, uh, been playing trombone. At a club downtown."
"The trombone? A club?"
"Yeah. It's always been-sort of a thing I like to do. Under the radar. Mahasen didn't like it."
"A trombone, Hakim," she says. She'd love to get some pictures of him playing. "That's a pretty big thing to keep secret."
"I gave it up. For a while. For her."
Khadra thinks about this. "But why couldn't you do both?" She pictures him stepping up to the minbar and giving a moving khutba, then turning to a large black case on the floor and picking up a fat brass trombone. Putting it to his lips and sending shivers up and down the spines of a whole floor full of congregants. They start to smile and groove. Never happen.
"It doesn't work that way, Khadra. One thing leads to another. It's not just a trombone, it's a path. And on the other side was my wife and my work in the community and another kind of happiness."
But why couldn't it happen? Why couldn't we have mosques where music and prayer could both happen, both hearten people's souls?
"You sure have changed a lot," she says.
"You too," he says.
"You think?"
"You know, not really. I always thought you had two sides. You, and then you trying to fit the mold."
Khadra thinks about this. "Yeah, that works," she says. "I guess what I've been doing is trying to get to a place where I could reconnect the two, and be a whole person."
"Radical oneness of being," he says, nodding.
"Tell it, Brother Imam," she teases.
He smiles.
"The trombone," Khadra repeats slowly. "Wait-you don't just pick up a trombone and start playing in a jazz club. Howd you learn?"
"I was in marching band in high school."
"Nuh uh, you were not!" Khadra says, disbelieving but delighted. "How come I never heard of it?"
"I kept it quiet. You know why."
"Right. Everyone would have hounded you." Islamic, un-Islamic. Halal, haram. Is it godly? Is it frivolity? No space to breathe. Everyone must have kept secrets from each other about what they really liked, who they really were. How much had any of them really known each other growing up?
Hakim looks incredulous. Like she is trying to pull one on him. "Yeah, everyone. But especially you."
"Me? What did you care what I thought?" They'd hardly even spoken in high school. By then it was all boys hang with boys, girls with girls, in their community's teen scene.
"You don't even remember what a bigmouth you were?" Hakim says. "How nosy you were? How you interfered with me, Hanifa, everybody? Tried to root out every nonconformist blip on your little halal-and-haram radar? Felt entitled to mess with everybody's life?"
Khadra is taken aback. Had she been that horrible?
"Do you remember catching me with Kathy by the bleachers?" Hakim goes on.
"I-no-"
"Think about it. Come on."
Khadra gasps. "Kathy Burns." It's all coming back, it's all coming back to me now.
"We weren't even doing anything. Just talking kind of close. You narrowed your eyes and hissed at me, `Hakim al-Deen, I'm going to tell your mother.' And that was just one time. One of many. You don't remember?"
What could account for such a huge gap? "I-I really don't," she stammers. "At George Rogers Clark?"
"No. At the roller rink."
"Oh." She blinks. It is coming back to her. There had been some incident. She has a mental picture of young Hakim straddling the bench behind the roller rink, leaning toward some pretty little American girl. And then there had been a lurching feeling inside her-as if it'd been some kind of personal insult to her-now why should she have felt that way? She suddenly remembers that feeling. "I-I told on you, didn't I?" she says heavily. Shit. Why does she have to meet up with her past self like this?
"You did. It spread and got worse with the telling, like backbiting does. The grown-ups cancelled rollerskating after that. It followed me for years. Even Mahasen wouldn't marry me at first because of it."
"Oh God. Hakim-I-I was such a jerk. I owe you an apology." What else can she say? That it all caught up with her one day in Bloomington-the "I'm so practicing" Muslim self she projected and tried to measure up to, and to make everyone else measure up to? That she fell, and that the person she used to be shattered in the fall, and that ever since then she has been working on putting together a new self, she hopes not as god-awful as that first self must have been? God, she hated herself. Everyone must have hated her.
"Ah," Hakim says, leaning back. She looks like she is about to cry. "I don't know why I even brought it up. What's past is done, anyway.
"Well-but I guess it isn't." No wonder he hesitated to talk to her in the coffeeshop; he didn't know if she could be trusted. He doesn't know who she is. Does she? She is beginning to, and it is excruciating. She wonders if there's an exercise for this in that damn selfhelp book she brought along.
"You were being who you thought you had to be. And please forgive me for any hurt I may have caused you, too," he added.
"You mentioned Hanifa. How is she?" Khadra says, changing the subject. It is getting to be too much, this encounter with her old self. But isn't that, in fact, what she is here for?
"Alhamdulilah."
"Alhamdulilah is not a substitute for an answer." But then, why should he let me in on how his sister really is, she thinks, given my less-than-supportive history with her? Then again, it hadn't just been Khadra. Most of the community had closed ranks on Hanifa for having a baby out of wedlock. And what about Hakim, had he been there for his sister back then?
"She's fine, Khadra. Just fine. Doing well."
"Is it true she's a professional driver?" Eyad had told her this astounding bit of information, and she'd had time to grow accustomed to the idea.
A smile spreads across Hakim's face. "Yeah. Her husband builds her engines."
"Oh? Who'd she marry?"
"Malik Jefferson-Aunt Hajar's boy. Why don't you go see for yourself how she's doing? She lives in Indianapolis, you know. Out in Westgate."
"Really?" Her heart jumps. She'd somehow thought Hanifa was still in Alabama. But why should she have stayed in the same place, anymore than Khadra?
"She's actually been training to drive the Indy."
"Wow! She's really racing in it?" Hanifa al-Deen, in the Indy 500! Now that is something worth coming back to Indiana to see.
"She qualified-just barely-but yeah, she's in!" Hanifa had a hard time getting a sponsor, he tells her-and no sponsor means no car, no crew. "She turned down Coors Beer, on principle," he says, proudly. "The C. J. Walker Company came through in the nick of time for her to train and qualify. Alhamdulilah."
"What kind of car?" Khadra presses. She has other questions: what did she name the baby? Who is Hanifa now, and would she forgive her, could Khadra make amends? But she sticks to the questions she can face.
Hakim grins and looks fourteen again. "Open-wheel, open cockpit, 3.5 liter V8 engine in the back. You know: an Indy car."
"What color chassis?"
"Green, with black and blue markings. Why?"
She sm
iles. "I just wanna be able to picture her."
"Yeah," he says. "She's the first Muslim woman to-"
"Don't," Khadra says. She puts her hand up. "Don't say it. Don't put that on her. I'm so tired of everyone putting that on us. Every single thing we do has to `represent' for the community. Zuhura, having to represent this and represent that. Everyone had to put their meaning on her. Just let her be, for God's sake. For the Prophet's sake, just let us be." She is surprised at her own vehemence.
Hakim raises his hands in the air as if in surrender.
Am I Esperanza? Yes. And no. And then again, perhaps maybe. One thing I know for certain, you, the reader, are Esperanza. So I should ask, What happened to you? ... Did you tell anyone about it or did you keep it inside? Did you let it overpower and eat you? ... Did you give up? Did you get angry? ... You cannot forget who you are.
-Sandra Cisneros, from the preface to House on Mango Street
Khadra makes her way to what had always been her favorite part of the annual Dawah Center conference, the bazaar. In the Quran booths, tajwid tapes play and passersby compare the recital of Al- Menshawi to Abdul-Basit. Khadra like al-Husari best; listening to his deep tones always helped her to memorize the ayas. There's the Relief Fund booth for whatever is the dire cause this year. Always there are the donation boxes and photos of starving mangled women and children looking at you helplessly under magic-markered Quranic quotes: Who is he who will loan to Allah a beautiful loan, which Allah shall double unto his credit and multiply many times? and That which you give in Charity seeking the Face ofAllah, it is those who will get a Recompense multiplied.
"Doesn't the naked manipulation of religion that way make you wince?" Khadra says to Tayiba in front of the graphic photos of privation topped by placards of Scripture. Khadra has found her old friend and sometime-nemesis. Tayiba is hard to catch-she volunteers on half a dozen Dawah committees and is a dynamo of activity during the conference.
"I don't see what's wrong with reminding people to give charity," Tayiba says. She looks very smart and professional in a fitted gray blazer, houndstooth scarf, and long maroon skirt. Sunglasses rest atop her hijab. She was always Ms. Mod Muslim, and Khadra's proud of her for not getting frowzy even with a minivan full of kids. She takes a few shots foregrounding her, making the bazaar scene blur behind her.
Tayiba lets her, at first. Then she says, "All right, enough." Khadra stops shooting.
"You once said on the phone that Muslims are just as messed up as non-Muslims," her friend says. "Been meaning to ask what you meant by that."
"I didn't say that. What I said was that Muslims aren't necessarily better spiritually than people in any other faith. They might be as close or even closer to God and not be Muslims. He hears their prayers too."
"Of course He hears them," Tayiba says. "But how can you be close to God except through following the Shariah?"
"Yeah, well." Khadra pauses to examine some books. "Maybe divine law manifests in many ways in the world. Maybe you don't always have to have it set in stone as the so-called `Islamic lifestyle.' Maybe it's all about process."
"If it's like that, then go back to my question: Why be Muslim at all? Why don't I just up and be a Quaker, like Mrs. Moore, or a Hindu, like your nonpracticing friend's boyfriend? Or anything, really? What's to stop me?" There have to be limits to Khadra's posturing, and she is testing them.
"Nothing's to stop you."
This is not the effect Tayiba was going for. "Well-then why are you Muslim? You are still Muslim, aren't you?"
"Of course I am. Come on!" She smells sandalwood incense. Mmm. Where is it coming from? "Let's go this way," she says, pulling her friend, following the scent.
"Well, why are you Muslim then? If anything else is just as good."
Khadra thinks for a minute. "Love," she says slowly. "Love and attachment. I love the Quran, for example. And the forms and rhythms of salah. I keep coming back to it. It has a resonance for me."
"But you think someone else can pray another way and find a path to God?" Tayiba counters.
"Absolutely."
Tayiba regards her with the look of those who have stayed put toward those who have gone away and returned, full of ideas they think are original, and expecting attention for it. There has been a lot of slow, meaningful work to be done in the community while her friend has been traipsing about the world. Even if it's not as cameraready as Khadra's angst-filled poses. Who has been doing the real work? She has, that's who. Tayiba, true and steady on her course, through a thousand thankless tasks for her family and community. Alhamdulilah.
"Why do you have to see that as so threatening? Why does it have to be either-or?" Khadra begins. But she stops short at the sight of a giant glossy display poster:
ISLAMIC BATHROOM HYGIENE IN AMERICA AT LAST! **** The Istinjaa 4000XL**** ORDER NOW.
"Oh my God, check this out!"
"Tired of plastic squirt bottles and other makeshift personal cleanliness methods?" Tayiba reads. She bursts out laughing.
Khadra continues reading aloud, "'Install the Istinjaa 400XL Personal Cleansing System and appreciate the difference!Affixes to standard plumbing fixtures. Gentle hosing action is respectful to your fan! Fully adjustable nozzle goes from pulsing to streaming spray. Long, flexible metal-coil tubing stretches even to that hard-to-reach najasa. ' " Hardto-reach najasa! Respectful to yourfarj! Oh my God, this is a hoot!"
"I don't see why," Tayiba grins. "It's really very needed."
"It is, it totally is! I mean, I love it! I love Muslim-American ingenuity! God, the problems this would have solved in my childhood."
"We, um-we actually installed one last year."
"I'm getting one," Khadra says, eyes bright with pleasure. "I'm `ordering now.' I don't care if I rent. I'll talk my landlord into letting me install it. It's like, the future is here, Tayiba! The American Muslim future is here, and it is the Istinjaa 4000XL."
At the Marion County Memorial Gardens, Khadra rummages in her car for one of the henna packets she bought at the bazaar. She and Aunt Ayesha make their way to Zuhura's grave. Alhamdu lilahi rabil alamin, Arrahmani 'rahim, they begin. Praise be to God, Lord of all the worlds, the Merciful, the Compassionate ... they recite a Fatiha for Zuhura. Khadra opens the satchel of henna and sprinkles a little bit of the powder into the grass, her tangerine depatta draped loosely over her shoulder and fluttering over Zuhura's gravestone. Aunt Ayesha pulls a few weeds.
"Thanks for coming with me," Khadra says, sitting on a nearby bench. "On my own, I wouldn't have found it."
"I'm glad we could do it together," Aunt Ayesha says, sitting next to her. She wears round glasses now, making her face look softer, but her gaze is no less intense.
"You must be very proud of Tayiba," Khadra says, to fill the awkward silence.
"Yes." She brightens. They've been working together as a motherdaughter team on several committees.
"She turned out the way I was supposed to, I guess," Khadra blurts. She didn't have to say that. She always feels nervous around Aunt Ayesha. "My mother-" she stops there.
Her mother's old friend is quiet for a moment. After a while she says, "We put a lot of weight on your shoulders, didn't we?"
Khadra is caught off guard by the gentleness of her tone.
"Not just you-all our children." She glances toward the headstone. "But especially you girls. You had a lot to measure up to."
She's right, Khadra thinks. It was a lot. It was.
"We were so young when we came, you must know that," Aunt Ayesha says slowly. Khadra realizes with a start that her parents had been younger than she is now when they moved to Indiana. "Young in a strange land, your mother was, like me. We were both a little jumpy. Afraid of losing something precious. Not only like that, "she says, nodding in the direction of the grave. "although that is a terrible part of it. Of being swallowed up by this land, reduced to nothing."
Khadra nods. She knows that fear.
"And we were so idealistic, oof! Full o
f zeal! But we put it all on you. Too much. Wanting you to carry our vision for us, our identity -our entire identity, on your heads, imagine!" She laughs, and Khadra nods, because she's right-"on our heads" is right, she thinks. She's nailed it.
"Forgive us," Aunt Ayesha says abruptly, and then suddenly a sob catches in Khadra's throat-Aunt Ayesha is not the auntie she would have picked to cry in front of, but she can't help it-and now her cheeks are wet. Because she feels like something hard and leaden has just been lifted from her. Because her own mother would never have said that to her.
And Aunt Ayesha, of all people, takes her in her arms, her body so petite under the big, shoulder-padded robe. "But I'm going to get your jilbab dirty," Khadra says, sniffling into the broadcloth. "It's all snotty now.
"Usiwe na wasi-wasi, "she murmurs in Swahili, and then translates, "It's all right." And she doesn't even fumble for a tissue out of her pocket to clean where Khadra sniffled on her shoulder. "Never mind all that. It's all right."
Joy Harjo, "Eagle Poem"
The next day, Khadra pauses at the door of a large room where a panel is taking place on Zionism. "Zionist Agendas and the Islamic Movement in Palestine," "Zionist Media Influence," and "Christian Zionists in Washington" are among the topics announced. She walks down the isle, closer to the speaker. Here is the Islam of fear and defensiveness and political power-staking. It is tiresome. The shouting of the panel members and the rumb- ings of the audience make her tired. She is still as critical of Zionism as ever, but there are more intelligent ways to protest the injustice of Zionism, she thinks, as she walks down to the front of the hall. She focuses the camera on the current speaker, his mouth contorted with fierce words, nostrils angry. Do I shoot, do I take these pictures? Khadra sighs. Everyone already knows this face of Muslims. That's all they know.
"But it's part of the picture," her photo editor says, when she gets him on the phone, later.
"So many religious Muslims are not like this but full of genuine humility and gentleness," Khadra protests. She has already decided; she will not include the photo of the shouting angry Muslim. Enough already. Space is limited and there are new things to be said.