The Garden of My Imaan

by Farhana Zia

  Baba ruffled my hair. “You’ve got plenty too, honey.”

  “Yeah, right!” I sniffled.

  My father drew me close. “You have a loving family and a nice home. You have a great life too.”

  I hugged my dad back. I did have a great life; it was just that Juliana also had Josh on top of everything else. “Anyway, plenty of people congratulated her,” I muttered. “She didn’t need to hear it from me.”

  “But she did. An Aliya handshake—why that would have been something else!” Baba smiled. “It doesn’t hurt to be nice, you know.”

  “Tell that to her!” I said. “She’s the mean one!”

  “That would be her parents’ job,” my father said.

  “Fat chance,” I said. “Her dad doesn’t even live with her and I bet her mom doesn’t tell her either because she’s probably mean too!”

  “A twist of good, a sprinkle of kind, and a dash of nice,” Baba said in a dopey voice.

  “Huh?”

  Baba smiled. “It’s a recipe for getting along.”

  “You say the weirdest things, Baba,” I said. “Stop right now!”

  Tuesday, December 17

  9:00 p.m.

  Dear Allah,

  The big boulder that was crushing my heart has lifted a little. I have practiced some lines to say to Juliana. “Nice job!” “Congrats!” “Way to go!” I know Baba is right about being nice, but being nice to Juliana?

  This is my plan: I will shake her hand and I will tell her that she’ll probably make a pretty good class rep. And if she rolls her eyes at me, I will say, “You’re quite welcome, I’m sure,” in a sarcastic voice and walk away and never try to be nice to her again. I mean it!

  Marwa won! At first it was hard to believe, but I’m not surprised anymore.

  It was never her hijab, was it?

  Yours truly,

  A

  PS It’s not what’s on your head that matters—it’s what’s inside it. I know I said this before, but I like the sound of the words. Don’t you?

  Juliana walked by, popping her gum and accompanied by her entourage.

  “Congrats, Juliana,” I said.

  Part of me felt like a phony but another part of me was remembering something I’d heard recently. What’s wrong with making someone feel good? It’s only a teeny white lie and it’s not hurting anyone. I could almost hear Marwa speaking in my ear.

  Juliana blew a big bubble and I waited for the sharp pop. But it didn’t come. With a whoosh it lost all its air and disappeared back into her mouth.

  “Thanks,” she said, giving me a skeptical look.

  “I wanted to tell you on Friday, but I couldn’t because there were a hundred kids surrounding you.”

  A little smile appeared and her perfect teeth glistened. “It was a pretty good race.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll make a good team, Josh and me,” she said.

  “Marwa will be great too,” I said. “She’ll probably bring really good ideas to the meetings.”

  “We’ll see,” Juliana said. But she didn’t roll her eyes.

  “It’s pretty amazing that she won,” I said. “I mean, she practically just got here.”

  “Yeah, well … weird things happen all the time,” Juliana said.

  The morning bell rang and we hurried in. We had never walked together before.

  “Hey,” Juliana said suddenly. “What the heck did toads have to do with anything anyway?”

  I turned a deep, hot red. I had hoped that everyone had forgotten my slip. “Um … it just slipped out,” I said sheepishly. “You know how Mrs. Benson makes us practice enunciation during music? I’d practiced the words so often they just …”

  I waited for her to say something mean but she only said, “Oh, so that’s what happened! And you didn’t let it bother you. Wow. I never would’ve been able to do my speech after that.”

  Juliana popped her gum again, but for some reason it didn’t bother me quite so much anymore. I figured Baba’s recipe was working.

  We had just reached our lockers when I heard someone chanting.

  “Here comes the loser! Make way for the loser!”

  Austin! He was standing near the door, beating a pencil against a book like a drum. I looked at Juliana.

  “I’m talking about you, loser!” he growled.

  And then something strange happened. It was like I was a parakeet who had been locked in a cage forever and someone came along at last and opened the tiny door. I whirled around.

  “Shut up!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “You just shut up! I am not a loser!”

  And then I pushed him so hard with both my hands that he fell back two whole steps.

  “Wh …? Hey!” He threw out his arms, trying to catch his balance.

  “Woo-hoo!” Juliana whooped. “Way to go!”

  I jabbed my finger toward him. “Get lost!” I screamed again. “And never, never, ever call me that again!”

  Juliana held her hand up for a high five and I slapped my palm against hers, hard.

  I turned to Austin one more time and screamed, “Jerk!” I was hot all over but my heart wasn’t hammering like it usually did. I wondered if being fearless felt a little like this.

  Conversations

  I’m going to do a three-panel display board with information about the basic beliefs and the five practices of Islam,” I told Winnie that afternoon. “And also something about the moon, because the Islamic calendar is a lunar calendar.”

  “I’m wearing the hanbok dress my Korean grandmother sent me and I’m going to sing a song she taught me. It’s called the Santoki,” Winnie said. “It’s about a little bunny that lives up in the mountains. My Halmunee taught me all the words in Korean. And I figured I’d bring our menorah for the Jewish part of me. And driedels too. I bet those will be a hit with the little kids.”

  “Sounds great! I’ll recite an Urdu poem about a boy named Bhaee Bhuttoo,” I said.

  Our project was beginning to take good shape but I was worried about the white space that still showed on my display board.

  “Ask Marwa,” Winnie suggested. “I bet you anything she has a few more ideas cooking in her head.”

  “Oops, I forgot all about Arab contributions in math and science. It was Marwa’s idea actually and I guess that should cover it,” I said feeling a lot better. “And OCD says I should bring a prayer mat and wear the shalvar khameez outfit she gave me two years ago for Eid.”

  “That OCD is one weird lady,” Winnie said.

  “Actually, her idea’s pretty good but doesn’t she realize I’m a whole lot taller now?”

  After Winnie left, I found Mom curled up on the sofa watching TV. Amma and my brother had gone to the dollar store and both Badi Amma and OCD were napping.

  “Amma spoils Zayd too much,” I grumbled. “He doesn’t need any more junk. Do you know how cluttered his toy chest is already?”

  “She did the same with you, or have you forgotten?” Mom smiled. “Don’t be too surprised to find some of that junk in the time capsule she’s putting together for you.”

  I was supposed to open Amma’s time capsule on my sixteenth birthday. She was filling it with things that represented the milestones in my life.

  “Winnie says her Halmunee could never think of such a cool idea—not in a zillion years,” I said.

  Mom nodded. “I’ve met Winnie’s grandmother. She’s a tough lady.”

  “Amma’s not a tough lady,” I said. “My grandmother is the best and the smartest and the most fun!”

  I sat down with my mother and watched TV for a while. I hardly ever had her all to myself like this. It was nice. And, I said to myself, it’s the perfect time to talk about the idea that has been wiggling around in your mind lately.

  “I’ve been thinking, Mom,” I said in a casual voice. “What would you say if I wore the hijab?”

  Mom’s eyes were still glued to the TV. “You mean during prayer? That’s silly, you already do.�
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  “No, I mean all the time.”

  My mother looked over at me. “That’s an interesting question.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s kind of sudden, isn’t it?”

  “Everyone talks about it, Mom. You see them everywhere now.”

  “Yes, but what has that got to do with us?”

  “I’m just asking what you might say.”

  “Where is this coming from, Aliya? It is Nafees?”

  “Oh, Mom, not Nafees. You know she’d stop the minute she could. Her parents force her to wear the hijab.”

  “Is it Amal then? Or Marwa? And what about the incidents with Sehr and her sister? You still want to talk about the hijab?”

  “It’s none of them and none of that,” I said. “I wish you’d just answer my question.”

  “Okay then …” Mom sat up and turned to face me. “This is what I’d say. I’d try to talk you out of it. I’d tell you to reconsider and repeat my take on it. The hijab is a symbol of modesty—a good symbol, but a figurative one. We are capable of maintaining a modest aspect in our lives in other ways. I thought you already knew my thinking on that.”

  “I do, Mom,” I said. “But what if—”

  “What if you were determined to wear it? I’d have to really pay close attention, wouldn’t I? Perhaps you’d show me what I was missing. Because ultimately it is a religious injunction that I’ve chosen to disregard. Who am I to decide for someone else?”

  “Thanks for talking with me about it, Mom,” I said.

  “It just surprises me to hear that you want to wear hijab,” she said.

  “I don’t,” I said. “It was just a what-if question. You don’t need to jump to any conclusions.”

  The idea had entered my mind a few days earlier when I was standing in front of our hall mirror, draping the scarf around my head. I imagined myself at school, in the middle of four hundred kids. Wearing the hijab in the face of ridicule was no small thing. But Marwa did it.

  Not so long ago, Marwa shared with me her father’s views on her decision to wear the hijab: It’s easy to do what our heart tells us. It’s a heck of a lot harder to obey our mind. I understood those words a little better now, but Marwa was Marwa and I was Aliya. What worked for Marwa would probably not work for me. She wore the hijab with as much assurance and ease as if she were in the streets of Morocco or Lebanon. As for me … I don’t think so.

  “Are you sure it’s just a what-if question?” Mom asked.

  “Yes, it is,” I answered. “Honest.”

  Khuda Hafiz, OCD

  Saturday, January 12

  6:30 p.m.

  Dear Allah,

  A ton of great fund-raising ideas keep rolling out from the student council. I told Winnie I knew exactly who was behind these ideas but she said we should ask Juliana to be sure. I told her I bet she’d take all the credit. “Let’s ask anyway,” she insisted, so we did.

  “Well … I’ve made a recommendation too,” Juliana said, avoiding the question. “It’s called Save a Seal.”

  “What does that do?” I asked.

  “It saves seals,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Duh!”

  Yours truly,

  A

  PS Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying seals aren’t important. I’m just saying we should take care of poor people of the world first.

  Just when we were finally getting used to having OCD around, she announced she was returning to Minnesota. Her bags were packed and waiting by the front door.

  “Leaving already?” Badi Amma asked. “Stay, stay.”

  OCD grinned. “You tell us, ‘Stay, stay,’ but our daughter tells us, ‘Come, come!’“

  “I’m going to miss you, Choti Dahdi,” I said. I had to admit that after two months I felt much less uncomfortable around her.

  “Aii. Don’t be so sad,” she replied. “We will return soon, Insha’ Allah! What are you packing for us to eat on the airplane, hanh?”

  “It’s a kebab roll, Great-Aunt,” Mom answered.

  “Halal?”

  “Absolutely!” Mom said. It was a tuna kebab and fish was always halal.

  OCD called Zayd and me to her. She pinched our chins and then kissed her fingertips. “Khuda Hafiz,” she said. Then, pointing to both Zayd and me, she added in her own English, “You, you … two, two … very, very good childs.”

  We raised our hands to our foreheads for a final respectful goodbye and wished her Allah’s protection. OCD followed Baba to the door, clutching her walking stick in one hand and the brown paper bag containing her halal fish roll in the other. Before stepping out, she turned and fixed me with a hard stare.

  “Run!” she commanded me. “Run!”

  “Do you want me to fetch something from your room, Choti Dahdi?” I asked, preparing to obey.

  “Nai, nai. Run for estoodent kunsul next year, you hear?” she said, pointing her walking stick at me.

  Oh.

  “Insha’ Allah, Choti Dahdi!” I told her. God Willing!

  As she went out the door, OCD shouted, “Come see us in Minnipolice!”

  Wednesday, March 6

  9:00 p.m.

  Dear Allah,

  I’m helping with the textbook drive. When I told Sister Khan about it, she raised an eyebrow and said, “Ma’sha Allah!” She was not being sarcastic, though. Anyway, we collected a dozen textbooks at the Islamic Center for children in earthquake-affected parts of Pakistan. Marwa says that by the time we’re done, we should have a good amount. I’m helping with the packing too. (I’ve started collecting boxes already.) I also volunteered to help with the Gift of Hope Drive. Our school’s donating money from the school festival to buy fifty chicks for the women in African villages.

  Yours truly,

  A

  PS I’m making Zayd pay ten cents for each food group from his plate that gets thrown away. (Mom’s pretty happy with my efforts.)

  PPS I’m going to suggest a T-shirt drive to help slum kids in Brazil. I found this idea on the internet.

  PPPS My independent study project’s due next week. I’m nervous!

  Winnie and I set up our displays. I was so jittery, I kept bumping into things. I bit my thumbnail, trying to focus.

  “Take it easy,” Winnie said. “You’re going to chew up your entire finger at this rate.”

  Winnie was dressed in her ceremonial hanbok and armed with a bunch of maps and dioramas. She set up her trifold board and neatly arranged her artifacts across from my display.

  I tugged on my too-small shalvar khameez and spread out my prayer mat and prayer beads. My report was neatly presented in sections labeled Religion, Culture, and Traditions. Bollywood music played quietly. “I’m just afraid I won’t be able to answer the tough questions,” I said.

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Like, ‘Why do you hate America?’ and, ‘Will you go to heaven after you kill the infidel?’“

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Do you hate America?”

  “Are you crazy? Of course not!”

  “Fine. Tell them that and if you don’t know the answer to other questions, just tell them that too.”

  Kids from the lower grades started coming into the room, so I pulled my scarf from my pocket and put it on my head. I took a deep breath.

  I needn’t have worried so much. The little kids stared at my shalvar khameez outfit and at Winnie’s hanbok. They were polite and asked easy questions. Only once did I have to tell someone to write his question down so I could find the answer and get back to him.

  Marwa’s class came by later. She stopped in front of our displays and looked at everything carefully.

  My scarf kept slipping off my head. “This is so frustrating!” I grumbled. I eyed her hijab, which always seemed to stay in place. “I can never seem to keep this thing on.”

  “I can show you, if you like,” she said.

  “Know something?” I said. �
�If I had known how, I would have added a hijab tying demonstration to my project.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Austin standing in front of Juliana’s display. He seemed fascinated by the mirror box that was part of her project on learning disabilities. It was supposed to show people the difficulties LD kids faced with schoolwork.

  Marwa looked over in his direction. “He has dyslexia, you know,” she said. “He told me he’s just been diagnosed.”

  “You’re kidding! He’s been so mean to you. Why would he all of a sudden go and tell you something so private?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “Neither do I, but I’m not complaining.”

  “Just look at him shooting daggers at me,” I whispered. “He’s probably thinking I’m a circus freak.”

  Austin stared so hard in my direction that I had to look away. Then he turned back to the mirror box.

  “Hmm. He’s being awfully quiet over there. Did you bribe him or something?” I asked.

  Her eyes angled away for a moment. “I … don’t know,” she said slowly. “My father told me to talk to his ‘good side’ first. He said that if that didn’t work, we’d definitely get the principal involved.”

  “Austin has a good side?”

  Marwa giggled. “That’s how I felt, but Dad said everyone has a good side.”

  I didn’t think anyone cared if Austin had a good side. His bad side was enough to keep most people away. “What did you do?” I asked.

  “Nothing special. I told him I’d like to be his friend.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” she said.

  “And?”

  “And he’s been pretty decent since,” she said.

  This was a little too much to take in all at once. Could I get Austin off my back by saying something nice? The trouble was, I couldn’t think of anything nice to say to him.

  Several kids had gathered in front of my project. “Aa-ee-ay, thushreef la-ee-ay,” I said in Urdu, just the way Badi Amma had taught me. The words meant, “Oh, come. Please do come! You are welcome!”