by Jenny Robson
My mom went on smiling. So I went on talking, taking a risk.
“And Faheema too, Kyle! She’s also in the team. You should have seen how great she was catching the ball! I’ll tell dad to take some photos when we have our first match, okay? I’ll email them to you.”
And I saw that Mom was looking away now, pretending to watch a bird in the tree outside the kitchen window. She got up to have a closer look so that I couldn’t see her face.
I wanted to go on. I wanted to tell Kyle how you were no longer welcome in our house because of the London bombings. I wanted to tell him about Yasmiena’s wedding that I wasn’t allowed to attend. He would be shocked, I was sure. He would think it was unjust and unfair and unkind. Surely he would find the words to get Mom and Dad to change their minds? But my mom was already holding out her hand for the cellphone, so I had to say goodbye.
“Hello, my boy! Oh, we are all missing you so, so much. When are you planning to come back home? It’s been almost a year, you know. I’m sure you need some sunshine. We’ve been watching your weather reports. All that snow!”
*
At your house, everything got suddenly and unexpectedly worse. Just when you thought the storm had finally ended. Just when it seemed your dad was calm again.
After a quiet supper, you had told your mom and dad about the netball team.
“Me and Louise both! Isn’t that great? We have to practise a lot, but Miss Kometsi says we’ll get there. We have a proper match fixture next month. Against Langenhoven Secondary. And I’ll be Wing Attack and Louise will be …”
Your father didn’t smile. He didn’t even let you finish your sentence. Instead he told you sternly that he didn’t want Christian names mentioned in his home. He didn’t want you mixing with Christian people. You were older now. Your religious duties were a higher calling than some childish friendship. There were plenty of good Muslim girls at Riverside High for you to have as friends. Like Mr Ibrahim’s daughter, Gadija.
And of course Habibia College was still an option, he said. In fact, these vile cartoons were just further proof, if any was needed: Muslim children needed to be protected from the godlessness of the wider population. They needed to be kept safe in an environment where their beliefs would not be violated and ridiculed.
Bravely, quietly, you tried to argue. It was only the second time you had ever dared to speak out against your father’s instructions and your whole body shook. But you tried all the same. “Dad, that’s not fair. Please, you know Louise. You know what she’s like. She would never, ever insult –”
Your father cut you short. “This is not for discussion, Faheema. This is my final word on the matter. Under the surface, they all think this is a joke, a little light-hearted humour. They call it freedom of speech. They do not understand how our very souls have been wounded and they do not try to understand. No, I insist. You will spend no more time with this Louise Van Rensburg. You will keep your distance. You will not speak to her. Do you understand me? And I do not want to hear her name mentioned in this house again. Do I make myself clear?”
You turned to your mom for help. But she had her head bowed, whispering a prayer: “Allahumma ahyina Muslimina. Oh Allah! Let us live as Muslims and die as Muslims.”
Outside, the rain was falling again. Heavy and relentless. Even though it was February. While you tried to imagine how your life would be without me as your friend.
11. agada ashr
You obeyed your dad. You kept your distance from me at school next day. There you sat, squeezed at the very edge of your desk, as far from me as possible. You kept your head down over your books, ignoring me. While I whispered through Maths, through Science, “Faheema, what’s wrong? What did I do? Come on, don’t be like this. If I’ve upset you, then tell me so I can put it right.”
Yes, you obeyed your father, even though you thought he was being unfair. And why was that? Even when you saw how upset I was getting? Were you really so afraid of him, even though he’s never, ever in your whole life hit you? Or were you worried that Gadija might tell on you? Or were you so accustomed to obeying your parents that it didn’t even enter your head to go against their wishes?
But how can I judge you for that. To be fair, I didn’t really go against my parents’ wishes either. When they said you couldn’t come to our house again, I just never invited you. Okay, I begged and pleaded and argued. But when they didn’t change their minds, I followed their rules. Even though I thought they were being unfair too.
Even though it must have hurt you.
I waited until break time so that I could ask you properly, without a teacher giving me a Look. But you disappeared completely. You weren’t at the netball courts. Or with Gadija and her friends. Or up on the top fields.
I found you at last in the library at a corner table.
“Come on, Faheema, this isn’t fair. Don’t do this to me. Say something. Anything. How do you think this makes me feel?”
You looked up at me, your eyes filled with tears and your lips pressed hard together to stop them from quivering. The library teacher, Mrs King, walked past us, clearing her throat meaningfully. Still you said nothing.
“I’ll be at the river this afternoon. Okay, Faheema?” I whispered. And then I left you in the silence of all those books filled with words.
I spent the rest of the school day trying to work out what I could possibly have done. Had I said something as a joke that you’d found hurtful instead of funny? Had I accidentally offended you so deeply that you couldn’t even bring yourself to tell me? Yet it wasn’t like you to hold a grudge. Normally you were quick to let me know if I said or did something you didn’t like.
*
I waited there at Gap Falls that Tuesday afternoon, wondering if you would show up. No longer even trying to imagine what could be wrong. I’d run out of all the options I could think of.
The river was full and swollen after all the rains. Further downstream some people had even lost their homes to flooding. The newspapers were full of reports and warnings about the unseasonable weather. In Geography Mr Bradshaw was getting really carried away, do you remember? “Class, do you fully realise how topsy-turvy this is? Do you realise what this means?” he kept saying, his eyes shining. As though catastrophic weather patterns were the most exciting thing he could imagine.
Well, what it meant was that both our waterfalls were looking awesome. Up at the top the river churned, frothing like some rabid animal. Then separating finally, grudgingly, into two equally magnificent torrents that hurled themselves down the cliff face. The pool below was a cauldron of crazed waves that battered against the lily stems. And the sound! It was overwhelming. Heart stopping!
At any other time, I would have been mesmerised. But right then all I wanted was a chance to clear the air with you. To go back to the way we’d always been together.
And then you arrived. Thank goodness! You barely looked at the waterfalls. Without a word, you tugged me behind you deep into the undergrowth between the trees. Until we reached the clearing, our small secret enclosure surrounded by its walls of tightly entwined branches.
“Yes, here. No one will see us here,” you said and sat down on the damp earth. It was the first time you’d spoken to me all day.
And now, at last, I found out what was wrong. It was nothing I’d done or said.
Instead it was to do with some newspaper man in Denmark of all places. He had drawn cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad, you told me. And then the newspaper editor had published them. And that was bad enough already: Muslim people never, ever permit images to be drawn of their prophets. And most especially not their most important, most revered Prophet.
I nodded. I remembered how amazed you’d been, looking at the pictures of Jesus in my Bible all that time ago.
“But you see, Louise, the worst part is that he drew The Prophet’s turban in the shape of a bomb. Like he’s some suicide bomber. Some terrorist. That’s what’s upsetting my mom and dad most.”
“And now, Louise, now my parents say I’m not allowed to have anything to do with any Christian. Not even you. I’m not allowed to speak to you. Or even mention your name in our home. I can only be friends with other Muslim girls. Dad says that underneath, all Christians think it’s a big joke.”
I couldn’t let that go. I was horrified. “But Faheema, I don’t think it’s a joke. I would never insult your religion. You know that, don’t you? I would never mock Islam. In all the time you’ve known me, have I ever said anything against your religion? Never! Isn’t that true?”
Now it was your turn to nod helplessly. From behind the wall of trees, the raging and churning of the two waterfalls went on and on. Filling the air around us with endless noise.
*
And yet in a way your dad was right, you know. A few days later my dad was watching the news on TV. They were reporting about a crowd of Muslim people with placards protesting about those same cartoons.
And you know what my dad did? He shook his head and said to the people on the screen. “Oh, for goodness sake! What on earth is wrong with you people? Give it rest! You have no sense of proportion.”
I could hear in his voice that he had no sympathy for them.
*
“I must go now,” you said, getting up, carefully shaking the leaves off your skirt. “Otherwise my mom will know I’ve been here with you. And then my dad will go crazy. I don’t know what he’ll do!”
You disappeared between the trees, leaving me with the smell of damp ground and the thick roaring of our waterfalls.
*
“Hello, Louise, love. Did you have a nice afternoon?” my mom asked as I walked into our house. “There’s just been a phone call from Kyle. He’s got himself a promotion. To the front desk! Isn’t that wonderful? I knew he’d do well over there.”
I went up to my bedroom and closed the door. I sat on my bed cuddling the little monkey you gave me for my last birthday. Do you remember that monkey with its big, shining brown eyes? I christened it Faheema Two, do you remember? And you were so indignant.
“How dare you call it after me? Are you saying I look like a monkey?”
It was the end of my birthday party and all the other girls had already gone off home. The thirtieth of June last year, just a week before those London Underground bombings. Back when everything seemed so simple. Back when it didn’t matter at all that you were Muslim and I was Christian. Well, except to silly people like Colin Gottschalk and his gang. Back when we were just best friends and knew that we always would be. Forever. Back when you visited my house and I visited yours, and we never gave it a second thought. It was just one of those normal things that normal friends did.
“No, Faheema,” I said, having a good time teasing you. “I’m not saying you look like a monkey. What I’m saying is that the monkey looks like you. Come on, can’t you see it?” I pressed the sides of its fluffy round face, making little dents. “See? It even has dimples!”
“Very funny! And it’s a boy monkey too. You’re really trying to insult me!”
“Never! This is a girl monkey. It’s definitely a girl monkey. It’s much too cute to be a boy monkey. Trust me on this, Faheema!”
“I’ll never trust you again! And next birthday I’m giving you something really boring. Like a pencil case! That’ll teach you!”
And we both laughed and laughed as we finished off the last of my birthday cake, as we helped my mom take all the dirty plates to the kitchen. Do you remember?
But now, hugging Faheema Two against my chest, all I felt like doing was crying. You were lost to me: the best friend I’d ever had. My best friend ever since that first day in Grade One in Miss Walker’s class.
You wouldn’t dare disobey your parents, I knew that. You wouldn’t be able to fight for our friendship. Even if you did, even if you were brave enough to try, what would it help? Because it certainly hadn’t helped me. How many times had I begged and pleaded and argued with my parents over the last few months? Yet in the end, they still refused to allow you into our home.
In the end, it’s what parents want that counts. They have their reasons and their explanations and they give them over and over. As though repetition will make them right and fair.
And tomorrow? Would you ask our class teacher, Mrs Dube, if you could move to a different desk, just to keep your dad happy? Maybe next to Mariam where there was an empty seat?
My mom tapped at my bedroom door now and opened it, looking concerned. “Louise, love? What is it? You look like your whole world has collapsed around you. Have you got problems at school? Are you in trouble with one of your teachers? Tell me, sweetheart. Is there anything I can do to help?”
I shook my head and buried my face deep in Faheema Two’s soft fur. It was too difficult for me to speak.
12. ietana ashr
“We are surrounded by enemies of Islam, besieged on every side.” That’s what your dad kept saying.
And that’s what you told me the next morning as our Maths lesson with Mr van der Vyfer started. Well, you didn’t actually speak to me of course. Instead you scribbled it in pencil on the back cover of my homework diary: My dad says we are surrounded by enemies of Islam, besieged on every side. As if writing notes to me was a whole different thing from talking. And at least you were still sitting there beside me. At least that!
He was at the mosque all night, praying with the other men, you scribbled. And now this morning, that’s all he kept saying: “We are surrounded by enemies.” On and on.
Mr van der Vyfer, our Maths teacher, was going on and on too. About his favourite topic: Maths Problem Solving. He gets carried away with problem solving the way Mr Bradshaw gets carried away with freak weather patterns.
“Don’t let the words overwhelm you, class,” said Mr van der Vyfer, with his orange moustache curling over his top lip and right into his mouth. No wonder I’m no good at Maths! Whenever he explains anything, all I can concentrate on is that moustache of his. Surely it must tickle? Why doesn’t he trim it?
Funny, it never seemed to bother you or stop you getting high marks in Maths. Maybe because you are used to men with beards. Like your dad. Like most of the men that attend your mosque. My dad has always been clean-shaven. My mom won’t have it any other way. She gets upset when Dad doesn’t shave over weekends.
Anyhow, Mr van der Vyfer was going on and on about problem solving. “What you need to do, class, is ISOLATE the actual problem. Pinpoint it precisely. What EXACTLY do they want from you? How EXACTLY do you give it to them? That’s the KEY, class. Find the KEY and you’re on your way!”
Then he set us a whole page full of problems so we could practise finding the KEY!
We were halfway through problem number four when you gasped. A sudden, loud gasp. You gave me quite a fright! Tebogo and Vuyo in front of us turned and frowned at you.
I’ve got it!!! you scribbled. I’ve isolated the problem. I know exactly what they want! I’ve got the key to fix everything!
What key??? I scribbled back. But by now there wasn’t much space left on the back cover of my diary. So you started on yours.
Actually, it’s two keys, Louise. Hey, two keys, Louise! Two keys, Louise!
I had to giggle, despite everything.
“Faheema Majait! Louise Van Rensburg! What’s going on there?” Mr van der Vyfer was trying his best to sound stern beneath the curling hairs of his orange moustache. “You two never stop! Save it till break, will you?”
But even at break I didn’t get to hear about your two keys. We sat together in the corner of the library – I suppose where Gadija wouldn’t see us. Back and forth, back and forth, we scribbled notes to each other on the rough paper that Mrs King always keeps handy there. I d
idn’t quite understand how this was any different from actually talking to me. But it seemed to make you feel better, like you weren’t really disobeying your father. And it definitely kept Mrs King happier.
*
It was only at the river that afternoon that I finally got to hear about your two keys. When I reached our secret clearing, with its smell of damp soil, you were already there. With a huge bag beside you and a huge smile on your face.
“Right, Miss Louise Van Rensburg,” you said with your hands on your hips while a crooked branch dangled just above your head. It was really good to hear your voice again. “Right, you think I’m a coward, don’t you? You think I give in without a fight. Well, not this time, oh no. You just wait and see!”
That bag of yours was worrying me a little. “You aren’t going to run away from home, are you? That wouldn’t be a good idea. That won’t fix anything, Faheema.”
“No. Nothing like that!” You put my mind at ease. From the bag you took out an embroidered cushion. I recognised it at once. It was the one from the rocking chair in your bedroom. You lay the cushion down on the damp ground and told me to sit on it.
“How’s this supposed to help, Faheema?”
“Shush! You just do what you’re told, okay? And stop asking questions.”
What could I do? Intrigued, I sat down on the cushion. And next thing, you were pulling flowers out of your bag: I recognised them too. They came straight from your mother’s garden: sweet peas and frangipanis, some irises and even a rose. They were a little squashed and bruised, but their fragrance was still lovely, filling our clearing. You arranged the flowers around the cushion. Around me. And what was your mom going to say about all her missing flowers?!
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Shush!” you ordered again.
You always did enjoy bossing me about, didn’t you, Faheema! It’s because you’re so short – that’s what I think anyway. In fact it even has a name, this tendency of short people to be extra bossy. The Napoleon Complex, that’s what it’s called. I read all about it on the Internet once.