Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero

by Saadia Faruqi

  “Probably not,” Yusuf whispered back.

  Sameena Aunty was waving frantically from the bleachers in the back. They made their way to her single file, smiling politely. Aleena waved and grinned at everyone, enjoying her height. “What took you so long? The game has almost started!” Sameena Aunty reprimanded them, patting a hand over her bright pink hijab.

  Mr. Khan and Abba settled down with several other Muslim men. Amma sat next to Sameena Aunty with Aleena in her lap. Yusuf noticed that Amma was leaning slightly away from the other woman, her back straight. “Did you come alone today?” Amma asked politely.

  Sameena Aunty opened a tote bag at her feet and passed out bags of snacks and juice boxes to everyone. “Yes, Mujeeb wasn’t feeling too well. He decided to stay home.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “You’re lucky your husband goes with you to these events. It’s dangerous for a woman to be out alone these days.”

  Yusuf wondered what she meant. Amma didn’t reply, just busied herself with opening a bag of Cheetos for Aleena as if it was the most complicated task of the century. Sameena Aunty continued, “I feel comfortable because I wear the hijab. I feel sorry for women who don’t. It’s such a big protection.”

  Amma’s lips tightened. “The hijab doesn’t stop something bad from happening,” she finally said, her voice so low Yusuf had to strain to hear over the noise around them. “I can promise you that.”

  Sameena Aunty’s forehead crumpled into a frown. “Well. I don’t know what to say,” she muttered.

  “How about just watching the game?”

  The practice game started at exactly six thirty, when the sun had descended enough in the sky for the heat to lessen. Yusuf and Danial took their snacks and sat on the next step. A few kids from their class were sitting close by, but nobody spoke to them. Madison from robotics club gave them a big smile, then turned back to her friends.

  Coach Henderson was big and stocky, his dark hair and skin shining with sweat. “Welcome to the first practice game of the season, everyone!” he boomed into the microphone. “I’m so happy to see our town come out to support the Frey Coyotes!”

  The crowd clapped and hooted as the team ran onto the field in a line. Ethan’s tall, menacing frame was unmistakable. He led the team proudly, holding his helmet under his right arm.

  “Go, buddy!” came a shout from the other side of the bleachers. Yusuf craned his neck to see who it was. A tall man, with shaggy blond hair and a matching beard, stood clapping. His claps were so loud they cracked in the air like gunshots.

  “Who’s that?” asked Yusuf, even though it was obvious. This was what Ethan would look like when he grew up.

  “Mr. Trevor Grant,” answered Danial. “He’s even meaner than his son.”

  “Really?” Yusuf felt his heart beat faster.

  “Yeah, he cut off my mom on the highway leading out of Frey the other day, and he rolled down his window to scream at her. Called her a stupid foreigner. She came home almost crying.”

  Yusuf digested this in silence, thinking of Mrs. Khan, always so composed and well dressed, crying in the middle of her gigantic open kitchen. A movement beside him made him jump a little. It was Jared. “Ethan’s not that bad,” he said, sitting down next to Yusuf.

  “How do you know?”

  Jared hesitated, then answered, “He’s my cousin.”

  “No way.” Danial’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “You guys are so . . . different.”

  Jared shrugged uncomfortably. “He means the hair,” Yusuf explained, kicking Danial’s leg.

  Jared relaxed. “We used to live in West Virginia, a bunch of our families. Ethan’s parents got divorced and he moved here last year with Uncle Trevor. To be near Grandma, you know.”

  Yusuf thought of Mrs. Raymond’s sweet smile as she chatted with Abba about roses. “That’s nice,” he murmured, but he really didn’t think so. Nothing about Ethan or his father seemed nice. They both had a simmering quality about them, like pots of water quietly boiling on the stove.

  “Meet this year’s team, everyone!” Coach Henderson was back at the microphone, blowing his whistle loudly enough to make everyone cover their ears. He slowly introduced the team, smiling like a proud papa bear. One by one the Coyotes came up to the microphone to say “Hi” or “Howdy” while everyone clapped and hooted.

  Then the game began. It was only practice, but there were enough players to form two teams. Yusuf tried to understand what was going on; he’d been attending these Friday night games ever since he could remember, and they still confused him.

  “Just follow the ball,” Danial told him, leaning forward.

  Yusuf tried, but it was too fast. His eyes kept returning to Ethan, watching in fascination as he pushed the other boys with his entire body and ran with the ball toward the end zone. “Wow, he’s a monster,” Danial said, almost admiringly, as Ethan tore headfirst into a seventh grader.

  “He’s not that bad,” Jared repeated.

  The other boy fell to the ground like a ton of bricks. The coach blew his whistle at Ethan, which made Mr. Grant jump up from the bleachers and run down to shout. Soon there was a crowd of angry parents surrounding the Coyotes, while the coach blew his whistle over and over. The seventh grader lay down armadillo style on the grass, his arms around his stomach, rolling around as if he was in pain.

  By the time the game ended, the sun was setting, and it was time for maghrib prayers. Jared waved at Yusuf with a quick “See you on Monday,” and walked away. Mr. Khan led the prayers in the parking lot, behind a wall of cars, far away from the crowd. The men in the front, the women at the back, all turned toward Mecca. Yusuf tried to concentrate, but the noise from the crowd still lingering around the bleachers kept drowning out most of Mr. Khan’s words. Abba kept glancing nervously at the bleachers the whole time they prayed.

  As they were walking home, Sameena Aunty called out to Amma, “Try wearing the hijab next time; it’ll be such a nice change.”

  Amma didn’t reply, but Yusuf saw her roll her eyes like a teenager.

  Journal entry 4

  September 12, 2001

  I know I’m only supposed to write weekly entries, but I don’t really care. Everything in my life—everyone’s lives—has changed since yesterday, and I don’t think Mrs. Clifton is going to mind if I write down what I’m feeling.

  What am I feeling? I don’t really know. Numb, like someone froze me in a human-sized freezer and now I just can’t get my body to start moving again.

  The news keeps repeating that the evil men who carried out the attacks yesterday were Muslim. I asked Abba about it this morning. Demanded it, trying to keep my voice from shaking. He looked like he hadn’t slept all night. But he stared into my eyes and said, “Yes, son, they were Muslim, all nineteen of them.”

  Nineteen? Where were they from? Why did they do this? How can they be Muslim when our religion teaches peace and love? I had so many questions, but Abba didn’t look like he had any answers. His back was bent like an old man’s, and he turned away from me with a deep sigh.

  Amma’s been to New York a few times, so I asked her about it. What’s it like? What are the Twin Towers? Her face crumples, and I remember that the towers don’t even exist anymore. I swallow hard, wondering how it would feel if the buildings I saw every day in Houston suddenly disappeared in flames.

  The only good thing that happened today was that I didn’t go to school. Amma said it was better if we all stayed at home. Even Farrah baji, who loves school, didn’t protest. Her eyes were red, and she lay in her room, bundled up in her blanket even though it wasn’t cold. Sarah told me that some kids in school had pushed her and yelled at her yesterday as she walked home from school. I wanted to hug her, but she’d locked her door.

  I spent the day outside on the street, watching, listening. Most of our neighbors are South Asians, from Bangladesh, India, and Pakistan. Abba calls them his special friends, and our street Desi Street.

&
nbsp; Today, everyone was outside on Desi Street, it seemed. They kept talking and shaking their heads, drinking tea and telling stories of how nice New Yorkers are, and how bravely they’re handling things.

  “What will happen to us Muslims?” an uncle asked.

  Another uncle replied, “Nothing, it’s not our fault.” But everybody looked scared, which was weird. I’ve never seen adults look so scared before. They passed around a copy of the Houston Chronicle. “Assault on America” was the headline in red. Then a picture of the Twin Towers, still standing, smoke billowing out. The next line was even more sinister: “Terror Hits Home.”

  My home. They were talking about my country. My home. I still can’t believe this happened. A cruel catastrophe. I got a chill down my spine as I read the words again. The pictures on the front page showed people holding each other and crying. Their faces were frozen in horror. Abba said, “All of America is crying right now.”

  I finally got up and left. I couldn’t stand everyone’s grief anymore. I wish we could go back to how things used to be, when the adults didn’t look sad one minute and angry the next. I called Jonathan on the kitchen phone, wanting to hear one of his corny jokes, but nobody picked up.

  13

  “The soil is finally here,” Abba told Yusuf on Saturday. Then he stopped as if Yusuf should know what he was talking about.

  “What soil?” Yusuf asked. He was sitting in a corner of the dollar store, attaching a cleaning brush to a piece of metal he’d found in the storage room in the back. Rusty sat licking her paw next to him, tail flapping lazily.

  “The soil for Mrs. Raymond, of course.” Abba came closer. “What exactly are you doing?”

  Yusuf was trying to make a small cleaning robot, but it was just a jumble of ideas right now, so he gathered all the parts into his arms and stood up. “Nothing, just fixing something. What’s all this about soil?”

  Abba sighed dramatically. “If only you’d pay attention. Mrs. Raymond needs her soil delivered to her right away. You will be the one to deliver it. Samjhe?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good. Now go.”

  There were two standard delivery methods for the A to Z Dollar Store. For longer distances, or when an adult was available and willing, Abba’s old car was used. But when Yusuf made the delivery by himself—within a half-mile radius—he had to use a red wagon with a long black handle. Yusuf felt like a little boy carrying around his toys whenever he was sent on delivery errands. But he gulped down his embarrassment and always did as he was told.

  He piled three bags of flower soil into the wagon and with a grunt pulled it to the front of the store. “Look carefully before crossing the road,” Abba reminded him. “If the soil spills, I’ll have to replace it for free.”

  Yusuf nodded and took the paper with Mrs. Raymond’s address. “I’ll be careful.”

  Rusty uncurled from the floor and rubbed herself around Yusuf’s leg, making him stumble a little.

  “I don’t want to replace three bags of soil for free,” Abba repeated, looking as if he was regretting the decision to send Yusuf.

  “Abba. I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s my money.”

  The walk wasn’t too bad, except it was already hot enough to wilt the weeds that peeked from the cracks in the sidewalk. Rusty meowed as she crept alongside Yusuf, blinking in the sunlight. “You don’t have to come with me, you know,” Yusuf told her.

  She meowed back, but kept walking.

  Mrs. Raymond’s flower shop was on Travis Street, parallel to the street that Abba’s store was on. Yusuf took a shortcut through the Dairy Queen parking lot, where cars were double-parked even though it was past lunchtime. A few big motorcycles stood in the back, and Yusuf looked at them enviously as he walked by. It would be so much fun to ride a motorbike someday. He imagined the wind rushing through his hair, the handlebars cool under his fingers.

  Rusty leaped ahead of him and disappeared into the alley with the trash cans. Yusuf waited for a few seconds before deciding to leave her behind. She knew her way home. In fact, she probably knew her way through every inch of Frey.

  “Hey, delivery boy, let’s see what’s in your wagon!” someone called out from the Dairy Queen entrance, but he kept his head down and pulled the wagon even harder behind him. The person laughed, but nobody followed him. Next time he’d take the longer route, he told himself.

  Soon the laughter grew fainter, and Yusuf was alone again. A car passed him slowly, then the road was empty. Still, he walked all the way to the stop sign to cross the street.

  You could smell Mrs. Raymond’s garden before you ever got to it. Today the smell of roses was the strongest, followed by something else Yusuf couldn’t place. Lilies, maybe? The rickety old gate hung open, and he let himself in with his wagon saying, “Mrs. Raymond? Hello?” loudly all the while.

  “Hello, young man! Your father called to let me know you were on your way.” Mrs. Raymond appeared, all smiles and outstretched arms, out of nowhere. She was wearing muddy overalls and muddy gloves and her face was smudged with mud, but she seemed delighted that her soil was finally here.

  Yusuf helped her unload the wagon, then turned to leave, but she would have none of it. “Nonsense, come drink some soda or eat some cookies. My grandson is here to keep you company while I write out a check for your father.”

  The grandson, of course, was Jared. He sat on a bench in the corner, working on a canvas. “Hello,” he offered weakly.

  “You paint?” asked Yusuf, surprised.

  “Sometimes.” Jared shrugged. The canvas was filled with the colors of the flowers around them. They were mostly red, but also purple, and one yellow with dots of brown. “It’s sort of my therapy.”

  Yusuf came closer and sat down on the bench. “Why do you need therapy?”

  Jared picked up a paintbrush and dabbed some more brown dots around the red splotches. “After my mom was deployed overseas, and I moved in with Grandma, the doctor said I should try painting. For my nightmares.”

  Yusuf digested this slowly. Jared’s mom was in the army? He had nightmares? He looked so . . . ordinary. “Where’s your dad?” he finally asked.

  Another shrug. “I don’t know. Never met him.”

  Yusuf couldn’t imagine never having met Abba. He also couldn’t imagine a day without Amma. He stared at the painting, trying to say something that would match the enormity of Jared’s losses. But he couldn’t, so he stayed quiet.

  Meow! They both jumped a little, then Yusuf looked down and said, “It’s just Rusty.”

  Jared leaned over and petted Rusty on the head. “She’s pretty. I wish I had a cat. My therapist said if I had a pet I wouldn’t need to paint.”

  “Why don’t you get one? We didn’t pay anything for Rusty; she just showed up in my dad’s store one day.”

  “Grandma says she’s too old to care for another living thing. She already has the garden. And me.”

  Yusuf racked his brains to offer something to Jared. “You can come by my dad’s store and play with Rusty whenever you feel like it,” he finally said.

  A little smile peeked out from behind Jared’s sad eyes, like the first hint of sunlight after a summer rain. “Thanks,” he whispered. “That would be . . . nice.”

  Mrs. Raymond bustled up to them, beaming. She had a porcelain plate full of oatmeal cookies in her hand. “So glad to see Jared’s found a friend,” she said, putting the plate down on the table. “Clear away your paints now, young man.”

  Jared stood up and grabbed a cookie. “Can Yusuf stay for a while, Grandma? I want to show him my paintings.”

  Mrs. Raymond beamed even wider. “Of course, that’s a great idea. I’ll call Azeem and let him know where you are, Yusuf.”

  Yusuf looked at the cookies. They smelled delicious. “My mom also takes out the nice china for guests,” he murmured.

  Mrs. Raymond pushed the plate toward him. “Guests are a blessing, as I’m sure yo
ur mother will tell you. Take some, boy!”

  Yusuf had never thought of himself as a guest. He smiled at Mrs. Raymond, then took a cookie and followed Jared to the back of the garden. They walked through pathways lined with plants of all sizes, past shelves full of all kinds of flowerpots. They ducked through a doorway that connected to a little house on the other side, old and ramshackle but neat as a pin. Jared’s room was not much bigger than a closet, with a narrow bed and a small wooden desk. “I’m on my seventeenth painting,” Jared remarked. He dug under his bed and drew out a handful of canvases. “One for each week my mom’s been gone.”

  Yusuf stared at the paintings. They were all abstract slashes, some in pastels, others in dark angry colors. In a few, he could make out distorted faces. “These are . . . amazing,” he finally breathed.

  Jared didn’t reply. He was looking at the paintings as if he’d never seen them before. “Want to play cards?” he finally asked.

  Yusuf almost said cards were the devil’s game, but there was no way on earth he was going to repeat Danial’s words, so he just nodded and shrugged. Jared slid the paintings back under the bed. He took out a worn pack of cards from a drawer in his desk and sat down on the floor to deal them out. “Sorry they’re in such bad condition. I play a lot of solitaire.”

  Yusuf had heard of solitaire. Abba’s computer had that game. Surely it couldn’t be haram if Abba kept it on his computer? He relaxed and sat down on the floor next to Jared. “Can you teach me? I think I’m a solitaire kind of person too.”

  An hour later, Yusuf headed back alone to the garden. Mrs. Raymond handed him a check, saying, “Tell your father I need two more bags of soil. My roses need to bloom!”

  Yusuf looked around him, trying not to choke under the heavy fragrance. “That’s a lot of roses,” he said.

  “Ha! There better be a lot. I’m the only supplier of flowers for the parade this year.”

  This was not the first time the parade had been mentioned. Yusuf frowned. The 9/11 parade was always a small event organized by Frey’s churches. Hardly anybody showed up unless 9/11 fell on a weekend. Last year, they didn’t even have a parade because of Covid. “They need so many roses for that little parade?”