Yusuf and Danial exchanged looks. Danial cleared his throat and told the others how they’d met Mr. Grant the week before, how he’d told them Muslims should leave Frey. “Leave?” a boy named Asif squeaked. He was in fourth grade and sometimes came over to play video games. “Leave our home? Why?”
“My mom always says Frey is full of ignorant folks,” Danial said. “She says we’re gonna move to Houston or Austin; they’re much more friendly over there.”
Yusuf had been hearing this talk of moving for years. He shook his head at Danial. “Come on, you’re not going anywhere.”
“Says the guy who gets notes in his locker.”
They all turned to look at him, alarmed. “What notes?” Asif whispered, looking like he was about to faint.
Yusuf gave Danial a dirty look and said brightly, “Listen!” He motioned toward the uncle table to distract them before they started asking questions.
Mr. Khan was standing up now, a grim look on his face. “I received a letter yesterday that I need to share with you all. I was waiting for the right time, and I suppose this is . . . perfect.”
Everyone in the diner leaned forward to hear. Even the table of teenage girls was unusually quiet. Mr. Khan was the unofficial leader of their little community, and the one who dealt with business matters relating to the new mosque. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a letter. “Please don’t go out to the construction site tomorrow. We’ve received an order of temporary stay from the judge. There’s been a petition against us, and we’ve been called to a zoning meeting with the city council to decide things.”
Yusuf blinked rapidly. Decide things? What things? This was getting really serious.
Mr. Khan continued, his face dark as the midnight sky over a gloomy forest. “Guess who the main petitioner is? The Patriot Sons.”
Journal entry 5
September 18, 2001
The last week has been dreadful. There’s a sadness inside me, tight and crushing. I can’t stop thinking of the thousands of people—thousands!—who died for no reason except that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The people who worked in the Twin Towers. The firefighters who went to save them. The people on the planes. When I think of them all, my throat begins to ache, and my chest feels like someone is sitting on it.
But sadness isn’t the only thing I feel. I also feel anger, a deep, vicious anger that makes me want to hit things and howl like a wounded wolf. School has turned into a nightmare place. Everyone’s always quiet, like they don’t know where to look or what to say. Some kids scowl at me in the hallway as I walk past. Once a kid turned around and pointed to me. “It was his people!” he shouted, his face red.
I know what he means by “my people.” Muslims. I’m a Muslim, so somehow all the other Muslims in the world must be connected to me, and I to them. Is that even possible? I don’t know.
I don’t know anything anymore.
Mrs. Clifton says giving names to our emotions is healthy, but I hate to tell her that it’s not working. She’s been urging us every day in class to write in our journals, and I wonder if anyone else besides me does this. The kid who shouted at me in the hallway? Does he write bad words for the feelings he has for me and other Muslims? Jonathan, my best friend, who’s hardly spoken to me since that day? He walks around with a clenched jaw and narrow eyes.
I watch the news every evening with Abba. Amma says it’s bad for me, but Abba doesn’t agree. “The boy needs to know what sort of world he’s growing up in,” he tells her with a grim look.
“What sort of world is that?” I want to shout. A world where hijackers and murderers are called “my people”?
Every day I sit at my desk, pretending to do my homework, but actually staring at the poster of Muhammad Ali that hangs from the wall in front of me. I got that poster after I watched a TV show about the Vietnam War. Muhammad Ali’s got a stubborn look on his face, and both his hands are clenched in boxing gloves, like he’s saying, “Come fight me.” Like he’s sick and tired of the whole world too.
One day at a time, I remind myself. Abba and I watched President Bush’s speech last night. He talked about Muslims like me, about Islam being a religion of peace. He reminded Americans—us—that our fellow Muslims shouldn’t feel scared about walking on the streets or going about our business. That we should be treated with respect. But what can a speech do against people’s ugly, scared feelings?
Somebody called Amma a terrorist in the shopping center two days ago. I was with her, and I wanted to punch the person who said it. But he was big and angry, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Amma wrapped her dupatta tightly around her head and continued shopping like nothing had happened. “He’s just upset,” she said.
Yesterday, Sarah said her science teacher refused to teach the Muslim kids in her class. She’s in ninth grade and almost a quarter of her classmates are Muslim.
I’m guessing speeches don’t really make a difference. Even those made by the president of the United States.
“It will get better with time,” Abba tells me. “We just need to heal.” But a wound this big . . . how long will it take to heal?
16
Nobody seemed to have heard Mr. Khan’s instruction about halting the construction at the mosque. Yusuf tried protesting, but Amma and Abba still went the next morning. He tagged along because of Sunday school. He’d been the one to insist on the change of day, so he couldn’t very well refuse to attend. Plus, he was curious about the other Muslims. Would anyone else show up to build the mosque even though a judge had told them not to?
They all did. The uncles continued to haul wooden planks and hammer nails as if no letter had been sent to them via certified mail. “We can’t afford to stop working just because of this foolishness,” an older man grumbled. Yusuf didn’t remember his name, but he owned a little computer store near Main Street where Abba had bought Yusuf’s laptop.
Abba agreed. “We’re so behind anyway. The mayor wants us out of the trailer before the end of the year.”
Yusuf wondered about Mayor Chesterton as he walked toward the train tracks. The mayor always had a kind smile on his face when he came to Abba’s store. “We’re so grateful to you and your family, Azeem,” he often said. “We’re happy you’re a part of Frey.”
Lately, though, the mayor was coming by less, and smiling less. At the parade the day before, he had looked exhausted, and his mouth was a thin, straight line on his face. And he’d avoided looking at Abba or any of the other Muslims. Things were definitely changing in Frey, and not in a good way.
“Hey.” Cameron joined him as he passed the big tree. “I need to talk to you.”
Yusuf gritted his teeth and continued to walk. “I don’t want to hear one of your stupid jokes about desi people.”
“What? They’re hilarious. How many desi uncles does it take to change a light bulb? That one’s a classic.”
“Sorry. Not interested.”
Cameron pulled at his shoulder. “Wait. It’s not a joke. I wanted to ask about what you said yesterday at the diner.”
“What did I say?”
Cameron made an impatient sound in his throat. “About your locker. About someone sending you notes.”
Yusuf stopped. They were almost at the train tracks, where Amma and Sameena Aunty were spreading out king-sized bedsheets for the kids to sit on and study. He turned to face Cameron slowly. “It’s none of your business.”
Cameron’s face was hard. “I’m making it my business. Tell me about it.”
“Why?” Yusuf’s brain was working overtime. Cameron hadn’t shown an interest in Yusuf’s life for years. He never even stopped to talk to Yusuf or wave hello. Why was he suddenly asking all these questions, unless . . . “Did you send me those notes?”
Cameron gave a short laugh, more like a bark. “Me? Why on earth . . ?”
Yusuf turned completely until he was facing Cameron. They stood close together, scowling at each other. “I don’t know.
You seem to hate Muslims just as much as Ethan Grant and his father.”
There was a shocked little silence as Cameron digested this. Then his face grew blank and he stepped back. “Whatever, dude. I was just trying to help.”
Yusuf watched as Cameron walked away. He chewed his lip. Cameron was his TRC teammate; maybe he’d been too harsh on him. But the notes in his locker were not something Yusuf liked to talk about. They’d stopped for now, and maybe it was because he’d prayed them away. There was no point in talking about them.
“Yusuf, we’re starting!” Amma called out, and he reluctantly turned back to her.
Sameena Aunty waited as Yusuf settled down on the bedsheet. “You need to stick with the good kids, Yusuf,” she suddenly said. “There are some bad seeds among us, unfortunately.”
Yusuf looked up. “Cameron?”
She sighed as if someone had died. “I don’t know what happened to him. He used to be such a good boy.”
Yusuf wasn’t sure Cameron was a bad person. Apart from being rude and uncaring about traditions, he seemed okay. He opened his mouth to say so, but Aunty was looking at him with a clear message in her eyes: don’t argue with your elders.
“Yes, Aunty,” he said meekly. Cameron Abdullah wasn’t worth a lecture.
Sameena Aunty was clearly in charge of the classes today. She made Saba, a seventh grader in Yusuf’s school, read aloud a passage from the Quran three times. “Make the kh sound harder, from the back of your throat!” Sameena Aunty snapped again and again.
Saba’s voice was low as she tried to say kh. Yusuf felt bad for her. She was dressed in jeans and a University of Houston sweatshirt, with a plain black hijab on her head. Yusuf had seen her in school a few times, always alone, always reading a book as she walked the hallways. She looked up, and he gave her a reassuring smile.
“What are you laughing at, boy?” Sameena Aunty snapped.
The other kids giggled. Yusuf’s smile vanished. “Er, nothing. I was just—”
“Have you done your homework?” she interrupted.
Yusuf wasn’t sure what she was referring to. Homework was usually memorization of a verse from the Quran, or a hadith. “Yes?” he ventured.
She glared at him as if his nose was longer than Pinocchio’s. “Okay, then. Tell me the story of the Migration. When did it happen and why?”
Yusuf gulped. The Migration, or hijrah, was the most important aspect of Islamic history. So important that Muslims began their calendar with that date. There was no way he could do justice to the story with Sameena Aunty breathing down his neck like a wounded dragon. Best to distract her. “There were actually two migrations,” he began. “The first was around the year 613, when the early followers of the Prophet fled to Abyssinia in Africa. A kind king gave them refuge there.”
“Why did they run away?” a little boy asked. Technically he was in Amma’s class, learning the Arabic alphabet, but they were all sitting together on the bedsheet, too close to really be separated. Yusuf had to admit, stories were much more interesting than a foreign language.
Sameena Aunty sighed again, even louder. “The people of Mecca didn’t like the Muslims. They saw the brand-new religion of Islam as something very different, something against their traditions. They feared the Muslims because they didn’t understand this new faith. That’s why the Prophet Muhammad gave them permission to leave.”
Another girl raised her hand. It was Sameena Aunty’s nine-year-old niece, Rehana. “That’s not fair,” she protested. “Why should anyone have to leave their home? They had a right to stay.”
The kids nodded. Next to Yusuf, Amma gave a little sniff. She’d been deathly quiet since the parade the day before, and Yusuf thought she looked ill as she sat cross-legged with an Arabic book in her lap. Their eyes met, and Yusuf suddenly knew exactly what she was thinking. The people of Frey also thought the Muslims were different. Would Yusuf and his friends have to migrate too? Or would they stay in their rightful home?
The church bells sounded just as Sunday school was ending. Yusuf helped Amma fold the bedsheets and put them away. The aunties got lunch ready as the stream of churchgoers walked by, some saying hello, others silent. “Come eat with us,” Abba invited them with a smile, but they all shook their heads. Nobody smiled back.
The adults sat on chairs to eat. Plates were passed around and water was poured into cups. “Falafel!” Aleena cried. “My favorite!”
Yusuf fixed plates for both of them and sat down on the roots of the big tree. Danial and his parents hadn’t come today, so he was stuck with Aleena for company. She’d been coughing much more lately, and Amma had made her wear a thick scarf around her neck. “This itch,” she complained to Yusuf, pulling at the scarf.
“Never mind, eat your food,” he replied, looking toward the church. Maybe he’d see Jared again.
“Did someone say falafel?” came a voice from across the street. Yusuf and the others turned. It was the pastor, a tall, well-built young man with silky brown hair and smiling eyes. Behind him stood a silent, wide-eyed Jared.
Abba was ecstatic. He invited the visitors over and plied them with food. “Please, eat with us! Farrah, bring some Coke! What will you have, young man? I’ve seen you before in my store, haven’t I? Welcome, welcome!”
Jared nodded shyly and edged toward Yusuf. “Hello.”
“Hey.” Yusuf tried to think of something clever to say. It was weird to see a school friend in an unusual location. Once he’d seen his fourth-grade music teacher in a Walmart in Conroe and had almost run away in distress. “How are you?”
Jared shrugged. “Okay. My painting’s almost finished.”
“Cool. Maybe I’ll come by to check it out.”
“That would be nice.”
The pastor was already sitting down with the uncles, digging into falafel. After a few minutes, he put down his plate and looked at Abba. “Oh, I forgot to introduce myself! My name is John Nielson. I’m the new pastor of the New Horizons Church down the street. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was about the . . . the things that happened yesterday at the parade.”
Abba waved a hand. “What things? Nothing happened. It was a very good memorial service. Very emotional.”
The pastor nodded. “Yes, it was. But I want to assure you that the members of my church don’t see you as the enemy. You’re our neighbors. Our friends.”
Everyone was quiet. Then Amma spoke up. “Apparently everyone in Frey doesn’t feel the same way.”
Abba glared at her before turning back to the pastor. “No, no! We all love this town. We know it’s our home. . . .”
The pastor leaned over and put a hand over Abba’s arm. “Yes, it is your home. I promise.”
Yusuf couldn’t stay silent anymore. “But the Patriot Sons . . . ,” he began loudly, his heart beating so fast he could hardly hear his own words. Abba always told him not to interrupt when adults were talking. But what had happened the day before at the parade didn’t concern just the adults. It concerned everybody. Especially those who got mean notes in their lockers at school.
Yusuf was tired of staying quiet. He was tired of being scared and feeling foolish. “Everyone here is worried about the Patriot Sons,” he finished quickly, before he lost his nerve. Abba gave him a hard look, but the others all nodded.
The pastor turned his kind, smiling eyes toward Yusuf. “The Patriot Sons don’t represent us, young man. We’re as worried about them as you are.”
Yusuf gulped. Somehow the pastor’s words didn’t give him any comfort.
17
On Monday morning in Miss Terrance’s class, the students were all talking about the parade. “The floats were so good this year,” Madison marveled. “I took dozens of pics on my mom’s phone.”
“I think the band was the best part,” someone else replied. “My sister was in it.”
Miss Terrance went to the whiteboard and wrote 9/11 in big letters with her dry-erase marker. Yusuf focused on his desk, gritting his teeth. It was alrea
dy September 13—why couldn’t the town move on to another topic now?
Never Forget.
Miss Terrance tapped a knuckle on the whiteboard. “The parade wasn’t just about the floats and the band, was it?” she asked. “There was a greater purpose, a bigger commemoration.”
Yusuf looked up as she wrote Commemoration on the board. It was their vocabulary word of the day, apparently. Yusuf stared at it. Commemoration. He liked how it felt inside his brain.
Madison shifted in her seat. “I don’t get it. Why do we . . . uh . . . commemorate . . . things so much? It’s all history, isn’t it?”
Yusuf remembered again what Uncle Rahman had told him about history affecting the future. Miss Terrance turned to the class and passed around a handout. Yusuf glanced at the title: America’s War on Terror.
“Good question, Madison! We have a reading comprehension package today, and it ties very neatly into what we’re talking about. How many of us know somebody in the military?”
A few kids nodded. Jared raised his hand slowly, as if worried someone would bite it. Miss Terrance gave him a sympathetic smile. “This passage is about the wars our country fought—is still fighting—as a result of 9/11. Because of events that happened twenty years ago, we are still going through . . . something. Feeling something. If Jared’s mom or Damien’s uncle is in the military, that means it’s very much current affairs, not history. Right?”
Madison nodded. “I guess.”
Yusuf began to read the handout. It was all about how the U.S. declared war on Iraq and Afghanistan to get revenge on the people who’d attacked America on 9/11. There was nothing in Uncle Rahman’s journal about war. At least not yet.
He thought of Aleena and her asthma. When she couldn’t get enough oxygen into her lungs, she flapped her arms and legs about in panic, not caring who or what she hurt. Is that what countries also do when something terrible happens on their soil? Just hit out in panic?
He finished reading the handout and looked up. Miss Terrance was staring straight at him. “Yusuf, what did you think of the memorial on Saturday?”
Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero Page 9
