Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero

by Saadia Faruqi

  Yusuf felt sick. He sank down again, wondering what fainting felt like. “A patriot?” he spat out.

  “Yes, but now I know he’s wrong. You’re a good person. You’re my friend. I stopped delivering those notes as soon as I realized that.” Jared was almost begging, his hands clasped together like he was praying a desperate prayer. “I’m so sorry. I’m—”

  “Shut up.” For the first time ever, Yusuf said the words he’d always thought were rude. But now the whole school thought he had a bomb. The person he thought was his friend was actually his tormentor. So what if Yusuf said shut up? Who cared?

  “Listen, Yusuf . . .”

  There was a movement behind them. Yusuf turned away from Jared, his stomach heaving. Officer Strickland was coming back. Mr. Grant stood nearby with hands on hips, a thunderous expression on his face. “I’m sorry, son, we’ll need to take you to the police station downtown,” Officer Strickland said quietly.

  Yusuf blinked hard. “Why?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” the officer replied. “Just to ask you a few questions.”

  Yusuf felt faint. “What about my parents?” he whispered.

  “I’ve already let them know. They’ll meet us downtown.” Officer Strickland grabbed Yusuf’s shoulder and pulled him up. Yusuf hoped fervently his shaky legs would keep him standing. Another officer pulled both of Yusuf’s lifeless arms behind his back. He felt the cool touch of metal on his wrists.

  Handcuffs.

  Was he really being handcuffed like in the movies? Was this reality or a big, awful nightmare?

  The last thing he saw before he was pushed into Officer Strickland’s cop car was the shocked, crying face of his ex-friend, Jared Tobias.

  Journal entry 11

  December 11, 2001

  Exactly two months from the awful events of 9/11, another awful thing happened. Only it didn’t affect anyone other than my family. Jonathan came to school today furious. His uncle had been officially declared dead, after two months of being missing in New York City.

  “It’s all your people’s fault,” he yelled at me after school as we waited for the bus. He had tears on his cheeks and his hands were trembling, but he still gathered enough strength to push me into a wall. I put out a hand to grab his shirt as I fell, and we ended up tumbling onto the ground together like dominos.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered into his ear, hoping to ease his pain. I thought of my uncle—Amma’s elder brother in Pakistan—who took me on piggyback rides even though I was too old for them. “I’m sorry, my friend,” I repeated.

  He struggled and stood up. “Don’t call me that,” he shouted, and ran away. I decided not to take the bus. Home is close enough to walk, if one of my sisters walks with me. I went over to the high school across the street and found Farrah baji just leaving.

  “What’s up?” she asked. But I just shook my head. “Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s walk home together. We can even get some fries on the way.”

  But that’s not the real bad thing that happened today. The absolute worst thing was still to come. When we reached home, Silky lay on our front doorstep, cold, stiff, and dead. I sank to the ground and picked her up, but she felt like a wooden doll someone had dragged through mud and leaves. “Who did this?” I screamed. Farrah baji tried to hug me, but I screamed and screamed until I had no voice left.

  34

  Amma and Abba came to get Yusuf from the police station, their faces streaked with dried-up tears. He saw them from the window of the jail cell he’d been put in, walking like they were even older than Nani. They disappeared inside, and he waited. They probably had papers to sign and questions to answer.

  It wasn’t really a jail cell he was in. The downtown police station was a small building, full of cubicles for police officers and a holding area for criminals. Jared was a minor, so he got his own little room with a couch and a table. The window had bars across it, but otherwise it was just a small, plain room. Officer Strickland had taken off his handcuffs with an apologetic smile and promised to come back “when all this nonsense gets sorted out.” That had been at least an hour ago.

  Yusuf paced the room for a while, up and down, up and down. His hands were trembling, and he could feel his heart pumping in his chest like he’d just run a mile. It’s going to be okay, he told himself, but he knew that was a lie.

  He tried to focus on something else. Something good. He pictured his room. His desk, with the poster of Muhammad Ali that Uncle Rahman had sent him for his birthday. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. Had Muhammad Ali ever felt this heartbroken?

  He finally sank down onto the couch and fell asleep, dreaming that he’d been handcuffed by a screaming Ethan. Then he woke up and realized it wasn’t exactly a dream. The sky outside the window was dark now. He’d missed the asr and maghrib prayers. A trickle of fear grazed his spine. Had his parents gone home without him?

  “Hello?” he called out, first in a whisper, then louder. “Is anyone there?”

  An officer opened the door a crack and put a plate with two doughnuts on the floor. Yusuf got up, but the door slammed shut again before he could take more than a few steps. He squared his shoulders and told himself to stop being a baby. They were feeding him doughnuts. That was a good sign.

  Wasn’t it?

  He went back to the couch, curled into a ball, and prayed.

  He prayed all the prayers he’d learned at Sunday school. The prayer of Abraham as he faced his accusers. The prayer of Moses as he faced the Pharaoh. The prayers of the Prophet Muhammad, so many of them.

  Eventually his heartbeat slowed, and his hands stopped trembling. When the door opened again around midnight and Amma rushed in, he didn’t move. He could hear her weeping and calling his name. He could hear Abba behind her, begging him to get up. But he was so sleepy, he didn’t reply.

  The next day at the Azeem residence, a steady flow of visitors dropped by. First was Sameena Aunty, so early that Amma almost didn’t open the door for her. “Some people have no consideration,” she muttered as she went to open the door. But Sameena Aunty brought a big bowl of chicken pulao and a container full of beef samosas, so Amma let her in. Pulao was Yusuf’s favorite.

  “How is he?” Sameena Aunty whispered.

  “I’m not sure,” Amma whispered back. Neither knew he stood just outside the living-room door, blanket clutched in his hand, listening.

  They sat together in the living room, talking of nothing in particular. Amma cried a little bit, and Sameena Aunty told her to be brave. To be strong. Yusuf wanted to shout that he was the one who needed to be brave and strong. He was the one who’d been stuck in the jail like a criminal for hours and hours. Not Amma or Abba. But he went back to his room and tried to go to sleep.

  One by one, all the Muslims of Frey visited, bringing food and well wishes. Yusuf was jarred awake every time the doorbell rang, loud and insistent. He was somehow grateful for the interruptions, though. Sleep brought nightmares, dark and echoing. Saba knocked on Yusuf’s bedroom door at lunchtime, holding two paper plates of rice. “Time to eat,” she told him firmly.

  Yusuf wasn’t hungry, but he got up anyway. It was embarrassing to have a female other than Amma or Aleena in his room. He smoothed his hair and clothes, and sat cross-legged with her on the carpet next to his desk. They ate in silence. “Are you doing okay?” he finally asked her.

  She gave a surprised laugh. “You’re asking me? Everyone is worried sick about you.”

  He shrugged. “What happened to me was a misunderstanding. Your thing was real.”

  She bent her head. “I’m fine. They wanted me to tell who pulled off my hijab, but I couldn’t. I know you think that makes me a coward.”

  Yusuf picked at his rice with his fork. “I don’t think so. I think you’re brave for going to school every day wearing a hijab. I brought my micro:bit to school one day and look what happened.”

  They both smiled sadly at each other, then pretended to eat.

  Dan
ial and Cameron arrived in the afternoon with their parents. While the adults sat in the living room with serious faces, the boys crowded around Yusuf in his room, asking a dozen questions. “Did you tell them it was all Ethan’s fault? Did they read you your rights? Did anyone interrogate you?”

  Yusuf realized that nobody had, in fact, read him his rights or asked him to tell his side of the story. He felt his pain being replaced with anger, ever so slightly. He told Danial and Cameron about the room he was locked up in, and the police officer who brought doughnuts and left them on the floor, but nothing else. Nothing about his crippling fear, or the way he held in his pee for hours because he couldn’t find the voice to call the police officer outside his door.

  Cameron gave him an awkward pat on the back. “Next time anybody calls me a bad boy, I’m pointing to you.”

  “Yeah, we have an actual gangster in our group!” crowed Danial. “Nobody will dare mess with us now!”

  Yusuf wanted to smack their faces, but he gritted his teeth and said nothing.

  “Shhh,” Cameron whispered, pointing to the door. The adults in the next room were arguing.

  “You’re on the school board, why didn’t you do anything?” That was Amma, her voice hard and brittle, like it would break any minute.

  “I didn’t know until this morning.” That was Mr. Khan. He sounded sad. Yusuf looked at Danial, who was staring intently at his nails.

  “Let’s not blame anyone.” That was definitely Abba, always trying to keep the peace.

  “But they blamed my son for something he didn’t do!” Amma’s voice was so low, Yusuf wasn’t sure anyone else heard it.

  Cameron cleared his throat and said, “Play any new games lately?” Then Mrs. Khan called out to them, and the two boys filed out of Yusuf’s room with weak smiles.

  Yusuf was glad to see them go. He slept again, hugging his pillow, haunted by more dreams. The phone rang constantly while he slept, and he could hear it ringing over and over. He finally covered his head with a pillow to block out the noise. “Reporters,” he heard Abba growl more than once. “They never called this much when I defeated the robber.”

  In the evening, Mr. Parker came by with pizza and his homework. He spent some time talking with Amma and Abba, then came into Yusuf’s room. “How’re you doing, buddy?”

  Yusuf’s back was stiff from lying in bed all day. “Everyone’s treating me like I’m ill,” he complained.

  Mr. Parker smiled a little. “I suppose you are, just a bit. Emotionally. You need time to recover, I think.”

  “I’m fine,” Yusuf insisted.

  “I’m sure you are. Still, your parents have requested that you stay home until the winter break, and Principal Williamson agrees. It will help you heal, and give the school time to figure out what to do about this whole situation. Your assignments will be emailed tomorrow.”

  Yusuf sat up in bed, his forehead throbbing. “What situation is that, exactly?” he demanded. “That everyone thinks I brought a bomb to school?”

  Mr. Parker looked startled. “Nobody thinks that, Yusuf. At least nobody who knows you.”

  Yusuf slumped back down. “They all treated me like a criminal,” he whispered. “Everyone. Officer Strickland, who’s my dad’s friend, and the other kids who ran away from me when Ethan started shouting . . .”

  He couldn’t bear it anymore. He buried his head in his hands and cried. It was a hot, angry mess of tears, everything he’d kept bottled up inside since sixth grade had started.

  He cried and cried, until he felt just a little bit better.

  Mr. Parker sat on his bed and held on to Yusuf’s hand. “I know it’s hard, son. You’re an example to me, you know. You stand up for what you believe in, even when everyone is against you. But some things are best left to the adults. We’re working on it, we promise you. It’s going to get better, you’ll see. Most people see the Patriot Sons for what they are. We just need to stand united against them.”

  It sounded like the typical adult speech to Yusuf. All words and no action. He pulled his hand away and wiped his face. “Yeah, sure,” he mumbled.

  Mr. Parker sighed and stood up. “Take care of yourself, son. We want you happy and healthy for TRC after the holidays.”

  35

  Yusuf couldn’t stay sad or mad forever. Mr. Parker’s parting words had reminded him that Miss Trashy’s code still needed to be fine-tuned.

  He woke up the next morning, ready to tackle life. “Will you have breakfast with us?” Amma asked when he entered the kitchen. She’d been walking on eggshells around him since the day before, but for the first time Yusuf saw how fragile she herself looked. Her lips were trembling and her eyes were downcast, as if one loud noise or harsh word would completely destroy her.

  Yusuf enveloped her in a hug. “Amma, I’m okay now,” he whispered.

  She hugged him back so tight and hard, he had to force himself not to wiggle. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Do you need anything?”

  “Just breakfast.”

  She let him go with the beginning of a smile. “I was thinking parathas and omelets?”

  “That sounds great.” He looked around. “Where’s Aleena?”

  “Playing in her room. Want to get her ready while I cook?”

  Getting Aleena ready for the day was just the soothing routine he needed. He stuck his head in her room and roared “Boo!” at her, then tackled her on her bed as she squealed in surprise and delight.

  “Bhai okay now?” she asked, patting his cheeks.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he nodded, kissing her palm.

  She beamed. “Play dollies with me.”

  They sat on the bed and played for the longest time, until the aroma of parathas wafted into the room and Aleena sniffed like a puppy. “Food!” she announced. “Me hungry.”

  “You have to change first.” Yusuf pointed to the bathroom. “And brush your teeth.”

  When they reached the kitchen table, Aleena and Yusuf were grinning. Amma saw them and breathed in relief. “So what are your plans for today? I have to work in my office—”

  “You mean the garage?” Yusuf interrupted.

  “Yes, the garage.” Amma gave him a stern look.

  “And you’re free to do whatever you like.”

  “Can I just play with Aleena all day?”

  “Yayyyyy, we play all day!” Aleena shouted, clapping her hands in excitement.

  Amma squeezed his hand. “I think that’s a good idea, darling.”

  In the afternoon, Principal Williamson called. She spoke first to Amma, and then asked to speak with Yusuf. He took the phone with trembling hands. If she wanted to know whether he really had a bomb in his backpack, he was going to be very rude to her.

  “I heard y’all had a real busy day in my absence,” she joked, her voice hollow.

  “I guess.”

  Her sigh was loud in his ear. “Listen, son, I’m sorry all this happened. I’d gone to Conroe for a district meeting and only checked my assistant’s frantic messages after it ended. By the time I drove back to the school they’d already taken you. . . .”

  Yusuf couldn’t speak. What was there to say? “It’s all right,” he finally whispered, even though it wasn’t.

  The principal sighed again. “No, it’s really not. And that’s why I’m calling. Put the phone on speaker, so your mom can hear this too.”

  He put the phone on speaker and placed it on Amma’s desk. Principal Williamson continued. “So, I talked to Officer Strickland—do you know him? Such a good man—and he said they didn’t file any charges against Yusuf because . . . well, because it was just a false alarm.”

  Amma interrupted, her voice shaking. “A false alarm? They held my son at the police station for a total of twelve hours, for a false alarm?”

  “I understand your concern—”

  “No, I don’t think you do!” Amma’s voice was louder now. Stronger. “I’m not concerned. I’m furious. I’m shocked and stunned. I’m very, very upset!”<
br />
  Yusuf held Amma’s hand. He was glad to know he wasn’t the only one going through so many emotions at the same time, like water running roughly down a steep hill.

  “I understand, Mrs. Azeem. I really do,” the principal replied after a pause. “Unfortunately, the police said they have to take measures like these if someone makes a credible threat. There was a consistent beeping from your son’s backpack, and it’s not a good idea to take this sort of thing lightly. We have the safety of the school to consider.”

  Yusuf sat down on Amma’s office chair, holding on to its arms for support. The school was worried about the students’ safety, but not his own? Wasn’t he a student too? “What about Ethan?” he finally croaked. “He goes around hurting students every single day, but nobody’s concerned about student safety then?”

  “We definitely are concerned. And I’ve spoken to his father many times. He’s got several warnings in his discipline file.”

  “He never had to go to the police station, did he?” Amma cried.

  Principal Williamson said, “No, he didn’t,” and it sounded like she was holding back tears too. “Look, I’m trying to do something about him, but his father is difficult to reason with, and the mayor seems to be doing his bidding.”

  “So there’s nothing anyone can do?” Amma asked tiredly. The fight seemed to have gone out of her, and she sagged against the wall.

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” replied the principal. “Listen, if you get any calls from reporters, don’t turn them away. I think it might be a good idea to tell them your side of the story.”

  Amma shook her head. “You think so?”

  “It’s just a suggestion,” Principal Williamson replied. “All I can say is, the local residents need to be really strong against this sort of behavior, and show true unity against the Patriot Sons.”

  Amma stood up a little straighter. “That’s it? That’s your message? Love will overcome hate, or some such nonsense?”

  The principal’s voice was loud and warm now. “That’s a powerful message, ma’am. Don’t you forget that.”