Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero

by Saadia Faruqi

  Great. Now that tune would be stuck in his brain for the rest of the day.

  The judges placed items randomly on the board: red circular chips for plastic trash, black ones for food trash, and brown cardboard squares for traffic obstacles. The teams would be allowed one trial race with their robots before the actual competition.

  Miss Trashy got stuck in five places on the board, but Yusuf quickly adjusted the code to make her smoother. The Jaguars’ robot got stuck eleven times, and they had to spend ten minutes working on it after the trial. Yusuf saw one of the team members looking at him, a long-haired boy who looked like an older version of his cousin Saleem. Yusuf offered him a reassuring smile. “You did good.”

  “Not as good as you guys,” the boy remarked. “Seems like you spent a lot of time practicing.”

  Yusuf shrugged and turned back to his laptop. With everything going on with the Patriot Sons, he knew he hadn’t been able to give his team the attention they deserved the last few weeks. If they lost, he’d never forgive himself.

  “Let’s go!” Cameron nudged him. The judges signaled the start of the competition, and the robots were off. Miss Trashy gathered all the trash while neatly avoiding the traffic obstacles, and piled it in the corner as she’d been programmed to do. Her arm never wavered, and her wheels never stopped. The Jaguars’ robot was fast, but not fast enough to keep up, and it stumbled twice over traffic obstacles. The judges were keeping track. When they hit the buzzer to signal the end of the race, Miss Trashy had collected all but two chips. The Jaguars had almost half of theirs still on the board.

  “We will, we will rock you!” They didn’t need the judges to tell them the results: they’d won this round easily. The Freybots clapped one another on the back as the Jaguars walked away with slumped shoulders. Yusuf couldn’t help but grin. One down, two to go.

  They stayed at arena twelve, waiting for the next two races to be announced. In between races Yusuf worked on his laptop and checked Miss Trashy dozens of times to make sure everything was perfect. The next team was a group from Pasadena, loud and gangly kids who shouted every time their robot, Drake Junior, collected a chip. Yusuf wished he’d brought earplugs. The shouting was constant, but Miss Trashy collected two more chips than Drake Junior. “Win for the Freybots!” the judges announced, and the Pasadena kids slunk away.

  They waited a long time for the third race. Many of the judges were being replaced, and some kids were asking for breaks. Cameron and Tony took Miss Trashy outside for some small fixes. The rest of the Freybots team sat on the gym floor, listening to the hum of excitement around them. “We will, we will rock you!”

  “We’re doing great, aren’t we?” Madison said, hugging herself.

  Danial shrugged. “Even if we win all three races, it doesn’t mean we qualify. Depends on how all the other teams do.”

  “Way to be negative, dude!”

  “Come on, you guys!” Yusuf interrupted. His head was aching with all the noise in the gym, but it was a buzzing sort of ache, just enough to make his heart beat faster. “These are the TRC rules, and we’ve known them forever. We just have to focus on collecting as many chips as possible, and then see where we place on the leaderboard.”

  Madison gave him a nod. “Yes, Captain.”

  A whistle blew somewhere, and the break was over. Their third competition was set up in arena five, with another team from Houston. “Hey,” a boy from the other team said. “May the best team win!”

  Yusuf inspected their robot, SuperGirl II. She was half the size of Miss Trashy, and when the race began, she zoomed away as if propelled by lightning. Miss Trashy rumbled along behind her, slowly picking up chips. Yusuf felt nauseous. They had to win this last race, they had to.

  “Don’t worry, we have lots of points,” Jared whispered in his ear.

  Yusuf turned away as if he hadn’t heard.

  When the race ended, SuperGirl II had won. Yusuf shook hands with the other team captain, trying to act cool. But his heart was thumping, and the ache in his head was fiercer. “Congrats,” he whispered, looking down. He knew this wasn’t the end, but he was still worried.

  Mr. Parker pointed to the leaderboard on the gym wall. The Freybots watched with anxious eyes. The noise in the gym had been sucked out, and silence echoed around them. Yusuf tried to swallow. He didn’t want to look over at his parents, or at his teammates. Would their two wins be enough to move them into the main competition?

  After ten of the slowest minutes in history, the scores were tallied and the leaderboard lit up. The Freybots were in! Danial and Cameron hugged each other over and over. Tony shook hands with Jared, while Madison danced a little jig like an excited toddler. Yusuf let out a deep breath, feeling as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Still, he didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. “We still have the actual competition to get through after lunch,” he told his team.

  Danial scoffed. “Since when did you become a pessimist?”

  “Just being careful.”

  Mr. Parker turned to Yusuf and the others. His eyes were shining, and his face was full of joy. “No matter what happens after lunch, I’m incredibly proud of y’all.”

  Journal entry 13

  January 1, 2002

  It’s finally 2002. I’m going to turn in this journal to Mrs. Clifton after the winter break, so this will probably be my last entry.

  Abba said we should all make New Year’s resolutions, just for fun. “You don’t have to tell anyone,” he said. “Just know what you want to change in your heart.”

  So I did. After lunch, I went to Jonathan’s house to wish him a happy New Year. It’s been so long since I walked on his street, but everything is familiar. The tree stump we’d use as a launching pad for our toy rockets. The rosebush I fell into last summer while we raced our bikes . . .

  The palms of my hands were sweaty as I knocked. Jonathan’s mom opened the door and gave me a glare, then turned to get Jonathan. “That Muslim kid is here!” she shouted, and I wanted to run away. Still, I waited for him.

  We sat on his front porch together, not talking. “I just came by to say Happy New Year,” I finally told him.

  “I’m sorry about hitting you,” he replied.

  I said, “It’s okay,” because it was.

  Then he said, “I can’t be friends with you anymore. I hope you understand why. I just can’t.”

  I got up to leave. I told him, “Yes, I understand.” I wasn’t lying. I truly did. His uncle’s death had left a wound in his heart, just like Silky’s death had done to me. There was no way we could forget something like that. A wound that would never heal.

  “I’m sorry about everything,” I told him, and then I left.

  There wasn’t anything else I could do.

  40

  After lunch, the ten finalist teams went head-to-head in battles in separate arenas. The music was blaring now, and the gym was echoing with a multitude of sounds. Yusuf sat on the floor at the edge of the gym, studying the code on his laptop. He wondered if he could somehow make Miss Trashy faster, more accurate. He didn’t notice when Amma came over to him. “I think you’ve done enough,” she whispered quietly in his ear. “Just relax and leave the rest to God.”

  Yusuf chewed on his lip. He was finally at the TRC regional contest. All the other teams were much better than they were. Two of the Houston schools had dedicated robotics programs. How could the Freybots compete against that?

  Amma pointed to the others near the board. “You’re their captain. They need you.”

  Yusuf sighed. She was right, as always. He got up from his spot on the floor and walked over to his teammates. “Ready, guys?” he almost shouted, trying to stop his voice from trembling.

  They nodded. Madison gave a little smile and yelled back, “Ready!”

  “Good,” Yusuf said. “Listen. We’ve done our best. We never would have imagined being a finalist among ninety-three teams, but we’re here. Team Freybots will be in the TRC records for
ever as a finalist. We’ve already done our school and our town proud.”

  Cameron nodded. “That’s true.”

  Yusuf grinned at them all, then let out a huge breath. “This is the time to have fun, okay? This is a challenge for us, but we want to also enjoy being here, right now. Okay?”

  “Okay!” the others shouted, grinning back. “Okay!”

  The opposing team took their place. It was a group of kids from Fredericksburg, a town near Frey. They were three boys and three girls, all dressed in Catholic school uniforms. TEAM YONDER LIGHT, their placard said. Yusuf nodded at them politely, then took his place near the laptop. “Ready,” he told the judges.

  “Miss Trashy versus Robomaniac!” a judge announced. He blew his whistle, and the robots were off. Yusuf tried to focus on the board, but the noise of the students around them cheering, and the music thumping, came at him in waves. He narrowed his eyes until all he could see was Miss Trashy, rumbling on the board like a faithful servant, collecting plastic chips and making piles on the side. Robomaniac was right on her tail the entire time, not only picking up trash but also blocking Miss Trashy more than once. “That robot is good,” Cameron whispered.

  Three minutes seemed like three hours, and when the judge blew his whistle again, it was echoed by all the judges around the gym. The final race was over.

  It was done. Not a single plastic chip was left on the board.

  Yusuf’s backbone sagged like it had been transformed into a liquid. He looked around for Amma and Abba and found them nearby, looking as exhausted as he was. Then his eyes widened. Next to Amma stood a tall, bearded figure. Uncle Rahman.

  Yusuf beamed. “You came!”

  Uncle Rahman hugged him. “That was an incredible game, kiddo!”

  The judges tallied up the scores. “Team Freybots, one hundred and ten points,” the female judge noted. “Team Yonder Light, ninety-five points.”

  Team Freybots went wild. They hooted and clapped and cheered loudly. Mr. Parker looked equal parts excited and ready to faint. Yusuf hugged Danial once, then twice, grinning like a person who’d won the lottery. Last year’s TRC high score had been one hundred and thirty points. Could they actually win this thing?

  There was another break while the scores were reported and calculations made. Team Freybots went back to the bleachers with their parents, waiting. Yusuf tried to ignore the tension, thick like a fog, around him. Quick, think of something else to distract yourself, he thought. “I finished reading your journal,” he told Uncle Rahman.

  Uncle Rahman stilled. “Really? What did you think?”

  Yusuf paused, unsure. Everything in the journal had been so huge, so emotionally wrecking. “You seemed . . . very lonely in the journal. How come you never told anyone how you were feeling?”

  “Like who? We were all grieving in our own ways—9/11 was too . . . disastrous to share.”

  “It’s been twenty years now,” Yusuf pointed out. “Maybe if we talk about it now, we can get past it. Learn from it.”

  “I think for those of us who went through it, the past still hurts a lot.”

  Yusuf remembered something from the journal. “Like a wound that never healed.”

  “Exactly.”

  Yusuf picked up his laptop and wrapped up the charging wires. “Did you ever become friends with Jonathan again?”

  Uncle Rahman’s eyes flickered. “Not really. He stayed away from me after that. I made other friends.”

  “What other friends?”

  “Muslim friends. Kids who were going through the same sorts of things in a world changed by 9/11.” Uncle Rahman cleared his throat. “Seems like my journal helped you, eh?”

  Yusuf nodded quickly. “Yes! It helped me understand my enemies a little bit better.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed his uncle’s face. “Enemies? What are you, a pirate?”

  Yusuf felt himself grow warm. He wasn’t sure what he was. He shrugged awkwardly. “Kids can have enemies too.”

  The TRC coordinator was walking up to the stage, microphone in hand. “Come,” Uncle Rahman said, turning away. “You can tell me all about your enemies later.”

  The announcements were short and dizzyingly exciting. “Third place goes to Team Freybots!” the TRC coordinator roared.

  Yusuf couldn’t breathe. He took gasps until Uncle Rahman slapped him on the back, and then he screamed at the top of his voice. “Woohoo!” Everyone turned and laughed a little. The team went up to the stage to get their trophy, while Mr. Parker and all the parents took pictures. He stood with Danial on the left and Cameron on the right, smiling until his lips felt sore. Jared stood at the far end of the line, tall and silent.

  Back on the bus, the team sang the victory cheer over and over until they were hoarse. The parents took pictures and talked loudly about how amazing their kids—and grandkids—were. Mr. Parker called Principal Williamson on the phone to tell her the good news, and her squeal came through the speaker loud and very clear. “We’ll get ready to ce-le-brate!”

  “Seems like you kids will get quite the welcome when you reach home,” Mr. Parker said as he hung up.

  “They deserve it,” Mr. Khan replied, taking some more pictures.

  Yusuf turned slightly and saw Jared looking at him. Maybe it was time to forgive and forget. He didn’t want to lose a friend like Uncle Rahman had.

  He couldn’t find the words, though. He practiced what he’d say for miles, but nothing seemed right. What Jared had done was wrong, but it was before they’d known each other. Before they’d seen each other as human beings, rather than enemies.

  When he could see Frey in the distance, he took a deep breath and went to the front row, where Jared was sitting alone, away from his grandmother and everyone else. “Hey, congratulations.”

  Jared nodded, looking down at his shoes. “Thanks, you too.”

  “Thanks.”

  They sat in silence until the bus turned into the school parking lot. “I know you’re sorry about what happened,” Yusuf began, rubbing the frame of his glasses.

  “I am.”

  “Want to be friends again?” Yusuf held out his hand.

  Jared’s eyes widened. “I’ve been your friend all this time,” he replied.

  Yusuf thought about this. Was it true? A sudden image of Jared’s happy face as they dunked Father Robbins at the pumpkin patch loomed in his mind. “Sorry it took me a while to figure that out.”

  Jared finally smiled. He shook Yusuf’s hand once, firmly. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Good. We still have to win the TRC nationals.”

  A Note from the Author

  The inspiration for this story came from a real event that happened in my home state of Texas in 2015. Ahmed Mohamed, a fourteen-year-old boy in Irving, was arrested at his high school because of a disassembled digital clock he brought to school to show his teachers. Nicknamed Clock Boy, Ahmed became an overnight sensation for all the wrong reasons. He was a smart young man who was betrayed by those who should have protected him, including his school. His arrest, release, and the resulting media outcry showed the world how people view Muslims: Dangerous. Suspicious. Not to be trusted.

  Ahmed’s story was heartbreaking, but it also reminded me of the days after 9/11. I was in my twenties when that attack occurred, and I still remember how Muslims were treated in its aftermath: as the enemy. The Clock Boy incident brought home to me that even now, twenty years later, things haven’t changed much. We are still viewed with suspicion.

  After 9/11 I had a choice. I could sit and complain, or I could do something to change things. I began working with other people in my community to hold events and discussions, to share my faith as a Muslim and learn about those who are different from me. My hope with this interfaith work was to build bridges, to show Muslims in a positive light—as neighbors, friends, family. As Americans.

  With the twentieth anniversary of 9/11 approaching, we must ask ourselves: What has been gained and los
t in the last two decades? Have we progressed as a nation? Do we treat others better than we did in the days and months after the attacks? Or are we still the same, maybe even worse? The answers are complicated. I believe that there are many people in our country who are working hard to build bridges, like me. But there are also many people who are trying to destroy those bridges. This book highlights both sides, and helps kids understand why an event that happened before their lifetimes still resonates in our culture and politics today.

  Ahmed Mohamed was so traumatized by what happened that he left the U.S. and settled in the Middle East. His family tried to sue the high school and the police department, but nothing came of it. When I wrote this book, I wanted to explore whether the incident could have had an alternate ending. A better conclusion. In my story, Yusuf has a stronger support system, including a school that decides to do the right thing. I hope this book will teach us all—parents, teachers, school administrators, community members—how to stand up to the bullies in our communities, be they kids or adults.

  —Saadia Faruqi

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank all the people who led to this book, but I don’t know who most of them are. Living in this country post 9/11 as a Muslim American has not been easy, but I gained a lot from the experience. I’ve met tens of thousands of people in my work as an interfaith activist, and they all left some sort of impression on me. A few became lifelong friends, such as my interfaith partner in crime, Nancy Agafitei, with whom I had countless conversations about interfaith work and how imperative it was if we wanted to defeat the hatred that arose after 9/11. Thank you, Nancy, for taking a chance on me so many years ago when I stepped into your library office and asked to hold a book exhibition.

  A tremendous thank-you as always to my family, especially my husband, Nasir, who always supports my dreams and urges me to keep going when things get tough and I want to give up. To my amazing agent, Kari Sutherland; my wonderful editor, Rosemary Brosnan; Courtney Stevenson; and the rest of the team at Harper: You are all brilliant and such strong supporters of my stories. I couldn’t do this without you.