No True Believers

by Rabiah York Lumbard

  I laughed again, but I felt his dark eyes on mine. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He was serious.

  “Dubai has the largest butterfly garden in the entire world,” he added.

  “I bet it does. And the tallest building and the biggest mall. Sorry, but an über-conservative, fake-ass, dunyawi playground for the ultra-rich doesn’t appeal to me.”

  Amir pulled his hair up into a topknot, slowly, as though he was calculating the pathway of least resistance. He’s allergic to confrontation, anything that might upset his super-mellow, slightly hippie-hipster vibe. But he wasn’t going to let this go, either. Quiet or not, he’s as stubborn as I am.

  “We don’t need this shit, do we?” he asked softly. “Dubai is an open society, Salma. There are women in miniskirts and ladies in burqas. And there’s a lot more to it under the radar. Trust me, okay? I know a ton of people who moved there. They can finally breathe. What does Mariam say? I bet she loves it, right?”

  I opened my mouth, and then closed it. The rowdy tourist group had snaked its way over to our corner. I didn’t want to argue with an audience. Besides, he was right, sort of, which pissed me off. Not the being-right part, but the Mariam-liking-the-UAE part. At least that was the vibe she gave when we Skyped.

  He slouched down, resting his head on my shoulder. My gaze fell to the ground. A dead butterfly was lying in the shadows, wings torn. Torn like me. Between places, people, myself.

  I rested my head on his. Amir had a built-in positives-only compass, which I usually appreciated. But none of this Dubai talk was in “the plan.” A plan he swore to long before the Mariam saga. And even though her parents were now promoting their own new plan (one which involved Mariam staying “local”—aka “in Dubai”), I still hadn’t relinquished my plan. Boston could still happen.

  The crowd passed. Amir stirred to life.

  “Look, I know you have strong feelings about your plan, but trust me, it’s worth postponing,” he said, sitting up again. “NYU Abu Dhabi has a hackathon. A hackathon, Salma!” His face grew serious again. “Please, just don’t write it off. Life here isn’t all rainbows and butterflies.”

  My gaze returned to the dead butterfly. Even in death, the creature was striking. Her struggles to achieve a higher existence were totally worth it. But…Rainbows and butterflies? Come on, Amir. You’re better than that, and I’m not that naïve. I can be, I have been, no doubt. But the stairs incident was different. Being interrogated by the police was different. My cushy, middle-class, suburban, I-can-pass-for-white, privileged bubble had been totally popped, along with my patella. Maybe Amir’s could stand to be popped, too.

  “I know it isn’t all rainbows and butterflies. Those cops asked me about you.”

  He tilted his head. He almost seemed amused. “They did?”

  “Yeah, apparently they feel it necessary to monitor you and your fellow oud nerds. It’s a better use of their time than, say, questioning Warren about a bomb threat. But you know what? I live here. And I want to live here. That just wants to make me rub my home in their faces. Let them monitor all they want.” I let out a short bark of a laugh. “Trust me, neither of them is Olivia Benson from Law and Order: SVU.”

  Amir chewed his lip, absently staring off into space—maybe into the abyss of worrying about being watched, or maybe into some imaginary bright future where ignorance wasn’t an issue. Then his eyes met mine and softened. “Yeah…screw them all. Let’s get you one of those frappy-dappy drinks you love and head back. It’s nearly three.”

  I reached for my crutches. “Okay. I have Titi duty, anyway. She wants to bake for iftar.”

  “Full-time joy-maker?” he cracked lightly. “But…Salma?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What else did those cops say? Anything I should worry about?”

  “They didn’t say anything worth repeating,” I grumbled, angry at myself for bringing it up. “I’m sorry. Really, it was nothing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. But, Amir, you know what? You can skip the coffee. Just get me home.”

  He grimaced and turned to the exit. “No problem.”

  As we drove toward my house, I couldn’t shake the terrible aftertaste of being treated like a suspect. Of being lumped in with terrorists like Al-Qaeda in North Africa and a sleeper cell from Syria. And although the facts still weren’t known, the rumors persisted—in the news and now in my school. One news show even suggested this was the work of Shi’ites of Hezbollah, which was really weird because attacks in the West almost always come from violent jihadist Wahhabi types, hardcore, nonthinking literalists who claim to be Sunni, but betray all that is Islamic and hate everyone who is not “one of them”—Muslim or non-Muslim alike—as kafirs.

  Like me. I’m such a kafir—loving my Sunni, Shi’ite, Sufi, and non-Muslim brethren alike. Finding validity in all their truth claims (because ultimate truth can’t be claimed).

  Oh my God. Listen to me. The facts aren’t known and even I am echoing what the talking heads are saying—the one thing that holds all these groups together, that they’re “Mooslim.”

  Astaghfirullah. I just wish we could take all the crazy terrorists and strident puritanicalists—no matter what tradition they betray—and drop them off on a remote island. Leave the rest of us—as in the 95 percent of the people in this world who are normal—the heck alone.

  * * *

  —

  I had hardly been home for a millisecond when Titi looked up from the bay window and frowned. “Bad day, habibti?”

  I left my bag by the front door and collapsed on the cushion beside her.

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “Truly, Salma Dihya?”

  I’m a bad liar and Titi knows it.

  “Fine. You’re right. I had a horrible day, and my leg is aching.”

  She tapped my knee and smiled. Her English isn’t great, but over the years we have managed to patch together a common language.

  “Really, that’s okay, Titi. You’re the one who deserves a massage.”

  She batted away the suggestion. I lifted my leg and placed it in her lap. Being Titi’s joy-maker has some pretty sweet upsides. As her hands worked downward from my knee to my ankle, I studied the hard lines around her smile. I wish those wrinkles could speak. I wanted them to take me back, across time and space, to Titi’s past. To the land of her childhood, stories about saints and djinn. Strange how at certain times, stories you’ve heard a million times can feel both wonderfully near and painfully distant.

  Like the story of my middle name. Titi had insisted upon it when I was born, a title and talisman she’s hung over my head ever since. Always invoking it.

  Salma Dihya, Salma Dihya, Salma Dihya.

  Dihya was the feminine face of the Amazigh, “the free people,” as Titi and Dad would say. Back in seventh-century Algeria, she was so badass—a freedom-fighting warrior, a Jewish queen from the Djerawia tribe of the Zenata Imazighen, and (according to some) a sorcerer. But sorcery aside, she’s enough of a hero that others claim her: Muslims, Berbers, Zionists, French colonialists, Arabs…as an Arabized Berber, Titi grew up under colonial rule. Her best friends and neighbors came from every faith and background: all different, all North African. For her, my middle name was meant to celebrate the beauty of those differences, to transcend identity politics. To Moroccans like Titi, Dihya was always a symbol of something greater. She was aspirational. A call to be brave and noble, to love those who love you…

  Once more, I thought of Mom’s computer screen.

  AL-QAEDA IN NORTH AFRICA CLAIMS RESPONSIBILITY

  I owed Amir an apology. He was only trying to be helpful today. To connect me with me. And then on our way home, I was being so mental, so stuck in my head, that I forgot to say our ritual goodbye.

  I whipped out my phone and texted.

  My dear
est fellow Norton nerd: I’m really sorry. I was just so mad. I wanted to murder someone and you were only trying to help. And the stupid thing at school is done. Let’s have a do-over. ASAP.

  I looked up at my grandmother. “Thank you, Titi. Do you want to bake now?”

  Titi smiled. “I do. Titi’s scones…better than Mom’s.”

  Better than Mom’s. Yep, that’s Titi. Proving her own skills in the kitchen—American-style.

  As I was about to slip my phone back into my pocket, it buzzed with Amir’s response.

  Was I asleep? Was I sleeping? My house. Sunday. Yours forever, Tyler Durden.

  * * *

  —

  Later that night I almost began to remember the pre–May 3 Salma Dihya Bakkioui. Almost.

  First Vanessa texted to make sure I was okay. When her face appeared on my screen, I nearly burst into tears. But I quickly got control of myself and replied with a “thanks, yes, fine,” and even threw in a couple of heart emojis (which I hate), while the memories flooded back: the shove, the cold floor at the bottom of the stairs, how I’d felt tossed aside like garbage. But I could fight back. I wasn’t alone at Franklin. Vanessa had my back. Amir had my back.

  Next Mariam texted, completely out of the blue, with a bunch of ridiculous photos. Apparently for the hell of it she’d gone to a local Dubai salon and asked for a Gulfi makeover—fake eyelashes, painted eyebrows, penciled-in lips. She looked amazing. Like a brown goddess. But she’d also superimposed a photo of me right next to her, same deal. I must say, her Photoshop skills were improving. (Of course the ironic do-over was gorgeous on her, the fake one on me, not so much.) I looked like a hooker. Which was the point. Her final text:

  Can’t wait for u to meet my new imaginary friend. Don’t judge her because she’s a prostitute.

  I laughed out loud. Girl has always had a wicked sense of humor.

  Your sister misses you, I texted back. I resisted adding: Badly.

  On a whim I decided to venture again onto the Dark Web to see if I could somehow track down a free flight to Dubai. Maybe I’d play hooky for a week. But I quickly forgot about running away when I found a message waiting from Pulaski88. I hadn’t visited his forum since “the operation” (his words).

  Pulaski88: Haven’t seen you around. Worried you got caught hijacking that chiropractor’s router? I can recommend some lawyers in your area.

  I smiled as my fingers flew over the keyboard in response. I’d been wondering about him.

  I had a hunch that he was a resident of Pulaski, Virginia: a tiny town I happened to visit last fall when Mom insisted that we at least tour the campus at Virginia Tech. On our way out, a tire blew; the nearest town was Pulaski; the grizzled mechanic there replaced our tire free of charge. I guess they breed altruism in that part of the state. The symbolism of 88 was more of a mystery. Eventually I figured it was a nod to his own talents as a math whiz. (Hackers are like rappers that way, alas.) Thanks to Mr. Davis and one of his many tangents, I knew that eighty-eight was an “untouchable” number, though I couldn’t remember why or even what “untouchable” meant, math-wise. Not that it mattered. Pulaski88 was saying that nobody could touch him as a hacker.

  So I did what came naturally: I teased him. Why did he have such little faith in his own instruction? Or was it that he was worried I might surpass him in his hijacking abilities? That the student would become the master?

  Pulaski88: Dig your attitude. Do you have another operation in mind?

  Me: Destroy a piece of corporate art and trash a franchise coffee bar.

  I’d typed the response immediately, almost without thinking. It was a direct quote from Fight Club, one of its more absurd lines.

  Pulaski88: Operation Latte Thunder has been done before.

  My smile widened. Too bad Amir wasn’t here to share this moment. I suddenly imagined Pulaski88 looking like Edward Norton. I saw him sitting in a dark room, his haggard face lit blue from a desktop screen, smiling back with a bruised lip and black eye.

  Me: A DDoS has been done before, too, but that hasn’t stopped anyone.

  Pulaski88: Is that what you have in mind? What’s the target?

  Me: No target. But I’d love to bring the asshats at my school to their knees. They deserve their own shit sandwich.

  As soon as I hit Send, I felt a twinge of regret. It was a joke. I’d never risk anything as destructive as a distributed denial of service, a cyber-attack that would take Franklin offline—an attack I could probably execute, given its simplicity. But my new friend might not get that I was blowing off steam.

  Pulaski88: Guessing you’re not serious.

  Me: Never serious when I’m here.

  Pulaski88: Good. That means that you already know the first rule of ethical hacking. Never be serious. And the second rule of ethical hacking is…?

  I laughed out loud for the second time that night.

  Me: Never be serious.

  AMIR HAD NO idea how good he had it at home. As the youngest of five—and the only boy, stress on boy—he lived in a paradise that amounted to minimal parental supervision. When he came over to my house, it was a family affair. Forget an unannounced visit. We’d never even tried, because I could foresee exactly what would happen. Both of my sisters would suddenly appear to fawn over him, followed by Titi, who would plant herself like a tree between us (because Amir “brought her joy,” of course)—then Mom, who would ask me to do some kind of chore, but not before calling Dad to come home early from work to join the fun.

  “Oh, hi, Amir! We had no idea you were coming over! What can we feed you? Do your parents know you’re here?”

  And I had it better than most. Mariam hadn’t even been allowed to date.

  So the Saturday afternoon silence was…lovely. (As in: the opposite of what you’d experience upon opening the door of the Bakkioui household.) I found myself tiptoeing as I followed Amir inside. I didn’t want to disturb the quiet. Mr. Ammouri was up on the second floor, fiddling around in his office, while Mrs. Ammouri was at the store, shopping for her upcoming trip.

  Amir had four older sisters, who had all flown the coop. I had gotten to know the younger two, Mona and Manal, but the older two lived halfway across the country. One of them (I can’t remember which because they all had “M” names) was expecting twins. Twin boys. And that’s who his mom was shopping for. She was going to visit for an entire month—to put the finishing touches on their nursery and, I assume, to celebrate the entrance of these first grandbabies into the world. It was kind of cute. From what I’d gathered from Mom over the years, Titi had been the same way with me.

  As always, visiting the Ammouris felt less like hanging out at my boyfriend’s home than visiting a spa. The design was sleek and modern. The lighting was soft. The residents’ personal boundaries were respected. The only things missing were mud baths and new age music.

  We headed straight for the living room, where Amir eyed the family film collection.

  His mother had arranged all the DVDs in chronological order on a floating TV console—I’m guessing from Crate and Barrel. She shopped there a lot. “Amir, I CAN’T order living room furniture online,” he’d quoted (or made up) in a dead-on impersonation. “The joy of shopping is SURPRISE.”

  Another thing I loved about the Ammouri family: they were normal.

  The Bakkioui family took no joy in shopping. They took no joy in surprises, really. Rules were paramount—set by Mom, approved by Dad, and enforced by Titi.

  Rule #1: The TV is for watching sports, PBS, or whatever Mom (and Mom only) deems “not rubbish.” Mom and Dad both police our screen time but don’t really censor what we read. It’s an intellectual snobbery thing. They’re always parroting, “Kids, if you’re bored, then you should read.” Printed words. Anything. Even “the obituaries” (Mom’s joke). Mom thinks her Sufi humor is hilarious, the whole contemplate-your-de
ath approach to true living. One night over winter break I made the mistake of arguing to her that as family we should watch The Walking Dead—you know, instead of reading—because “nobody does death better than zombies.” Needless to say, she didn’t find my humor quite as hilarious as her own. She even tried to block AMC but didn’t know it comes with basic cable.

  Amir, on the other hand, can access eight zillion premium channels. His living room is a temple to entertainment, the massive TV a digital idol. Hence Mom’s opposition. In her not-so-humble opinion, TV is short for “Time-sucking Vortex.” A vortex to infinite ghafla: Quran-speak for heedless soul draining. (No use arguing that watching Norton was a qualitative time suck. So, too, The Walking Dead.) But no matter the time of day or night, Amir had the living room all to himself. That’s what you get when you live alone with two loving parents who are in de facto parenting retirement.

  “I can’t choose,” I mumbled. My eyes roved over the dizzy blur of titles. “I guess you weren’t kidding the other day about ordering his entire filmography.”

  “Kidding? About Norton?” He flopped back onto the couch. “That would be sacrilege. Besides,” he added, “how else am I going to pass the time while fasting?”

  Yes, Amir even uses religious terms to mock his devotion to entertainment, at least of the Edward Norton variety.

  “Go with your gut,” he went on. “With whatever makes you happy.” He started a drum roll on the coffee table.

  At the sudden noise I glanced toward the hallway. Force of habit. I knew the racket wouldn’t disturb his father. Recently Mr. Ammouri had suffered some hearing loss, but he was too proud to consistently use his hearing aids. Amir grumbled that it was “denial” about getting old, though honestly part of the reason Amir had so much freedom (he’s said so himself) was because his parents were old.