Vanessa shook her head.
“She and the Ammouris and a whole bunch of other parents—not to mention Mrs. DLP and Mr. Epstein and Ms. Wallace and a whole bunch of teachers from PTSA—stormed Principal Philip’s office and demanded his resignation. They got it on video, too, sent it to the board of trustees or something, and rumor has it there’s an investigation.”
Vanessa leaned in, closer to my seat. “What? That’s awesome. You’re dope, Mrs. B.! But back to the tats,” she said, pointing to my printout. “What’s the meaning?”
I pointed to each, explaining their significance to me. Not exactly what they meant originally. Tattooing among the Amazigh is a dying art, thanks to the haram police. But I was happy with my list and the personal meanings: a sun and moon for Amir and Mariam. A palm leaf for all the mother-goddesses, those who kept me stable, from Mom to Titi to Mrs. DLP. A lamp to remind me that even in the dark there is hope, and sometimes that hope, like Vanessa, comes from the most unexpected sources. A snake in honor of my dad and Dihya and Detective Hynds, those unsung heroes who surprise us all—ancient or contemporary. I had an Amazigh cross, too, though it didn’t look like the standard cross. Either way, it was perfect—perfect for Grandma Thiede and Kate Turner. To paraphrase my main man Rumi, “In the religion of love there are no true believers. Everyone is welcome.” True love, radical love, the kind that’s worth dying for, embraces all.
Oh, and shame on me. How could I possibly forget?
The last tattoo—the one I wanted inked on the very top of my back—was the yaz symbol. Because even though it symbolizes “free man” among the Amazigh and kind of looks like a human being, it also resembles a butterfly.
Of course, of course.
INITIALLY AMIR WAS going to return to DC as soon as possible, but when Mr. Ammouri discovered that one of Aleppo’s living musical legends—whom he thought had perished in the war—was about to give a benefit concert at the Dubai Opera house, he insisted on a change of plan. He offered to fly us out, on his dime, to pick up Amir and sightsee. A generous thank-you gift for helping to clear his son of terrorism charges.
But Maya, who ended up being two weeks late on the baby front, delivered the twins right as Amir was GTFO-ing. As torn up as his mom was, Mrs. Ammouri stayed back. She said she’d kidnap Amir later for their own mother-son vacation. I had no doubt she meant it. I was also honestly (and selfishly) a little relieved that she wasn’t coming. According to Amir, they were already spending at least two hours every day on Skype. The new babies reminded Mrs. Ammouri so much of her original prince that she felt the sudden urge to recount to Amir every moment of his golden childhood.
In the end, the only two people who could make it were Mr. Ammouri and me. A trip away for my parents was logistically impossible. Mason Terrace was a circus thanks to lingering gawkers, reporters, and the horde of investigators over at the Turners’. But the chaos outside paled in comparison to the chaos inside Chez Bakkioui. Mom and Dad were consumed with taking care of Titi and helping her adjust to being a bit slower, post-recovery, plus they had to deal with the addition of a two-hundred-pound slobber hound. With Kyle Sr. in custody, Kyle Jr. on the lam, and Mrs. Turner no longer of this world, Drexler was ours.
It somehow felt right taking care of the Turners’ dog, like the scales of the universe had once again tipped, ever so slightly, toward a happier arc. And a hilarious one, too. Drexler chased Thom. My sisters chased Drexler. Titi was never too far behind, pushing her wheeled walker, complete with a sitting chair and a basket that she kept wet wipes in—to clean up after Drexler. As much as he slobbered, she cleaned, convinced it kept the angels more or less content.
As entertaining as it was, I couldn’t wait to chase my own angel and GTFO my ass to the land of glitzy bling.
Two weeks after Amir GTFO-ed, it finally happened. Mr. Ammouri and I enjoyed fourteen hours in sky-high opulence. I shamelessly scarfed down half a dozen mini tiramisu cakes, hogged the onboard shower twice, watched four movies, and slept completely horizontal in my own little high-end cocoon. But despite all the luxury, I was eager to get off the plane the instant we landed.
Mr. Ammouri was palpably excited, too. We pressed past customs and headed toward arrivals. As soon we spotted Mariam and Amir, I let out a girlish squeal. Mariam was standing in the front row beside the professional drivers and VIP services, waving some homemade sign, while Amir—my sweet, sweet Amir—stood just beside her, his face nearly obscured by a bouquet of lilies.
That’s when Mr. Ammouri reached forward and grabbed my suitcase. “Please, Salma. Don’t let me slow you down. I’ll get there soon enough.”
“No worries, Mr. Ammouri, I can wait.”
I was, of course, flat-out lying. Every collagen-deprived cell in my body wanted nothing more than to fling myself toward the exit, straight into the arms of Mr. Kareem.
Mr. Ammouri gave me that I’m-your-baba look, chin turned inward. “Ya’llah,” he said, a wide grin consuming his face.
I gave him a peck on the cheek, then bolted away, ducking in and around the crowds, my knee and my EDS in glorious submission, until I slammed, full force, into Amir’s embrace. Moth to flame, soul to sun.
And now that Ramadan was long over and the two of us were finally united, I practically dove straight in for his lips.
“Whoa,” he said, stepping playfully backward. “We can’t exactly, not here.” He lifted his chin, glancing over at an Emirati official. “It’s kind of against their norms.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
And then he pinched me.
“What was that for?” I asked.
“I had to be sure I wasn’t dreaming.”
“Goes both ways,” I said, pinching him back.
He was about pull me in for another hug when Mariam tore us apart, pushing away Amir and my beautiful flowers. “You can wait, Mr. Kareem. It’s my turn. Salma and I haven’t seen each other in over a month. That’s like thirty-plus days and an eternity in bestie time,” she repeated, as if I didn’t know.
One long minute later…
“Okay,” I said. “Death by asphyxiation.”
She let me go.
I glanced down at her sign. She had taken my school photo—the same one the cops used when they put out that BOLO—and superimposed it on a ripped Jason Bourne body, fearlessly escaping a bomb blast. The caption read RWM Gangster Crew.
“Oh my God. That’s priceless.”
“Hells yeah,” she said.
By then Mr. Ammouri had caught up with us. He was hugging his son and weeping. Amir lifted his head from his father’s shoulder and smiled. Thank you, he silently mouthed to me.
Ten minutes later, while en route to drop Mr. Ammouri off at the hotel so he could rest, Mariam opened her purse and slipped me a card.
I read it. “No way! That is priceless,” I said. “You got into BU. This is fantastic. And your parents? Are they game?”
Mariam’s eyes lit up. “At first? No. But after some epic negotiations, yeah. They’re actually going to parole me. I just have to check in with them every freaking day.”
I reached across the seat and squeezed her hand. My universe was realigning.
“And MIT?” Mariam asked.
I glanced back over at her and flashed my pearly whites.
“Dang!” she said. “So you’re gonna be the next Aaron…what was his name?”
“Aaron Swartz,” I said. He was one of my favorite hacktivists, may his soul rest in peace. “Yeah…well, I think I’ve had enough excitement for a while. Plus his story didn’t end so well, but yeah….”
I glanced away for a moment, a pang of sadness filling my chest, when the car suddenly jerked to the right. Amir’s ride, some tiny European car he had borrowed from his buddy Ahmed—the same Ahmed he’d been Skyping with and studying oud with all these months and his dad used in code to help
him escape—was nearly sideswiped by a local cabbie. Thankfully, it was just a “nearly.” I hadn’t yet met Ahmed, but I already loved him. Thinking about meeting Ahmed later that week helped me relax, until the cabbie cut in front of us again, and I nearly lost it.
I clutched my seatbelt as I strained to view the culprit: a muhajiba in a pink scarf. It perfectly matched the taxi, which was also pink. The idea of death by pink was almost amusing, but when she cut us off for a second time I raised my hand to show off my bendy fingers, or finger, when Mariam twisted around from shotgun. “Hand down, Agent Morpho. No vulgar gestures.”
“What do you mean, hand down? That woman was seriously rude. She almost killed us!”
“True that. But all the drivers be kaminays here, so you just gotta get used to it. Hold in your road rage. Seriously, you can’t flick people off. It’s considered a jailable offense.”
What? This was not Mariam. Girl was the most impressive curser and profanity hand gesturer I’ve ever known. And she was a polyglot about it, too. Polite Urdu for mild slights, English for pure crassness, and Punjabi for emotional flair. I leaned close to her seat.
“You’re kidding, right? How can anyone even know? We’re in a moving vehicle.”
“This country is super high-tech. There are cameras everywhere. You don’t get pulled over by cops—you get texted by cops.”
“No way. What’s the punishment for flicking someone off?”
Amir chimed in. “Truth be told, it probably doesn’t matter if it’s a non-Emirati, which is like eighty percent of the population. But if your target happens to be one, you could serve a month in jail or more. There’s a bit of a pecking order here.”
“A bit?” Mariam added.
I was fascinated. “How do I know if it’s an Emirati?”
“You can’t always tell,” said Mariam. “But sometimes you definitely can.”
“Look,” said Amir. “Just don’t do it. Period. We’re all guests here anyway. But you can tell who’s super important, and therefore untouchable, by the license plates.”
“What do you mean? Is there, like, a symbol on the license plate?”
Mariam laughed. “It’s all in the numbers. Zero-zero-one is the Sheikh. Zero-zero-eight is one of his children. It’s all about prestige.”
“So what are we?”
Mariam smirked. “Part of the low, insignificant masses.”
I glanced out the window at the high-rise buildings and muted skies. A month in jail for flipping someone the bird? Whatever, it was just a vacation. Better to play it safe. I slipped my good hand under my bum to curb my reflexes. My other arm was curbed by the still-there sling.
“Wanna hear the day’s agenda?” asked Mariam. I nodded as she rattled off a long list that commenced with the butterfly garden and ended with playing her favorite game: “Let’s mispronounce the high-end European designer names as we window-shop at Dubai Mall.”
“And after all that,” added Amir, “dinner for two.”
Mariam raised her fist with overly dramatic menace, then said, “Just kidding, bro. I’ll keep to the deal. She’ll be all yours by then.”
* * *
—
Several hours later, since I was too spent to actually go out for dinner, Amir came to me. He brought Thai and a bottle of sparkling date juice to the comfort of my hotel room. He did, of course, invite his dad, but Mr. Ammouri, now fully rested, was ready to go out and explore. He followed Amir into the room but told us he wasn’t staying. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he joked, and then, with a truly serious voice, added, “Amir. I’m serious. Dinner and then you’re back in my room. Got it?” Amir and I both nodded.
“Your dad is hilarious,” I said, closing the door behind him.
“It’s weird,” said Amir. “Seeing him this alive. I think he’s stoked to be back in the Arabic world, and to be here for the concert.”
“He’s stoked to have his son back,” I said, about to ask if returning to the United States was really Amir’s plan—the last time we spoke on the phone, just before I boarded the flight, he told me he had been accepted to the conservatory in Boston but was thinking about deferring a year. To stay and study oud here in Dubai for a little while longer.
Just then a heavy knock pounded at the door. It was so loud and aggressive that panic seized every fiber of my being. I started to have hot flashes, like a bomb was about to explode. Was it Kyle Jr.? Some other 43er? I started to shake. Amir dropped what he was doing and rushed over. “Hey, you’re as pale as Edward Norton right now. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be right back.”
He left to answer the door. I closed my eyes. I didn’t make it this far only to make it this far….I couldn’t hear what was being said.
The door slammed. “Salma, chill, it’s a delivery guy.” He returned a few seconds later with an enormous package.
“Are you sure?” I asked, relieved but still on edge. “What if the delivery guy is a spy for the Forty-Three-ers?”
“Who also happens to be South Asian and super friendly? Nah, we’re good,” he said absently.
He went to the kitchen to grab a pair of scissors, then came back to open the box.
“Masha’Allah, it’s from your best friend, Sheikh Epstein….”
I held my breath as Amir opened the box. Was it really from Sheikh Epstein? Yup. The Funk-a-delic Master had sent Amir a new oud. Amir read the note: “ ‘Dear Amir—I heard you got into the New England Conservatory. I heard you might delay for a year. Choose wisely. Choose to dream. The world will be better for it.’ ”
Amir took the oud from the box and started to tune it. As soon as he was done, he strummed a familiar tune: “No Woman, No Cry.” But once Amir started to wail, the lyrics were totally different. He sang about his hero, about a girl named Salma, a girl he’d meet in Boston.
I closed my eyes, absorbing every note and chord, contemplating what life had taught me so far: that there’s no true course, no real guarantees. The only certainties in this crazy dunia are God and death; the last few weeks had proved it.
Maybe that’s the Morpho’s secret. It knows instinctively how sacred and fragile life is. It’s a truth non-butterflies might as well embrace—to develop some courage, to grow our wings, to bask in the music of possibility.
Because if a former caterpillar can do it, so can we.
I had. And if Amir needed to stay here for a while to grow his wings, then so be it.
I’VE BEEN A Muslim for over twenty years. How and why I embraced Islam is a long story, but let’s just say that Islam found me—a hippyish teen visiting Istanbul the summer before college. By spring break I took my shahada. By 9/11, I was a full-blown hijabi studying world religions at George Washington University. (Thank you, Dr. Eisen and Dr. Nasr, for your steady support.) Though I grew up in the melting pot of Northern Virginia, the glares of disdain that came my way were an unfamiliar and eye-opening experience.
As the years passed, I wanted nothing more than to retreat to the forest, raise my girls, and smell the flowers. I published picture books, some with interfaith themes, as my own small way of saying, “Hey, we’re not so different. In fact, we’re very much the same.”
My personal experiences with Islamophobia eventually went from eye-opening to gut-wrenching when my husband endured a nasty Islamophobic tenure ordeal, which resulted in the loss of his job and our first home. We moved from the United States to the United Arab Emirates. I was existentially exhausted and felt powerless. But as a parent, I had to get up and out, every day. Many of our neighbors were refugees from Syria, Iraq, and Palestine. Being among these amazing people was humbling. When I asked them how they were doing, they’d often respond with “Alhamdulillah fi kulli hal.” This common phrase translates to “Things are a little hard right now, but in all circumstances praise belongs to God.”
This
perspective reminded me that back in the United States, I still had a physical home and country to return to. (Thanks, Mom, Dad, and Frances for opening your abodes.)
I got to thinking and writing. The result is No True Believers.
Yes, things are a little hard right now. There are desperate factions in our nation that are using the tactics of fear and propaganda to drive our country mad. To divide, dismantle, and disenfranchise. And while I don’t know what the future holds, I do know that with humility, self-belief, and radical love, new beginnings are possible.
Alhamdulillah fi kulli hal.
THANK YOU, GOD, for this incredible blessing called life. Alhamdulillah fi kulli hal.
Eternal thanks to my parents, Debra and Lt. Col. Stephen York. Next to God, you’re my saving grace. Also, Dad—thank you for your service in the U.S. Marine Corps (twenty-five years!) and for allowing me to pick your brain about your civilian life afterward as an intelligence analyst for counter-extremism and cyber-infrastructure with both the FBI and DHS.
To clan Vanessa—eternal kisses. To Frances and Sarah Lumbard—I couldn’t ask for better in-laws. To everyone else in Virginia, Tennessee, and beyond—warm hugs!
To my agent Kevin O’Connor and independent editor Rachel Abrams: your early encouragements were invaluable.
A cosmic bow to fellow Deadhead and epic homey Daniel Ehrenhaft. You’re the best mentor. Truly. A round of bubbling date-juice to the rest of Soho Lab—Bronwen Hruska and Jon Fine. (Yay! We finally got here!)
To Emily Easton and the fine book lovers at team Crown: my highest esteem. Seriously, I’m speechless and delighted. And I think you’re brave. A massive thanks, forevermore.
To my boxing coach, Keeyon Tate—our workouts got me through some tough days, but as you reminded me à la Floyd Mayweather, “All work is easy work.” Good mantra.
Lastly, my beta readers! M. Lynx Qualey of Arablit.org, Safia Benbrahim of @BookishDubai, and Amir Web, DC’s best-dressed historian, much love. To Iman Bakkioui-Lahroussi, a brilliant Amazigh scholar—hijabi hats off to you! To Tylor Brand, historian of the Middle East at Trinity College, shukran jazeelan! To Ustadh Ammouri, my eldest’s oud teacher from Aleppo, forever honored. To Shannon Dilks, a homeschooling momma and Christian, big hugs. And to Zahra Awadallah, Sufi, writer, and blerd, you’re the beta reader I most needed. My sincerest love and forever support. May the universe reveal an EDS’s cure.
No True Believers Page 24
