Laughing All the Way to the Mosque

by Zarqa Nawaz

  “My parents arranged my marriage,” retorted my mother. “And it was the last thing they were able to do for me.”

  It was hard to compete against such a tragic backdrop.

  “Please give me more time,” I said. “It’s really important to me.”

  My mother stopped kneading again for a few seconds.

  “Fine. I’ll give you a few months to sort yourself out, but after that, it’s the one-eyed fisherman accountant.”

  It was a reprieve. Sort of. I had no idea what to do next.

  Getting my BSc had been the most stultifyingly boring thing I had ever done. They say education is never wasted, but I’d make an exception for that degree. I had tried to pay attention during my science classes, but the formulas just didn’t spark my imagination. By the end, things had really gone off the rails. The penultimate question in my final physics exam asked me to calculate the internal surface area of a rotating cube. Instead of answering the question mathematically (which I had no clue how to do), I wrote an essay about my feelings regarding the rotating cube.

  Dear Physics People,

  I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable mathematical formula for solving this question. Here’s the thing: I don’t remember learning it. Don’t take this personally. I’m sure you taught it. It’s just that I have trouble absorbing things that make no sense. Don’t you want to stare up at the stars and just enjoy them for what they truly are? I know they’re just balls of burning gas to you, but they’re also poetic and can cause people to fall in love and contemplate life. So I’m wondering if there’s a way to make the calculation of solving the internal surface of a rotating cube more romantic. I think then I would be able to solve this problem.

  Yours truly,

  Zarqa Nawaz

  My essay came back with a zero. There was a notation beside it: You’re terrible at physics. Have you considered being a writer? But that wasn’t possible. For me, the daughter of conservative Pakistani immigrants, a career like novelist, journalist or filmmaker was too sexy—like wearing fishnet stockings or sparkly eyeliner, things that good Muslim girls didn’t do.

  But desperate times called for un-Islamic measures. I scoured university calendars for professional schools. The deadline for applications for the tame options like teachers’ college had passed. Only the deadline for Ryerson’s School of Journalism loomed like a glittery, forbidden disco ball at the end of a dark tunnel. I heard my mother on the phone.

  “How did he lose the thumb? … High schools should really ban shop class … No, I didn’t know you could use a big toe to replace it. Surgery has come a long way. Is his walking affected?”

  I quickly filled out the form and mailed it.

  A few weeks later, a letter arrived. We are pleased to inform … Thank God.

  “What’s that?” asked my mother.

  “An interview for journalism school,” I said.

  “How long is the program?”

  “Two years.” I could sense her do a quick calculation of my age in her head. “Don’t worry, my ovaries will still be fresh by the time I get out.”

  “But you still have to get in,” she replied, returning to her Rolodex.

  “What’s wrong, dear? You don’t look well,” said a well-meaning secretary.

  I sat in the waiting room of Ryerson’s journalism department with dark circles under my eyes. I had dreamt restlessly all night about fishing with the accountant. I had accidently jerked the line too hard and impaled his remaining good eye.

  “There’s a lot of competition to get into this program, isn’t there?”

  “Oh yes, it’s the best in the country,” she said. “Students have been putting together their resumés for years.”

  A picture of me in a garish Indian wedding dress next to my beaming, triumphant mother flashed through my mind. I looked at the other student waiting with me.

  “Do you know what they ask about during the interview?” I said, hoping for advice that would save me from a trip to the marriage registry at city hall.

  “What you can bring to journalism that no one else can,” he replied.

  Desperation, I thought. But I knew that wouldn’t fly.

  “I interviewed the prime minster for our Boy Scout newsletter.” He pulled out a photograph of his eight-year-old self standing with Prime Minister Joe Clark from a large portfolio of clippings from community newspapers.

  I looked at the manila folder in my lap. I had a poster I had made for a Muslim camp. It was colourful. Plus a column I wrote once about how to do ablution when there’s no water. “Don’t underestimate dust!” I was screwed. I nervously flipped through a copy of Chatelaine.

  “Zarqa Nawaz,” said the secretary. “You’re next.”

  I walked into an office with dark wood bookcases and a squeaky floor to match. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair was seated behind an old metal desk. He stood up to greet me.

  “I noticed that you have a science degree,” he said as I sat down.

  “Is that a problem?” I asked. So screwed.

  “We’ve never had a student with a BSc apply before. Our applicants usually have a BA.”

  “I like to be different?” I offered.

  “That’s great. I thought you were going to tell me that you wanted to be a doctor and wound up here as a second choice,” he said.

  Only choice, I thought.

  “I figured everybody studies English. Been there, done that. Why not study something totally unique. Bring a whole new perspective to journalism.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re looking for,” he said happily.

  “Really?”

  “Tell me what you will bring to this program from your degree that no one else can.”

  My mind was full of useless information like how to calculate the internal surface area of a rotating cube—why was that starting to make sense now?

  “Most students just want to interview the prime minister,” he said.

  “So typical,” I said. “I prefer to impart knowledge that will be useful to humanity, help people in real ways. I want to change the face of journalism.”

  “Can you tell me one thing that you learned about in school that would make a useful contribution to society?”

  My mind fell back to the last thing I had read in the waiting area before I came in.

  “Did you know there’s a new contraceptive on the market called Norplant?” I said.

  “No, what’s that?”

  “It’s a device that is infused with hormones and put in a woman’s arm. It releases contraception for five years so a woman doesn’t have to remember to take the pill every day.” I prayed his wife was already menopausal.

  “That’s amazing. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Good—I mean, of course not. Information about it hasn’t been published yet,” I said. “I learned about it in my physics class.”

  “Really? How strange. Well, it’s a travesty that more people don’t know about it,” he said. “I’m sure women’s magazines would be very interested.”

  “Yes, they would be. Are you an—er—avid reader of women’s magazines?”

  “No, I stick to hunting magazines. My wife passed away a year ago, so I cancelled all the subscriptions.”

  “Thank God … I mean, she’s gone back to God. I’m a bit religious, in case you didn’t notice.” I said, quickly pointing at my headscarf. “In fact, I should be praying soon. Which way is northeast?”

  But then it occurred to me. Having a dead wife didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t knowledgeable about contraceptives. What if he was seeing someone younger? She could out me.

  “You’re not dating anyone right now, are you?” I said, before I had a chance to think through the implications of my question.

  “Oh no, since my wife passed, I’ve devoted my life to keeping her memory alive.” He looked at me oddly. Oh God.

  “It’s just that my mother’s single and I thought you might be available,” I said so he didn�
��t think I was hitting on him, which was an even worse idea, since my mother wasn’t single and even if she was, would never consider dating, never mind marrying, a white guy.

  “Thanks for your concern, but I’m fine,” he said. “I think you’d be a fantastic asset to our program, what with your knowledge of the latest trends in reproductive technology.”

  When my no-nonsense journalism instructor announced on my first day that I would need to find a remote job placement, I knew Life Plan B had hit a major snag.

  “Forget it,” said my mother. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Why not?” I said. “It’s part of my program to do a practical component.”

  “Do it in Toronto.”

  “But it’s impossible to get hired in Toronto while you’re in school. They’re looking for people who already have regional experience. I have to go somewhere regional.”

  “It’s forbidden in Islam for an unmarried woman to leave home,” said my mother.

  “No, it’s not. Where does it say that?”

  “In the Qur’an.”

  “It’s not in the Qur’an. Show me, if you’re so sure.”

  “Fine, I read it somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s not important,” said my mother. “The point is you’re not leaving home unless you get married. People will talk. She left home and who knows what she did while she was gone.”

  Ah, the real problem.

  “But you left home,” I countered.

  “And it nearly killed my parents,” said my mother. “They were worried about my reputation. It’s difficult for girls to get married if their reputations are ruined.”

  “Why does marriage have to be my end goal?”

  “Because you’ll be lonely after I die.”

  “At least I’ll have a job.”

  My mother wouldn’t budge.

  I called the local paper, hoping for a miracle.

  “Oakville Beaver,” said a disgruntled voice.

  “Hi, I’m a journalism student from Ryerson, and I wanted to know if you’re accepting interns.”

  “Not really,” he said. “We don’t have the budget.”

  “I could bring knowledge to your paper that no one else can,” I said, desperate.

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “Ever heard of Norplant?”

  “Yeah, my girlfriend uses it.”

  “Do you know how to calculate the internal surface area of a rotating cube?”

  He hung up on me. I sat with my head in my hands. The phone rang and my mother answered.

  “Really, he can crack his wrists and get out of handcuffs,” said my mother. “No, thank you. Even we have standards.”

  My life was over. Again.

  Then the Gulf War broke out.

  I realized that I had a distinct advantage in my classroom. Muslims were too busy trying to get into medical school, which left me as the sole representative of my people in the class. I decided to be strategic and write an article about how CBC’s The National was covering the Gulf War. Playing on the goodwill of the journalism community for student reporters, I booked an interview with David Bazay, The National’s producer.

  “You’re a student at Ryerson?” asked David as I made myself comfortable in his office, which was just off the main hub of the news department.

  “Yes,” I replied, trying to look authoritative. “I’m concerned about how your reporters are covering the Gulf War.”

  “What are you concerned about?” he asked worriedly. “Is there bias in our reporting?”

  I had no idea. I just wanted a job.

  “Do you think a Muslim woman in hijab could ever be hired as an on-air television reporter?” I asked. “Because then for sure it wouldn’t look like you were discriminating.” He looked at me with interest.

  “Once I wore a toque while I was delivering a news report on camera. My producer told me to lose it or I’d be gonzo,” he told me matter-of-factly.

  I took that as a no. “So I couldn’t do the weekend report?”

  “Have you got any regional experience?” he asked. “Because we hire from the CBC outposts. Have you considered moving up north?”

  I couldn’t tell him my mother wouldn’t let me. It would hamper my credibility as a street-savvy reporter. I needed another strategy. “Did that reporter just pronounce Muslim as ‘moozlim’?” I asked, watching a news report on the monitor in his office.

  “That’s not how you pronounce it?”

  “No, he’s pronouncing the first part like ‘mooing,’ as in a cow,” I said as confidently as I could. “Pronounce it like the ‘puss’ in pussy cat.”

  “That’s fascinating,” said David. “I didn’t know we were pronouncing these terms incorrectly.”

  “And you’re mispronouncing ‘Tariq Aziz’ as well.” Tariq Aziz was Saddam Hussein’s right-hand dude. “The second syllable shouldn’t sound like ‘reek’ as in smells bad. It should sound like ‘Rick’ as in ‘Rick Astley.’”

  I looked around the newsroom. There wasn’t a lot of diversity, so there wasn’t anyone around to challenge my authority on how to pronounce things properly. David called in his secretary.

  “Yvette is a Christian Arab,” he explained. “She can tell me if you’re right.”

  I said “Muslim” and “Tariq Aziz” for her.

  “She knows how to pronounce words,” said Yvette. “So what?”

  “Did you know the reporters were saying them incorrectly?” he asked her.

  “I don’t pay attention to the news,” she said in a grumpy voice. “I just look after you.” She walked out.

  David sat down and scratched his head.

  “How would you like a part-time job?”

  “Done. Should I wear a red scarf? I think it would help my head pop on camera.”

  “You’re not going on camera, but this is what I want,” said David. “This war is gonna take a while and we need to know more about the makeup of the Muslim community in Canada.” He gave me a job to come up with a detailed report, and I spent my Christmas holidays researching. It wasn’t the sexy journalism job I had hoped for, but I figured Bernstein also had to start somewhere.

  “So how is the job hunt going?” asked No-nonsense Instructor when we got back from our holidays. Other students had secured jobs as reporters in far-flung areas of various provinces. I told him that I had a job.

  “That’s not a real journalism job,” he said. “A reporter is not someone who writes reports. Find a real one or else.”

  Ugh.

  I went back to David.

  “We appreciated your report,” he said. “Very useful for the rest of the reporters.”

  “Which I’m not allowed to be.”

  “Not unless you’re willing to move to Nunavut,” he said.

  “I have an allergy to polar bears,” I said. “The fur just sends me into anaphylactic shock. Do you have any jobs in the newsroom?”

  He mulled it over.

  “We have the weekend night shift for Newsworld,” he said. “No one ever wants that.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We hire people to monitor the news feeds and summarize key stories for the night reporter.”

  “But I’d be writing the news?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  I was saved.

  “You’re working in the middle of the night?” asked my mother.

  “Ummi, I go into work at 8 p.m. and work until 8 a.m.,” I said. “It’s perfectly safe.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Do not walk around downtown Toronto at 2 a.m. People might talk.”

  My friend Janice, whom I’d met at Ryerson, worked the weekend overnight shifts with me. We read the news feeds and summarized the most important stories. But our biggest responsibility was to wake up David if something major happened in the world. There was a rumour circulating around the CBC that when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, the night attendants hadn’t thought it was a big enough news s
tory to wake up the news executives. They were fired. Needless to say, the two of us were nervous about missing another big story.

  “North Korea just stationed troops near the border of South Korea,” said Janice.

  “What would happen if North Korea attacked South Korea?” I asked her.

  “World War Three,” she said. “Or maybe nothing.”

  I couldn’t afford to lose this job. I called.

  “Hello,” said David’s groggy voice on the other end.

  “Sir, North Korea has troops on South Korea’s border,” I said.

  “Have they attacked?” he asked.

  “No, they’re just massed at the border,” I replied.

  “They do that all the time,” said David. “Don’t call me unless they attack. And, Zarqa …”

  “Yes,” I said, worried about his tone of voice.

  “That rumour you heard was just a rumour. If something serious happens, one of our bureaus will call us. So please don’t call me again or you’ll be gonzo.”

  I hung up.

  I was pretty woozy in my editing class on Monday mornings. It was a detail-oriented class and I just didn’t have the attention span after staying up all night on Sundays fretting about the North Koreans. The instructor pulled me aside.

  “Your marks are abysmal,” he said.

  “Yeah, I’m a little tired in class,” I said.

  “I’m afraid I can’t pass you.”

  “What? You’re flunking me out of journalism school?”

  “We’re putting you on academic probation. We’ll watch your grades and see how you’re doing in other subjects.”

  “So as long as I pass everything else, I’ll be okay?”

  “You’ll have to take the editing class a second time,” he said. “We have standards to maintain.”

  When I got home that evening, I must have looked pensive.

  “What’s wrong?” asked my mother as she chopped some onions.

  “I failed editing class.”

  “But you’re not going to fail journalism school?”

  “As long as I pass the second time, I’ll be okay.”

  “So smarten up.”

  I was surprised. I thought she’d pull out her old wedding dress to see if it would fit me.

  “My parents came to visit me when I was in teachers’ college,” said my mother as she put the onions in a frying pan. “My father came to pull me out. But when my mother saw how happy I was, she insisted that I be allowed to finish.”