by Zarqa Nawaz
My previous requests, I admit, had been idiotic: Could the roof be super pointy, like the Hansel and Gretel house? Apparently not, since it would involve danger pay for the roofers, not to mention the house wasn’t designed that way. Or could the electric sockets be in the middle of the walls so I wouldn’t have to bend down to plug in the vacuum cleaner? After all, Doug gave my father-in-law an electric socket in the middle of his wall next door so he could plug in a giant framed photograph of the Kaaba that he bought during the hajj. The picture was a masterpiece of Islamic kitsch, showing not just the Kaaba itself but the surrounding buildings complete with tiny red and yellow lights built into the four minarets, which blinked on and off continuously.
“That picture is the height of tackiness. Should you really be encouraging my father-in-law to have it up on his wall?” I asked Doug when he hung it up.
“It’s his picture. If he likes it, he can put it up.”
“But the blinking lights are a violation of the health code,” I insisted.
“How’s that possible?” asked Doug.
“I feel an epileptic seizure coming on whenever I look at it.”
Doug just ignored me. He listened to my father-in-law as if he were God, but ignored me like the irritating patron saint of stubbed toes: no sale on my vacuum cleaner sockets or fairy-tale roof.
In all honesty, it was a good thing that he stopped listening to my attempts to build a house that resembled something out of the Brothers Grimm. I had obsessed over home décor magazines and tried to use their ideas to mixed, mostly disastrous results. Why couldn’t an accent wall colour match an accent grout colour? I picked out a dark orange grout for the tiled floor upstairs, which unfortunately dried to the same fluorescent hue as the school bus that picks up my kids. Doug was forced to meticulously paint over it with a coloured sealant so he wouldn’t have to rip out the entire floor. By the time I mounted those stairs with Zayn in my arms, he was at the end of his rope.
But this time my request was a serious one. From the time we are infants, Muslim children are taught to sit calmly on the commode while doing our business, use toilet paper for number two, and then rigorously wash our private parts by pouring water from the jug that’s always conveniently sitting by the toilet. And yes, even the boys have to sit while peeing. White people may say that Islam is a backwards religion, but the sharia got our men to sit on a toilet and we’re keeping this one because it saves our bathrooms. Religion has its uses.
Squeaky-clean butts are mandatory for everyone, as are pristine penises or vaginas, depending on your circumstances. It is part of fitra—keeping fingernails, toenails, armpit hair, pubic hair and moustaches short. The final requirement is just for men (although advisable for women as well). I needed Doug not to dismiss me this time.
“I need the toilet right next to the sink.”
“That’s where they usually go,” he replied.
“Yeah, but I need to be able to reach the tap while I’m sitting on the toilet.”
I didn’t want to elaborate, but it was obvious he wasn’t taking me seriously. I knew I’d have to tell him the truth, but I felt like I was confessing some deep, dark secret like that I had an extra belly button. I finally decided the best way was to just blurt it out.
“We wash our butts with water after, you know, we use them, and I need to be able to fill my jug with water while I’m on the toilet. Getting up and walking to another corner of the bathroom with my underwear around my ankles is kind of awkward.”
Doug looked at me for a while. I knew what he was thinking. It was a bad economy and this was a paying gig, weird religion notwithstanding. But he was horrified. I understood how he felt. When I was little I asked my parents why white people didn’t have jugs beside their toilets. Because they don’t use water, I was told. Well, what do they use? After toilet paper, nothing. It was just better not to think about it. Doug broke my reverie.
“Why don’t you just order a toilet that can wash all your parts?” he asked.
It was an astute question.
“I don’t trust those toilets. What if you press the wrong button and get a blast of hot water? Your butt is a delicate organ.”
Doug looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.
“How far do you want the sink from the toilet?” he asked wearily.
Victory. Handily, I’d brought a jug along for a demonstration. But I was holding a baby, so Doug squatted on the pretend toilet and held the jug out towards the future sink. He pretended he was turning on the tap and filling the jug and then moved it back to his crotch.
“Good for you?” he asked me.
“Yes, that’s great,” I said. Doug followed my gaze. I was staring at his crotch, though in my defence he had a jug spout pointing straight at it.
“I mean the jug, not your …” Doug removed the jug quickly from his crotch; trouble like this, he doesn’t need. How would he even explain a situation like this to the contractors’ union’s sexual harassment hotline—”So tell us again why you were pointing a watering jug at your crotch?” I tried to change the subject.
“Growing up, we used a plastic container, the kind that they sell in the dairy aisle to hold milk bags or pour juice.”
“Those are good plastic jugs,” replied Doug, glad to be on neutral territory again.
“Yeah, but sometimes the jug got mistaken for its original purpose. One time, my husband went to a potluck dinner at the mosque and they were serving grape Kool-Aid in the same plastic jugs that they used in the outhouses at Muslim summer camp,” I said. Doug was appalled.
“You guys should label your jugs more carefully,” he replied, making a mental note not to eat at mosque potlucks.
“They had ‘MYG’ for Muslim Youth Group written on them with black Magic Marker, but I guess that wasn’t specific enough. In retrospect they should have labelled them Genital Cleaning Jugs or something like that.”
My husband has never fully recovered. “It was horrible,” he says with the same revulsion twenty-odd years later.
“That’s probably the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard,” replied Doug.
I got my back up. How dare he, the non-ass-washer, criticize our imbibing habits?
“To be fair, the jug doesn’t actually come into contact with—you know. It just pours water over … them, so the pain was mostly psychological on his part.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Doug looked at the jug in his hand.
“I like this jug. It has a spout,” he replied.
“Yeah, for sure they have better aim. The only thing you have to be careful about is impalement.” This is probably why Muslims don’t drink alcohol; we can’t afford to lose our hand-eye-genital dexterity.
“Some Muslims saw off the spout, like white people saw off the barrel of a shotgun,” I tell Doug. “But I consider that the height of unsophistication. Like, only brown trash do things like that. How are you going to explain green plastic splinters stuck in your penis to an emerg doctor?”
“You could say you were in a rush,” offered Doug.
“Washing one’s genitals should never be done in haste. You should take your time, savour the moment.”
Doug said nothing.
“You can never be too careful. I had a friend who used to put boiling water in the communal watering jug to trick her sisters,” I told an uncomprehending Doug. “So you always have to be alert for sibling shenanigans. And never chop green chilies just before you wash yourself. I did that once when I was making shrimp and squash curry for my mother-in-law.”
“I bet that burns,” said Doug, thinking over the ramifications.
“For a long time, too. But on a positive note, it got rid of my yeast infection.
“You should try keeping a watering jug by your toilet,” I said.
“Someone would just take it,” said Doug.
“Yeah, every summer Sami is usually yelling from the bathroom because the jug is gone. One of the kids uses it to water their plants.
It’s worse when we travel. I leave my water bottle by the toilet, but the maid always takes it because she thinks it’s garbage. Sometimes in hotels we use the Styrofoam coffee cups, but recently I heard a comic named Azhar Usman making a joke about using the coffee pot—”
“What did you say?” asked Doug.
“I said usually we just use a water bottle …”
“You use the coffee pot?”
“Well, they are large enough, and they pour really well.”
“I don’t think the maids clean the coffee pots.”
“Well, I don’t make them dirty.”
“How could you do something like that to other people?”
“It’s not like it touches anything really.”
“I do not want to drink coffee from an object that’s been down there!” he yelled.
Now it was my turn to be uncomfortable.
“I promise never to use a hotel coffee pot again,” I said as solemnly as I could.
“And tell your friends to stop using them too,” he asked.
“Yes, I’ll send out a bulletin to all Muslims right away.”
“Good.” He took me seriously. White people. We had clearly reached the end of the conversation about genital washing. At least for adults.
“I was also hoping to wash the baby’s … just wash the baby, so could you put the hole for the sink a little over to the right so there’s enough counter space to lay him down?”
Doug eyed Zayn and then pulled out his measuring tape and impassively measured him. I slapped a change pad on the rough plywood counter and rotated Zayn so his diapered nether regions were directly under the future tap. I could tell Doug was more relaxed dealing with the baby’s needs than mine. Doug put markings down where the future sink would go as Zayn’s legs teetered in the air.
“I just think it’s more environmentally friendly to wash the baby under the tap than waste all those pieces of pre-moistened paper.” Then it occurred to me: Maybe white people use those pre-moistened towelettes on themselves, which would make sense. I felt I had shamed Doug by implying that his own post-void cleanliness was substandard. I thought I’d give him a chance to open up about his habits.
“I’m sure baby wipes could be used by adults too. Have you ever tried it?”
Doug said nothing. Okay then. But I could tell he was building to something.
“Do men clean themselves too?” he asked. What a question.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t they?”
“Well, men stand up and then just shake …”
“There’s no standing for men in Islam, much less shaking it,” I replied with as much indignation as I could muster. “They sit like the rest of us. The washroom is a democracy.”
“Your men are whipped,” he said.
“In washrooms, for sure.”
Awkward silence.
“The bathtubs just arrived,” Doug said, pointing at several large white plastic tubs with the wall liner attached. No tile, no grout (Doug had learned his lesson). The tubs temporarily distracted me. Doug had ordered them without consulting with me. Probably to reduce the chance of being forced to communicate.
I suddenly remembered a new cleaning issue that arose with the arrival of the bathtubs.
“Muslims have to take a ritual bath after sex called ghusl. We have to wash our whole body, not just our … sexual organs.” But I couldn’t tell if Doug was uncomfortable with my more intimate choice of words. He had vanished. I heard the front door slam shut.
I should have just stuck with ass washing.
The Packing Crate
“Turn on the TV,” said Sabreena. I was cradling the phone under one ear while washing baby food off Zayn’s face under the tap in the kitchen.
“What’s up?” I said. “Are the Patriots playing?” Sabreena and her family had just moved to Boston at the beginning of September.
“TURN ON THE TV.”
“Fine,” I sighed, and grabbed the remote. As I saw the plane go into the tower, the words “Please don’t let it be us” played over and over again in my brain.
The reporter mentioned a Muslim connection. I got a little woozy and put down Zayn, who crawled away to play with some toy cars. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t involved. I’d been home all day, plus I didn’t know how to fly a plane. But the feelings of collective guilt and fear were hanging inside me. I hung up with Sabreena, took a few breaths and assessed the situation. I was in Saskatchewan. One-year-old Zayn was obsessing over the wheels on a plastic truck, and the other three children were in school. I checked the clock; it was recess time at Massey School. I knew the girls would be running around playing with their friends, all of whom knew they were Muslim. Religion didn’t make any difference on the playground. But I just had to be sure. I called the school secretary, who was very patient with me.
“The children are safe here,” she said kindly. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Just please send someone out and make sure they’re okay,” I insisted.
“Well, it’s recess, but I’ll go check.”
A few minutes later, she called me back.
“They’re fine. Maysa says she’s sorry about trading her chicken curry sandwich for a Rice Krispies square. And Inaya says Breanne deserved the punch.”
I was relieved. They were up to their usual childhood antics.
“We would let you know right away if someone said anything to them,” said the secretary, reading my mind.
I thanked her and hung up. I spent the rest of the morning staring at the TV and fretting. The only time I could tear myself away was to set out a bowl of Cheerios so Zayn wouldn’t starve to death. What would the neighbours think of us? Would they be worried about living beside the only Muslim family on the block? The phone rang.
“This is South Albert Montessori School,” said the woman. “I’ve got Rashad here with me in the office. Are you coming to get him? He’s been waiting for about half an hour and is very upset.”
“I’ll be right there.” I threw the remote onto the sofa. “Damn it,” I said to Zayn as I buckled him into his car seat and drove to the preschool. Rashad was playing with blocks while his teacher watched him.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, scooping him up and burying my nose in his hair. “These terrorists flew a plane into towers in New York, which I had nothing to do with, and I got totally engrossed in the news.”
“I heard. Everyone’s a bit off today,” said the teacher. “While you’re here, though, did you happen to bring Rashad’s permission slip for our field trip?”
Crap. “Um, no. I’m so sorry, with all the horrible things that are happening today, I completely forgot.”
“It was due last week,” she said gently. “But I have some forms here for you to sign.” She handed me some sheets of paper. “And let’s get signatures for the rest of Rashad’s trips this term.” I quickly signed the papers. Smart teacher. Despite the world’s calamities, she still had to get her students to the science centre and the petting zoo.
As soon as we got home, I dumped out some crayons and paper on the squat plastic play table, as well as a bag of potato chips and some gummy worms, to keep the boys quiet while I obsessed in front of the TV. Canada was the only country I had ever known, but I felt as if something had changed. Nothing could go back to the way it was before.
When Sami came home, I pounced while he was still putting his coat away. I made sure Zayn and Rashad couldn’t hear us.
“Life as we know it is over,” I said, completely panicked.
“You’re overreacting,” said Sami as he looked at the boys. Zayn’s head was in the potato chip bag, where he was licking the salt off the inside of the foil. Sami removed the bag. Rashad was picking gummy worms out of his hair and eating them.
“You’re underreacting,” I replied.
“I think people can distinguish us from terrorists.” Sami brushed crumbs off both boys.
“People are really angry with Muslims right now,” I sa
id. “They are not going to forgive us.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, so we don’t need their forgiveness. Let’s turn this off,” said Sami, gently uncurling my fingers from around the remote. I heard the school bus pull up. Maysa and Inaya stomped into the house. I quickly ran over to them to make sure they weren’t traumatized by the attacks. I enveloped them in a big hug. They pushed me away.
“How can you see us on the playground?” asked Maysa, angry. “I had to give back the Rice Krispies square. You never make those.”
“Those things are just air,” I said. “I’m giving you real food.”
“Why does Maysa think you can see her from the house?” asked Sami.
“It’s because Mama can see through brick,” Inaya said nonchalantly. “Breanne deserved her punch. But the principal said I can’t hit her anymore. When Mama takes a shower, can she still see us?”
Sami looked at me.
“I’m going to make sure your parents are okay,” I said and headed next door. My mother-in-law was on the phone with Sabreena. I could tell she was worried about her daughter. Two days ago, Sabreena had flown to the States with her three kids to join her husband, Amir, who was starting a post-doc at Harvard. The move was so recent that a white packing crate full of their things was still sitting in her parents’ driveway waiting to be picked up by the movers. My mother-in-law gave me the phone.
“Are you okay? I don’t think it’s a good idea to live in the U.S. right now,” I told Sabreena.
“It’s bad timing,” she replied, “but we have to get on with our lives.” Sabreena and I were really close, and I already missed her. With that day’s panic in the air, I wanted her home.
“I think it’s safer in Canada,” I said as I watched my father-in-law come home from the office where he worked as an ear, nose and throat doctor. He put his briefcase down and untied his shoes.
