Laughing All the Way to the Mosque

by Zarqa Nawaz

  “You’re late,” said my mother-in-law.

  “I was meeting with an RCMP officer,” he said.

  “What?” I asked, instantly alarmed.

  “He came to see me at work. One of the neighbours saw the packing cube on the driveway and thought that it was a little suspicious.”

  “Did you hear that, Sabreena?” I barked, putting her on speakerphone.

  “He just wanted to know why it was there,” replied my father-in-law.

  My worst fears had just come to life. The neighbours were turning against us.

  “Well, this is a difficult time,” Sabreena reasoned. “Maybe people just need some reassurance.”

  “The neighbour could have just knocked on the door for reassurance,” I said. “I don’t call the RCMP if I want to know why a neighbour bought a new car.”

  “Obviously they were worried,” said my father-in-law, looking as tired as I’d ever seen him.

  “They’re worried that we have a link to the towers,” I said, growing more paranoid.

  “You live in Saskatchewan,” said Sabreena. “It’s not exactly a hotbed for unrest. I mean, maybe the wheat farmers get a bit riled up when it rains during harvest season, but other than that we’re a peaceful province.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Your parents have lived peacefully in Saskatchewan for over forty years, and now in the blink of an eye people are frightened of them.”

  “Well, we lived on the same street for over thirty years and then we moved,” said my mother-in-law calmly. “Maybe the new neighbours need time to get to know us better.”

  “Sending us a muffin basket is a good way to get to know us better. The RCMP does not deliver muffins!” I may have been frothing a little at the mouth by this point. How could my in-laws not see how horrible this was? “People think we’re a danger to the neighbourhood. Maybe we should move.”

  “I thought you said Canada was safer,” said Sabreena.

  “Obviously anywhere there’s people, there’s gonna be a problem,” I said.

  “So where do we move?”

  “Where there aren’t any people.”

  “Like the desert,” said Sabreena. “You’d have to home-school the kids.”

  “I could handle that.”

  “You lied and told the preschool that Rashad was toilet-trained and put him in a pull-up for almost a year,” said Sabreena. “You can’t handle children at home—you’d go insane.”

  My sister-in-law was right. I’d spent the past month finding a day home for Zayn. He was starting the next week. I had too many children and now it was too late to escape to the desert.

  “It’ll blow over,” said Sabreena. “Let’s just give the neighbours some time.”

  “Time to mobilize the neighbourhood so they can round us up and lock us away somewhere.”

  My in-laws sat silently. My prophecies for doom and gloom were affecting their mood.

  “We can’t become despondent and just give up,” said Sabreena.

  I had an idea. We had to become proactive.

  “Let’s invite the neighbours for a giant open house,” I said.

  “So our neighbours will be more at ease with us,” said my mother-in-law.

  “So we can smoke out the one who called the RCMP,” I said.

  I came home to find Sami feeding the kids some vegetables.

  “You know I fed them already,” I said.

  “Potato chips and Cheerios don’t count as dinner,” he said. “You’ll give them diabetes.”

  “They’re young. They’ll bounce back.”

  “What are you doing?” Sami asked me as I sat down at the computer.

  “I’m making up invitations for an open house at your parents’ place. One of the neighbours thinks your father is a terrorist henchman, so I’m trying to figure out who it is.”

  “What’s a henchman?” asked Inaya.

  “Someone involved in criminal activity,” I replied as I typed.

  “Could I be a henchman?” she asked.

  “With your right hook, probably,” I said, typing out my invitation.

  “No, you could not,” said Sami, smoothing down her hair. “You have to stop punching Breanne in the playground.”

  “Can you see me from work, too?” asked Inaya.

  “We talked about this,” said Sami. “No one can see you at school unless they’re there.”

  “Is Dadu involved in bad things?” asked Maysa.

  “Nope,” I said, “but we’re gonna find out at the party who is.” I examined my simple but straightforward printout. The phone rang and Sami went to answer it.

  “That was my father,” said Sami, getting off the phone. “He wants to make it clear that this is a neighbourly get-together and not a witch hunt.”

  “Will there be witches at this party?” asked Inaya.

  “Maybe just one,” said Sami, watching me cut up and fold my invitations.

  There were at least thirty houses in our neighbourhood. I put my coat on because it was already getting cold.

  “Where are you going?” asked Sami.

  “To hand these out to the neighbours,” I said.

  “Why don’t you let me do that?”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “No,” said Sami.

  “What are you afraid that Mama will do?” asked Maysa.

  “I’m afraid she’s going to harass the neighbours,” said Sami.

  “I’m not five,” I said. “I can control my emotions.”

  “I’m five and I can control my emotions too,” said Inaya. “What’s an emotion?”

  “Emotion is a word for feelings,” said Sami.

  “Like Mama’s feeling a little crazy,” said Maysa.

  “Yep,” said Sami.

  “Can I come?” asked Inaya.

  “No, you have anger management issues,” I said. “When you stop hitting people, you can come.” I bundled Rashad into a coat and picked up Zayn.

  “You should take a stroller with you,” said Sami.

  “I’ll look more maternal if I carry him.”

  “You’re using our children as props?”

  I hauled the kids out the door.

  A few houses down, I let Rashad ring the doorbell. An elderly man answered the door.

  “Hi, I’m Zarqa, one of your neighbours,” I said, looking as innocent as I could.

  “I’m Dave. I’ve seen you around with your many children.”

  “I love children and bringing life into the world,” I said, patting Zayn’s head. “Aren’t kids such a gift?”

  Rashad bit my arm. I swatted him on his butt.

  “Ouch, Mama hit me,” said Rashad as I pinched him into silence.

  “What can I do for you?” said Dave, watching me push Rashad behind me.

  “My father-in-law is having an open house, and he’d like to invite you.”

  “That’s incredibly generous of him.”

  “Isn’t it?” I replied. “He just feels that after today’s terrible events, it’s better to get to know our neighbours so we won’t be suspicious of each other.”

  “I don’t know why anyone would be suspicious of your family,” said Dave.

  “I know, right, but someone who lives on this block called the RCMP. You wouldn’t know who that was, would you?” I watched Dave closely to see if he betrayed any signs of guilt.

  His eyes kept darting over my shoulder. He wouldn’t make full eye contact.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me, Dave? Because now would be the time.”

  “Actually, there is,” he said.

  Got you.

  “Your son just took off across the street.”

  I looked down and Rashad was gone. I could see him tearing down the block heading for a busy intersection. There was no way I could catch him with Zayn in tow.

  I threw Zayn into a startled Dave’s arms. Rashad was already out of sight as I ran down the street after him. Jill, another neighbour, spotted him and intercepted Ras
had as he ran past her driveway. She held on to him as I came huffing and puffing down the street. By the time I got to her, she had him pacified with a lollipop, which did the trick.

  “Crazy day?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I stupidly forgot to bring candy with me.” I handed her an invitation to the open house.

  “What’s this?”

  “Someone called the RCMP on my father-in-law, so now my family’s having an open house to be all friendly and welcoming,” I said, doubled over because I was having trouble breathing.

  “That’s really kind of your father-in-law,” said Jill.

  “Yeah, I’m pretending I really care too. But I just want to find the bastard. Can you make it?”

  “Will there be meatballs?”

  “I’ll ask my mother-in-law to make some,” I said.

  “Count me in.”

  Jill handed Rashad over to me. I held tightly to his hand as I returned to Dave’s house.

  “Thanks, Dave,” I said as I took Zayn from him.

  “And thank you for the invitation.”

  As I headed up my driveway to the front door, Dave caught up to me. I had dropped Zayn’s hat on the street and he handed it back.

  “By the way, I wasn’t the one who called the RCMP.”

  I took the hat and thanked him. Sami had heard the exchange at the front door.

  “You promised not to harass the neighbours,” said Sami.

  “I don’t know why he said that,” I replied. “White people.”

  “Mama pinched me,” said Rashad, showing his father the red mark on his arm.

  “I’ll give out the rest of the invitations,” said Sami. “The last thing we need is the RCMP arresting you for child abuse.”

  “We want to come,” said Inaya, getting her sweater. Maysa put on her windbreaker.

  As Sami left with Zayn and Rashad in the stroller, and the girls in tow, I put some water in the kettle for tea. After a few moments of thinking, I dialled the number for our local newspaper.

  “Leader-Post,” said the reporter on the line.

  “Hi, I’d like to report one of my neighbours,” I said.

  “This isn’t the police,” said the reporter. “Maybe you should dial 9-1-1?”

  “No, I mean one of the neighbours reported us to the RCMP, so I think you should investigate who that person was.”

  “What did the neighbour report you for?”

  “Being involved in today’s attacks.”

  “The terrorist attacks in New York?” asked the reporter. “Are you planning to attack here? There isn’t much to blow up except for the grain silos. Is that it? Disrupt Canada’s wheat distribution? That’s ingenious.”

  “I wasn’t involved,” I said, annoyed. “A neighbour saw a white packing cube in the driveway and thought it was suspicious. I want you to find out who that neighbour was.”

  “I can’t help you with that,” said the reporter. “But this is definitely worth a story.”

  “No, wait—” I said, but it was too late. The reporter hung up on me.

  The next day a story appeared in the newspaper about how a local Muslim family had been the focus of an RCMP investigation.

  “How did they find out about this?” said Sami, unhappy.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe one of your father’s patients noticed him being interrogated by the RCMP.”

  “This is terrible. A reporter showed up at my father’s office asking questions.”

  “Well, at least everyone will know the whole story now,” I said. “Isn’t that what we want?”

  “We don’t want the neighbours to think we’re having an open house just to find out who called.”

  “But the person who called will know how upsetting it was.”

  “And that person probably won’t come to the house,” said Sami. “Because they’ll feel like we just want to find them.”

  “Or they’ll come because they don’t want us to suspect that they’re avoiding us.”

  “So you’ll never really know,” said Sami.

  I googled polygraph machines. Turns out you can’t get them on a week’s notice.

  The day of the open house arrived, and the article in the newspaper had aroused everyone’s curiosity. As the neighbours filed into the house, I kept a lookout for anyone who looked a little shady.

  “Hi,” I said to an old woman trying to pour herself some tea. “Let me help you.”

  “Thank you, dear. My name is Ruth. Did you cook this wonderful food?”

  “No, my cooking isn’t this good,” I replied, thinking that Ruth looked a little nervous. “My mother-in-law made it.”

  “You’re very fortunate to have such a wonderful relationship with your mother-in-law,” she said.

  “I know. She won’t let me wallow in self-pity.”

  “She’s right,” replied Ruth. “More than ever, Muslims need to show themselves as a vital part of society.”

  “You’re right,” I sighed. “I’m going to cross you off my list of suspects. You’re too nice.”

  “She’s just joking,” said Sami, suddenly appearing beside me with the girls. I needed to put a bell around his neck so I could hear him coming. Under his breath, he said, “You promised to be circumspect.”

  “What does circumspect mean?” asked Inaya.

  “Everything your mother is not,” said Sami.

  “Look, Rice Krispies squares,” said Maysa, grabbing a bunch and putting them in her mouth.

  “I can teach you how to make those, dear,” Ruth told her.

  “Mama says they’re just air,” said Maysa. “And that’s why white people are good at making them.”

  I tried to protest, but Sami pulled me away before I could do more damage.

  “I’d like to introduce you to a neighbour I just met.” Sami led me by the elbow towards a salt-and-pepper-haired man. “Zarqa, this is Brian.”

  “Your husband told me that you’re quite concerned with improving the reputation of your community. Well, I’ve got a great idea for you. My church is looking for someone to talk about Islam this Sunday. You’d be perfect.”

  “I’m terrible at public speaking. Oh look, we’re out of chutney for the samosas,” I said, trying to make a quick getaway, but Sami blocked my escape.

  “She’s a little rusty, but that’s a fantastic idea,” said Sami. “She should do something more proactive.”

  On Sunday, I sat paralyzed on the couch. The kids came downstairs dressed for church for the first time in their lives.

  “Why are they all coming?” I asked Sami, mortified.

  “Because it’s good for the kids to see their mother doing something constructive.”

  “Can I hold one of the kids for emotional effect?”

  “Remember, we didn’t have kids to use them as props,” said Sami.

  “Maybe you didn’t,” I said.

  “I don’t want to sit beside her,” said Maysa. The other kids concurred.

  “Fine, be that way,” I said, looking at them. “But remember, I brought you into this world and I can take you out.”

  “Please don’t say that during your speech,” said Sami.

  We packed ourselves into the minivan and left. As soon as we got there, Maysa made a beeline for the snack table, where there were many varieties of Rice Krispies treats.

  “I wish Muslims made these,” she said as she devoured three pieces.

  Brian introduced me to the congregation as an expert in Islam. I stood at the podium and unfolded some pieces of paper while cursing Sami in my head.

  “Thank you for inviting me to your church today. It was really not necessary given all the other Muslims who live in the city,” I said. “But since you insisted on having me, I guess I can say a few words.”

  “Can you tell us about the five pillars of Islam?” asked Brian.

  “Sure. The first pillar is the belief in one God. Which is kind of a thing in religion.”

  “Yes, most religions do have a belie
f in God,” said Brian encouragingly.

  “And our second pillar is prayer. We have to pray a lot, five times a day, every day, and some of those times aren’t very convenient. Dawn’s at 3 a.m. in the summer here. So sleeping in isn’t a pillar of Islam, I guess.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Sami glared at me.

  “And the third pillar?” prompted Brian.

  “The third pillar is fasting, which we do in the lunar month of Ramadan. It’s essentially like Lent if you gave up food and water from dawn to sunset for thirty days. Here’s a piece of advice: Don’t. In the summer, the days are nineteen hours long, and believe me when I tell you that’s an ungodly length of time to go without food.”

  “But you Muslims do it for very godly reasons,” said Brian. “Because it reminds you to think about all the hungry and disadvantaged people in this world.”

  “So please think of me when I fast,” I said, avoiding Sami’s searing gaze. “And then there’s zakat, a charitable tax of 2.5 percent that we pay on our savings to give to the poor. The final pillar is performing the hajj, which means travelling to Mecca in Saudi Arabia and performing all the rituals there at least once in your lifetime. Apparently they don’t allow non-Muslims in, but don’t take that as an insult. If we weren’t forced to go, we wouldn’t either. If you really want sun and sand, go to Jamaica instead. It’s much more fun, trust me.”

  “Thank you for that … umm … wonderful speech,” said Brian, unsure of himself. “Is there anyone here who’d like to ask a question?”

  “Do you slaughter chickens in your bathtub?” asked a man named Charlie. “Because I heard you do weird voodoo to your animals before you eat them.”

  “We say ‘Bismillah, Allahu Akbar,’ which is voodoo for ‘In the name of God, God is great,’ and then slice the jugular with a quick flick of the wrist. It’s supposed to be as merciful a death as possible and it renders the meat halal, or acceptable to eat by Muslims.”

  “How many chickens have you killed?” asked Charlie.

  “None. But there was a time when my father-in-law had to go out to the farm to slaughter his own chickens,” I replied. “Now we just go to Walmart or to a halal meat store. So he doesn’t need all the equipment at home anymore like he used to. But there’s nothing suspicious with having that stuff in the basement, because it was only used on animals—”

  “Why don’t we just stop the talk here,” said Brian, getting red in the face. Great. I just told everyone my father-in-law had a slaughterhouse in his basement. If they didn’t think we were creepy and weird before …