You Can't Tell by Looking

by Russell J. Sanders

  “So this is where you spend your lunchtime?” Gabe asks.

  “This is it. I wash, I pray, I eat. No terror plotting, as a certain fringe element around here seems to think.” I see something in Gabe’s eyes that tells me he’s heard from this fringe, and I suspect what he heard came from his cousin Shaun. “You said you wanted to know more about me and about Islam. This is me, five times a day. First I wash—”

  “The Handi Wipe yesterday?”

  I nod. “Yeah, sometimes we have to make do. Luckily Ms. Fox has paper towels and a sink here.” I go over to cleanse before prayer as Gabe watches.

  Clean and ready to present myself to Allah, I unroll my prayer rug and place it on the floor, facing east toward Mecca.

  “We use a rug to pray because a clean place is required, and the rug insures that. Luckily for me, Ms. Fox lets me keep this one here. I do have the one in my locker that I carry home each day so I have it when I pray in the woods. You see how I placed the rug carefully? We must always face toward Mecca, the holy city, when we pray. Oh—we also always remove our shoes to keep the place clean.” I remove my shoes as Gabe gazes, hanging on my every word. I find myself fascinated by the blue of his eyes. Earlier I’d called it sea-blue, but now it is more sky-blue.

  “And now I begin, always with the declaration of faith ‘Allahu Akbar,’ said three times. As I said yesterday, the entire prayer is in Arabic, quoting from the Quran. If I’m interrupted, I have to start all over, so please sit there”—I point to a chair—“and I’ll be finished quickly.”

  I go through my prayers, ending in English with “Allah, thank you for bringing my new friend to me. May he reap Your blessings always.” I sit a moment, letting the quiet reverence seep in, then rise, and roll up my rug. And while I do so, I look at Gabe.

  “Thanks for the shout-out,” he says.

  “You’re welcome.” I put the rug back on the counter where I keep it.

  “You can always put in a good word for me to God. Compared to our way of praying, your way seems somehow holier. Like God will listen more—” He pauses like he’s searching for a word. “—intently. Pretty impressive, your prayers,” Gabe says as he helps me move Ms. Fox’s table back to the center of the room.

  “Each section has a name and a purpose.”

  “Five times a day? Really?”

  “Most definitely: morning, midday, early afternoon, sunset, and evening. It’s very centering, if you know what I mean.”

  “Like yoga. My mom does yoga.”

  “I suppose our prayers are sort of like that.”

  “But doesn’t life sometimes get in the way?”

  I can’t believe someone my age, a guy no less, and a Protestant Christian at that, is so interested in me and my way of life. I’ve known Gabe for less than twenty-four hours, and I already feel close to him.

  “You know, life gets in the way of anything. You have a test to study for and you really want to watch Walking Dead. You have a class officers’ meeting and you run into a wall and the nurse takes you to the emergency room.”

  Gabe laughs.

  “Don’t laugh. It happened to me. You want to get to the mall as soon as the stores open so you can pick up the latest Nikes, and you have to take out the garbage, the bag breaks, and you spend the next twenty minutes sweeping up coffee grounds and desiccated banana peels. Yeah, that happened to me too. My point is that we make time for prayer, and if something comes up to keep us from it, we accept it as Allah’s will. Sometimes, you make it up later in the day, or sometimes you just go on with life, knowing you’ve tried your best.”

  “That’s all fine and good, but I’ve seen things on TV in Iran and those places, where a horn sounds and people drop everything to go pray.”

  “Believe me, they don’t all drop everything, but most do. That’s because Islam is part of the governments there, and they are very strict. In some ways, they’ve perverted our religion for their own purposes, to keep people in line. People who do dare skip prayers live in constant fear of being found out. But here, this is the US of A. Separation of church and state, you know. Everybody adapts. Your Methodists do it, and so do us Muslims. My baba sometimes has emergencies that keep him from midday prayers. Or his morning appointments run overtime. He tries to work in the prayers, but he admits that sometimes it’s just not possible. Doing prayers is worship, a chance to get close to God five times a day. But missing prayers does not make us bad people. We cope.”

  Gabe’s hanging on my every word. I feel like a celebrated imam, a great Muslim scholar, and it feels sinful to be enjoying his attentions.

  “But enough about praying. Let’s feast!” I open the sack of food I prepared this morning and pull out my two chicken sandwiches. “Hope you like chicken. Nothing but water to drink in here, but that’s okay, isn’t it?”

  Gabe gets up and grabs two cups from the nearby counter and fills them with water from the sink, and then he sits back down.

  “Your sandwiches are probably a lot better than cafeteria fare, if yesterday is any indication. And I love chicken. My favorite. My mom likes ham, but I always make her buy chicken too.”

  “We don’t eat ham,” I say. “No pork. Like the Jews. And yes, some Muslims, just like their Jewish brethren, eat a lot of bacon. But my family has never had pork and never will. It’s strange. There are Muslim traditions about food. You only eat halal meats. Those are meats from animals that must be prayed over before being killed or else they’re considered haram, unclean, forbidden. Pork, prayed over or not, is considered haram. Anyway, my family doesn’t eat strictly halal, but we don’t eat pork. I think it’s one of those Dad things. He grew up not eating pork, being taught it wasn’t allowed in Islam. Dad’s changed an awful lot over the years. He, thanks to Mama’s influence, believes we have to adapt to the world we live in. Some traditions stay, others go. We strictly observe prayers but don’t eat halal. But he still won’t touch pork and forbids it in our home.”

  “What if a really strict Muslim accidentally had some? I don’t know, like he ate a bit of deviled egg that had bacon bits in it?”

  “No prob. We’re covered. Accidents are okay. It’s the on purpose that’s a sin. For my family. And a lot of other Muslims. But don’t get me wrong, all religions change and adapt. Muslims who eat pork are not going to hell. You mentioned your mom. Tell me about her. And your dad.”

  “Well, my mom is one of the greatest cooks on the planet. Learned that from her mom. Grandma could whip up a fantastic meal in fifteen minutes flat. You can come over for dinner sometime. I’ll make sure Mom doesn’t make her beloved ham. She sews for people too. That’s something else her mother got her into. I’m not talking about just putting on a button or mending a rip in the seat of your pants. Mom can look at anything someone is wearing, and before you know it, she has whipped it up in your size. And smart. If I have a math problem I need help with, I always go to Mom. My dad is useless with math.”

  “She sounds amazing. What’s her name?”

  “Mary.”

  I laugh, and he stares at me like I’ve offended his life’s blood. I’m horrified. I quickly say, “No, I’m laughing because my mother’s name is Maria. Mary, mother of Jesus, is a big deal in the Quran, and a lot of Muslim women are named Maria, Miriam, Maryam. My mom’s parents chose Maria for her name because their ancestors were from Catalonia, a region in Eastern Spain. Spanish Muslims. Who’d a thunk it, huh? But my Mom’s maiden name was Vila. Mary/Maria. Looks like your mom’s parents and my mom’s parents think alike.” Now he laughs with me. “What about your dad?”

  “My baba?” he says, and I smile. “I figured it out. You call your dad that. Is that a Muslim thing too?”

  “No, that’s a Turkish thing.”

  “Well, my baba, is—was—an insurance agent. He was the cream of the crop in my hometown, not just in his company, but from what I’ve heard, every company in town. That’s why he was transferred here and given a big promotion. I’m not sure what his new job entails,
but I do know he has a fancy job title and is making a lot more money. I’m very proud of him. As proud as you are of your doctor parents, I’m sure.”

  I stare at him, taken aback, wondering how he knows my parents are doctors. I don’t remember it coming up. Not in our walk home yesterday or our Skype session last night.

  “How’d you know my parents are doctors?”

  “Shaun told me.” I try not to look disgusted at the mention of his cousin’s name. “Your dad’s a cardiologist and your mom’s a gynecologist. Am I right?”

  “Yep. Baba came over from Turkey to attend university here, and they met. Mama’s American born and raised, and Baba’s naturalized. To hear him tell it, it was love at first sight.” I think of his morning story involving the burqa and the niqab, and I smile. I love Baba so much. And Mama too.

  “So did your mom grow up Muslim?”

  “Yeah. Not super strict, but they kept the traditions some. Her ancestors fled Catalonia because they were Muslim. They came over here, and within a generation, the Vilas were apple pie American. Her parents weren’t too happy she fell in love with a foreigner, a Kurd no less, but they met my father, and they fell in love with him as fast as Mama did.”

  “What’s a Kurd? Haven’t I heard that before?”

  “Probably. Lots of Kurds in Iraq. Kurds are an ethnic group from the mountains of the Middle East, Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Turkey. The parts of those countries the Kurds are from are collectively called Kurdistan.” I’m surprised at my scholarly explanation. I remember it, rotely, from a report I had to give in fifth grade entitled “My Genealogy.”

  “And I guess from your grandparents’ initial reaction that Kurds are bad?”

  “Not really. The stereotype is that Kurds are violent people. They fought for recognition during World War I and some’re still fighting today for their rights. And since we’re mountain people, city folks look down on us, I guess. Despite the fact that Baba came from all this, he doesn’t talk much about it. And what I’ve just told you might be my projection, rather than absolute truth. I’m American. I don’t really care a whole lot about my ancestry.” I pause. “What’s yours?”

  “I don’t know much. Mom and Dad haven’t told me a lot. What little I know about our heritage came from my grandparents, the ones I lived with this summer—Dad’s parents. They knew my mom’s folks well, so when I asked, they filled me in somewhat. Mom’s folks lived in our little town forever. I do mean forever. Her great-greats were among the first settlers there. Dad’s family came, originally, from England. They were Methodist since before arriving in this country, so that just got handed down from generation to generation. Like you said about yourself, we’re just Murricans.” He says that like a hillbilly with a twinkle in his eye and a funny little smile, and I melt.

  But I can’t let him see that I like him. I’ve just made a friend, and he can’t know I’m gay. That might ruin everything.

  Chapter 3

  Timur

  I REMEMBER everything. Most people think a kid of ten would block it all out, banish it. But I didn’t. It’s still as clear as when it happened.

  I remember that man bringing her back. His shouting in Turkish. I never learned but bits and pieces of my parents’ language, but I remember how angry the man was.

  He thrust her into the room as he ranted. My father tried to push him away while grabbing her and pulling her from him. Baba answered the man’s anger with anger of his own.

  Finally the man went away, leaving her on the couch beside me. Baba raved at her, gesturing wildly, his face filled with fire. I’m not sure she knew what he was saying. I understood nothing except the one English word he used, honor. I’d heard the word before, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. Or why he kept saying it over and over.

  At last, he calmed. She sat. Weeping. Quietly. His unintelligible words had broken her. Baba left the room. After a time, he came back, holding his hançer, the dagger he’d shown me proudly so many times.

  I sat, wondering. One moment I was content, watching the TV that still blared the cartoons I loved so; next I was thrust into the turmoil of all this.

  Baba walked with purpose, came behind the couch, and stood right behind her. In a flash, the hand holding the dagger sliced it across her throat and blood spurted everywhere. I don’t know if the sound I heard coming from her was a tiny scream or the sound of a final gasp of breath.

  “I do this for our family’s honor,” he said, no emotion in his voice.

  As she bled out, he came round and said, “Come.” I got up and followed him.

  Baba took me out of the apartment, into his work truck, and we drove. Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of my uncle’s house.

  Opening the truck door, he once again said, “Come.”

  We walked up the sidewalk. He knocked. I heard the faint sound of crickets in the night, waiting for Amca to come.

  The door opened, and there stood Amca Aram, Aunt Maria behind him. They must have been shocked by the blood on Baba.

  “Sivan, what has happened?” Amca said, alarm heightening his voice.

  “I’ve killed my Delal. For the family’s honor.” Baba spoke slowly and deliberately. Then he pushed me toward Amca. “You must raise Timur now. I must go to the police and turn myself in.”

  Amca said, “I’ll go with you,” as my aunt pulled me toward her, holding me to her as if she would never let go.

  Chapter 4

  Gabriel

  THE FRONT door slams as I go inside, leaving Kerem to go to his own house. I toss my backpack onto the floor by the door and head to the kitchen. I’m starving. That chicken sandwich was good, but it wasn’t enough to fill my perpetually empty gut. I usually scarf down a huge lunch in the school cafeteria, and on days I have swim practice, I take snacks to have before and after. That thing that moms say, that you can’t swim until thirty minutes after you eat, is a fairy tale. I could eat three Whoppers and then go swim and never have a problem. And believe me, my swimming’s a strenuous workout.

  Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table, perusing one of her forty thousand cookbooks. Hearing me come in, she looks up.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she says.

  “Who did you think would be coming into the house unannounced at this hour of the day? Your boyfriend?” I give her a conspiratorial wink, then smile broadly.

  She gives me that Mom look, like she’s having none of my jibes at her. But she’s just playin’. “My boyfriend, young man, is at his desk right now at American Mutual Insurance.”

  “So no afternoon delight?” I love teasing her, and as I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten bolder with my jabs.

  “Not today or any day. I am a good Christian woman. And don’t you forget it.” She is a good Christian woman, but you’d never know from the laugh in her voice when she said it. “I guess I was startled it was you because A: I was engrossed in this wonderful new cookbook I got this morning, Perfect Afternoon Tea for the Modern Brit, and B: I’m so used to you staying after school for swim practice that I didn’t realize the team probably hasn’t started their workouts yet.”

  “Well, A: Does Dad know how much you love your Amazon Prime membership? And B: Coach says next week. Nice guy. Kid I met yesterday says his team really likes him. I’ll miss my coach at home” —she raises her hand to stop me, but I don’t miss a beat when I continue. “—I know, this is home now. Anyway, I’m truly looking forward to getting back into the pool and working out. My trunks are so dry, they’ll probably melt at the first drop of water. I haven’t been in them for five days now.”

  “The Y has a pool, I’m told. Your dad joined this summer for the whole family. Maybe your friend—Kerem, isn’t it?—would enjoy going over there now with you. Muslims swim, don’t they?”

  “The topic hasn’t come up.” I think of all I’ve learned in such a short time, and I’m surprised it didn’t come up. My guess is that yes, they do swim. “I’ve got some homework I want to do before I forget what the teacher said, so I’
ll pass on the Y.” I grab the bread, undo the twist tie, take out two slices, and then raid the fridge for sandwich fillings.

  As I make my sandwich, piling it high with—yes—ham, turkey, salami, pickles, tomatoes, lettuce, three kinds of cheese, and mayo, Mom says, “I’m thinking of doing some baking. I thought it would be nice to take goodies to the neighbors to introduce us. What with moving and getting the house ready to live in, I haven’t had a moment’s rest all summer. Now I have some time, I want to try some of these new recipes I’ve found this afternoon. There’s a yummy-looking one right here for bacon maple scones. What d’ you say? The neighbors would like those, don’t you think?”

  I turn to her and shake my head. “Not Kerem’s family. No pork for Muslims. And you’d better check to see if any of the other neighbors are Jewish. A lot of them don’t eat pork either.”

  “You mean Muslims and Jews never get to have a nice baked ham? What a strange world they live in.”

  Mom can be a bit dense sometimes.

  “You know, Gabriel, I suddenly realize that in our hometown, we never came into contact with any Jewish people. And I certainly don’t think there were any Muslims anywhere near. I don’t remember any women in those scarves they wear, and most of the men in town didn’t have beards.”

  “Mom, you’ve got a lot to learn. The scarves aren’t required, and Kerem doesn’t have a beard, so I’d bet that’s not a requirement either. We—you, I, most Americans—are brainwashed by the stereotypes that flood the news. They show us Muslims in Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, and all those other countries, and we believe they all look like that. Or worse yet, act like the terrorists.”