by Ayad Akhtar
Souhef gazed down at his son—who was sitting in the front row—and smiled warmly. “You must be asking yourselves: Why is our imam so obsessed with this event? So he made the mistake of yelling at his son? We all make these mistakes. It was wrong. We know it is wrong. We don’t need our imam to tell us…
“But brothers and sisters, please be patient as we investigate this moment, as we look more deeply into it.
“When I hurt myself with the wrench, I felt there was injustice in that pain. I wanted to know who was the cause of this injustice. But that is a false question. The real question is different: Why did I feel that this pain was unjust? After all, the wrench just slipped! It was an accident! There is no question of justice here!
“The soul has its own logic, brothers and sisters. And we must listen very deeply to this logic if we are to understand anything about what Allah wills for us.
“Because that moment was painful to me, I felt it was unjust. And it is a simple fact of my nature—of human nature—that I do not want to feel pain. Any pain. And it doesn’t stop there: Not only do I not want to feel pain…I feel I deserve not to feel pain. I feel I deserve better than pain, nice things like kindness, happiness, peace, pleasure…but not pain…
“Here is the real question, brothers and sisters: Why do I feel this? Why do I feel I do not deserve pain? Isn’t this the question? Isn’t this why I asked myself who was to blame? Because I felt I was too good for pain? No? Maybe? Or maybe there is another reason?”
His voice grew louder with each question. This, and the insistent, percussive stress of certain words, announced a transformation those of us who had heard his khutbahs before knew to expect.
“Wasn’t it my love that caused me to ask this?!” he hollered now, the tinny boom of his amplified voice echoing around us, demanding our reply.
“Wasn’t it?!”
I felt something in my stomach, a gnawing and irritation, like fear.
“Isn’t it LOVE?! Love for ourselves…love of myself…love of yourself…isn’t this what makes us all think we don’t deserve pain? Isn’t it this self-love that makes us think we deserve better?!”
Again he paused. I stole a sidelong look along the row of men to my right. One was fighting not to fall asleep. Another was playing with a frayed thread on the carpet. I looked to my left, at Father. The worry on his face when Souhef had mentioned Bani Israel was gone. He yawned, bored.
Souhef was leaning into the microphone now, his lips touching it as he addressed us in a gentler, intimate tone:
“My dear brothers and sisters, let’s be patient with this question. Let’s think on it deeply. You feel pain…and you think, when you feel this pain, that you don’t deserve to feel it. Now think of your children. Think of how much you love each of them, how deeply you want them to be happy. Think about when they are in pain. How does it make you feel? Isn’t it the same feeling? Don’t you think that they deserve better than unhappiness? And isn’t this because of your love for them?
“So you see, brothers and sisters. It is love. Love of oneself that causes this feeling of injustice when we feel pain…
“You may be wondering: Why does our imam read us verses from Al-Baqara and then explain to us about the bruise on the back of his hand? You might be saying: What, dear Imam, is the connection here?
“Trust me when I tell you…this experience has everything to do with Al-Baqara. Everything!
“Let me read these verses to you again.” The imam lowered his gaze to the page open in his lap.
O Bani Israel!
Remember how I favored you.
Fulfill your promise to Me. I will fulfill my promise to you.
Of Me alone stand in awe!
Believe in what I have given. Confirm the truth you know. Be not the first to deny.
Do not give away My revelations for a trifling sum.
Of Me alone be aware!
Souhef looked up from the page. “What the Almighty is saying to Bani Israel is this: ‘Remember the blessings I gave you. But don’t put those blessings first. Put Me first.’ Blessings come from our Lord, but we must not honor the blessings before we honor their source.
Of Me alone stand in awe!
Of Me alone be aware!
“Why, brothers and sisters, is Allah so concerned that Bani Israel understand this? Why only tell the Jews this? Why does our Lord say ‘Bani Israel’? Why does He not say: ‘O humankind?’”
Beside me, Father shifted in place as he kept looking to the back of the room. I leaned forward, trying to ignore the distraction, to listen more deeply. The imam went on:
“For a very simple reason, brothers and sisters: We all know Bani Israel was the Almighty’s chosen people. They were the people He LOVED more than any other for a very long time”—Souhef paused for effect, then continued with a sudden angry sneer—“until He grew sick and tired of their betrayals!”
The anger in Souhef’s voice quickened everyone’s attention. Alongside me, faces tilted, eyes cleared, gazes were now rapt. “I don’t need to tell you, my dear Muslims, I don’t need to tell you about the time Hazrat Musa, whom they call Moses, went to the top of Sinai and stayed for forty days and nights to bring back the Almighty’s Law! I don’t need to tell you what Bani Israel did when he was gone! You already know what they did! They chose the golden calf! They sang and danced and abased themselves before gold!!”
Suddenly, Souhef was virtually screaming: “And even then!! When the Almighty made them repent and he forgave them!! Were they happy? Instead of being grateful, they said: ‘Show us your God, Moses!! Show us so we can believe in Him!! Because we cannot believe a God we don’t see face to face!!’ And what did Allah do? He sent a vision that blinded them!! A light so bright they fell down and cried like children!!
“‘Please forgive us,’ they whined. ‘Please forgive us,’” Souhef mocked, making a ridiculous face. “And what did the All-Merciful do? Of course he forgave them. Were they grateful?” Souhef shook his head. “Of course not. All they did was continue to abuse our Lord and His pure love.” Souhef stopped, still shaking his head as he scanned the crowd, picking out faces he now addressed directly: “Brothers and sisters. Listen to me: When they were hungry in the desert, the Almighty sent them bread from heaven, and quails, but they refused to enter Jerusalem when they were told. And then the Almighty made Musa bring out water and springs from the rocks with his staff, and they drank. All twelve tribes of them! But even then they were not happy. They complained that life was better for them under Pharaoh. ‘Take us back to Egypt,’ they said. ‘Take us back to Pharaoh.’ They dared to say this! After all that Allah did to deliver them! ‘Take us back to Egypt…We had things better there. We had food and homes, and we didn’t have to wait for heaven to rain bread.’
“Can you believe it, brothers and sisters? What will these people not do for their own well-being?! For their own comfort?! Even betray the Lord who loves them…betray him over and over—and why?!” Souhef paused. Then he leaned forward, his teeth sounding against the microphone, and he hissed: “Because they love themselves. They love themselves more than the Almighty! They put themselves first! They believe they deserve better than others! Better than what they are given! They believe they deserve whatever they want! They have shown it time and time again as we know from examples in the Quran—and of course, as we see now in the world today with the situation in Palestine…”
A sudden hubbub of disgruntled sounds erupted: moans and whispers, coughs, joints cracking, and the rustling of shirtsleeves and slacks as the congregation grew uneasy. There was nothing to set Muslim blood boiling like the thought of the Palestinian brethren displaced from their homeland by Jews. And though neither of my parents—nor Mina—spoke much about it at home, as I felt the rising temperature around me, my own blood started to boil, too.
Father shot another nervous look at the back wall where Nathan was sitting. He turned to me, but before he could say anything, Souhef, now riding the mounting crest of
the congregation’s unruly discontent, shouted out:
“We all know that Bani Israel believes it deserves the best of everything!! They are never satisfied!! They take and take!! That was then and always will be their undoing!!”
Father took my hand and rose. I didn’t want to get up. The imam noticed Father and looked directly at him. “Do not misunderstand me, brother: Loathsome as the Jew is to you and me, and to the great Almighty, you must not confuse my message: I do not mean to say that you cannot also end up like Bani Israel. This is the real point. Putting ourselves first, believing that we deserve better than Allah gives us”—Souhef was still staring at Father, and his gaze seemed to fix him in place—“then we, too, risk losing our Lord’s favor. Just as Allah turned away from Bani Israel, who were once His favorites, Allah could do the same to you… and if you lose His love and gain His wrath, it will all be for one reason—for the same reason that I yelled at my own son: Self-love!”
Behind us, there was commotion. I turned to look, but found Chatha’s gaze boring into me, gray and unblinking.
Souhef continued:
“Self-love! That same self-love that made me think, yesterday, that I was too good for pain. When I believed I did not deserve the pain of the wrench against my hand. When I blamed and yelled at my son…in that moment, I, too, was a Jew!”
The commotion in back grew. By now, Father had pulled me to my feet.
Nathan was standing, his face flushed, his lips snarled, his eyes wild with anger. “This is disgusting!” he yelled. His trembling voice bellowed through the prayer room. “Disgusting! This is not Islam!” He pointed at the imam. “This is not Islam! This is hatred!”
All at once, the crowd was on its feet, everyone moving to the back. Father hurried ahead, pushing through the congregation, yanking me along behind him as we wove our way between the clumps of men. By the time we got to the double doors, Nathan was being shoved out of the room.
“Nathan!” Father shouted as the doors shut, blocking Nathan out.
I looked back at Souhef. He was sitting comfortably, at ease on his platform, watching the strife unfold before him like a pasha at a beheading.
“Hayat! What are you doing? Let’s go!” Father said. My shoulder hurt as he tugged, pulling me through the doors and into the shoe closet. There, Nathan was standing, stuffed into the corner, his back up against the shelves, his feet foundering on piles of shoes. Three men were pressing in; one of them kept pushing Nathan back into the corner every time he tried to step forward. “You like Jews?” the young man yapped, stabbing at Nathan’s chest with his finger. “Is that it? You like Jews? You a Jew? You a Jew? Huh? Jew?”
“Leave me alone!” Nathan shouted, batting away the young man’s hand, his feet stumbling as they searched for purchase.
“He looks like a Jew,” another man said. “Look at his nose,” he added.
Father rushed in, forcing himself between Nathan and the men. “What the hell’s wrong with you people?!” he shouted, pushing the men away. “This is a better man than any of you will ever be!”
Father turned, shoving Nathan toward the staircase forcefully. Then he reached down to grab our shoes.
Behind us, the double doors were now open. Men were gathered in the wide doorway to watch the scene unfolding in the shoe closet. Chatha stood in front, staring at us, his cadaverous gaze brightened by the mayhem. From behind the curtain of gathered spectators, Souhef’s voice continued to ring out with verses:
For Disbelievers, warn them or not, it makes no difference.
They will not believe!
Allah has sealed their hearts and ears. And veiled their eyes.
Great will be their punishment!
Nathan clambered up the stairs, step by step, stumbling as he went. He looked back once, his face pale and frozen, his eyes wide with fear.
“Hayat! Hayat! Hayat!” Father was shouting to get my attention. “Get your shoes!” I reached down for my sneakers. He grabbed me, and I scrabbled up the steps behind him in my socks, shoes dangling from both our hands. Behind us, the men were now crowding in at the bottom of the stairs. Chatha was wearing a grin as he watched us go. At the first-floor landing, I looked up. There were dozens of women standing in the stairwell, their head-scarf-framed faces sticking out over the railing as it receded—in a spiral—to the top floor. Nathan was already out the front door, making his way across the black asphalt in his bare feet.
“Filthy Jew,” I heard a woman’s voice say as we slipped out.
11
The Turn
Father bore left with the shape of the highway, driving at the sun, and all at once the dashboard was ablaze with a silver sheen. Squinting, Nathan looked away from the glare. He rolled down the passenger-side window, and the roar of passing cars broke the tense silence.
“You want to leave that open?” Father asked. “I can turn off the air-conditioning?”
Nathan didn’t answer; he didn’t even seem to register that he’d been spoken to. He was staring out the window, his expression hard against the steady gust blowing inside.
Father turned to check his blind spot, stealing a glance at Nathan as he changed lanes. “Nate?”
Without responding, Nathan rolled up the window.
Father glanced again at his friend. “I don’t understand the mind-set,” he said. “I really don’t.”
Again, Nathan said nothing. He was staring straight ahead now, his expression stony, his eyes pressed virtually shut against the silver sheen of the dashboard’s glare.
Father continued, tentative: “What is the mind-set of a person who sits around all day thinking about being hit by a wrench? And what kind of idiots does he take us for? Does he actually expect us to take this stuff seriously?”
Nathan didn’t stir. But he was listening. So was I.
“Nate,” Father went on, looking over at Nathan again, “I’ve known the man for ten years now, and I’ll tell you…I have never heard a worthwhile word come out of his mouth.”
There was a long pause.
“Can I ask you a question?” Nathan finally asked.
“Of course.”
“What would you have done if I wasn’t there?”
“If you weren’t there?” Father repeated, confused.
“Would you have stayed through the sermon? Would you have stayed for the prayer when the sermon was over…if I wasn’t there?”
“If you weren’t there? If you weren’t there, I wouldn’t have been there in the first place, Nate,” Father said with a chuckle.
“I’m serious.”
“I am, too,” Father said. “Are you forgetting that I told you this was a bad idea? I told you again and again. But you insisted.”
“And you thought it was a bad idea why, exactly?” Nathan’s tone was suddenly pointed. “Because you knew that something like this might happen?”
“I didn’t want you to go because these people are idiots! Plain and simple! They have nothing better to do with their time than to insult our intelligence. The last time I suffered through one of Souhef’s stupid khutbahs, that same numbskull went on about how many years in hell we would have to spend for telling a lie, and how many years for dishonoring our parents, and how many years for turning our backs on the Afghani brothers fighting the Soviets. He had it all worked out. Seventy years for this. Seven hundred for that. All eternity for something else. It was silly! And you should have seen their faces! Sitting there in front of him like he’s the sun coming up in the morning! Eating up all of this rubbish and taking it for knowledge!”
I smarted. Father was the one person with the least excuse to be so blithe about hellfire.
“All well and good, Naveed,” Nathan said, agitated. “But that’s not what I asked you. I asked you if you had any idea something like that might happen?”
This time, Father didn’t reply.
“Answer me, Naveed!” Nathan exploded with a shriek.
Father looked at Nathan, then back at the road. “I didn�
�t think this would happen…but I did cringe when you told him you were Jewish. I thought—”
Nathan cut him off, his voice trembling: “That sermon was not intended for me. He would have delivered it whether I was there or not. Just give me a straight answer. It’s important for me to know: If you’d been there without me, would you have stayed like the rest of them?”
“I think you’re forgetting: I defended you.” Father’s reply sounded at once wounded and defiant.
Nathan held Father’s gaze for a long moment before turning away with a nod. He sighed, and all at once, his hard expression broke. He looked exhausted. “I’m not denying that,” he said. “I’m just saying it’s probably not the first time you’ve ever heard things like that, is it?”
“It’s not,” Father said, solemn.
“I’m such an idiot. My father warned me about this. He’s said his whole life that no matter who we try to be, no matter who we become, we’re always Jews.” Nathan’s voice was filled with emotion. He turned to me with a pained, searching look. I forced a smile. I could see the sudden disappointment in his eyes. He looked away.
“What he did was wrong, Nate…but you didn’t have to get up and start yelling at him.”
“I don’t understand how you can say that, Naveed.”
“You don’t understand?”
“Maybe I do,” Nathan said, dismissive. “Maybe I do. And maybe that’s the whole point.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Somebody has to say something!” Nathan barked, his teeth clenched, as if he were trying to hold in the emotion. “If nobody says anything, people think these things are acceptable. You have to speak out. If I didn’t get up and say something—were you going to?”
“There’s a time and a place.”
