No Land's Man
Page 15
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Malek Jandali,” he replied. “I’m a pianist from Syria.”
“And what award are you receiving?” I asked.
“The Freedom of Expression Award,” he answered. “You?”
“Courage in Media,” I laughed. “Honestly, these awards sound a bit overzealous, don’t they? I mean, what did you do? Dress up like Lady Gaga in the middle of Damascus?”
He gave me an odd look.
“Over the summer I performed at a rally in Washington, D.C. in support of the Syrian opposition,” he explained, “and because of that the Syrian army invaded my family’s home in Damascus and brutally beat my parents.”
“Okay, then . . .” I stuttered, tasting the dirty leather of the foot that was in my mouth. “See now . . . that’s exactly the kind of thing . . . I mean, that’s the very definition of . . . I mean good for you . . . I mean not that it was good . . . but you know . . . the thing you did was . . .”
My voice trailed off as I tried not to make eye contact.
“What do you do?” he asked, earnestly.
“Umm . . . Me?” I said. “I’m a smart-ass.”
He stared at me with a blank expression. I smiled awkwardly, buttered my bread, and wished that the Syrian army would come and shoot me.
After Jandali received his award, there was not a dry eye in the house. That was followed by my award, which was introduced with a video of me doing pratfalls and making faces into the camera. I stepped up on to the stage, received my award, then went to hug the hijabi woman who gave me the award, forgetting that conservative Muslim women don’t hug strange men, and then proceeded to do a stand-up set that they had asked me to perform.
The audience seemed to be amused, even though given the context I felt like I was personally undeserving. I realized, though, as I stood on that stage and did jokes about being racially profiled at airports and Americans being unable to tell the difference between a Mosque and a Mexican restaurant, that this was not really about me. Who I really actually was, personally, was irrelevant. They were not giving this award to me. They were giving this award to something that existed in a larger cultural context. I was the representative of an underrepresented character who looked and talked like me but was not really me. He was the creation and the handiwork of myself and many smart funny people: the jihadist of irony.
A few months after that award was given to me, my role as the mouthpiece for that character came into even starker relief when I received a call on my cell phone from Jon Stewart. Jon had never called me before and at first I didn’t even recognize his voice.
“I have a question for you,” he said. “Trey Parker and Matt Stone showed an image of Mohammad in a bear suit on South Park the other night and they are now being threatened by some Islamic website. I want to do something on the show in response. Can we have an image of Mohammad on the show?”
“No,” I said. I didn’t even have to think about it. “Definitely not!”
I didn’t say no because I was scared. I said it because it felt too easy, too incendiary.
“You’re right,” said Jon. “Fine. Can we have Jesus on the show?”
“Sure,” I said, “Jesus loves the camera.”
“Or,” said Jon, thinking for a moment, “how would you feel about talking? We do a chat at the desk and I just talk to you about how you personally feel? As a Muslim. Would you be okay doing that?”
My parents’ words came back to haunt me: If Jon Stewart asks you any questions about your opinion on Islam, don’t say a word, just have them call your mother.
I was unsettled and a little terrified.
“Can I call my mother?” I asked.
“Umm . . . sure, whatever you have to do,” said Jon. “Let me know.”
Later that day, I sat at the desk of The Daily Show wearing my suit, in front of an audience about to go on air. Jon leaned over and said, “Thanks for doing this, I know you were hesitant about it.”
“You know, Jon,” I replied, “it’s just that I’m not really a very good example of a Muslim and I can’t speak for all of Islam.”
“I know,” said Jon, as the music began and the stage manager counted us down, “but right now . . . you’re all we’ve got.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I WISH TO THANK the numerous people who made this book possible. The friends and colleagues who I cannot repay, who gave me their time and their ears as they listened to me obsessively read my stories again and again and again. Often the same story. Often the same friends. Whether it was at a formal reading, a writers’ workshop, in their homes, in their cars, over the phone, in the emergency room, or at their children’s birthday parties, they listened and they shared with me their thoughts, even if that was simply to say, “Aasif, seriously, you cannot just ignore a restraining order.” I recognize that some of those friends no longer speak to me, and they will probably never read this acknowledgment, but I still wish to thank them here, for they were paramount in helping me create this book.
I would like to offer a special thanks to my editor Emily Haynes for her tireless work and putting up with me missing every sodding deadline. And thanks to Neil Egan and Gregg Kulick for the beautiful jacket and book design, despite having to work with a photograph of me as the raw material. Also to Leigh Haber for helping me begin this process and believing that I had a book inside me. Thank you to my wonderful manager Lillian Lasalle for her commitment, encouragement, and friendship, to my amazing agent Bonnie Bernstein for her support and guidance on this and everything else, and to my literary agents Jennifer Joel and Andrea Barzvi who masterfully put all the pieces together.
On a more personal note, I would like to thank Shaifali Puri for holding my hand and never letting me doubt. Also Jill Anderson, Siddhartha Khosla, Ayad Akhtar, Janina Gavankar, Jim Wisniewski Ruma Bose, Sheetal Sheth, and Nimitt Mankad for their inspiration, wisdom, creativity, and friendship.
Thank you to all the people, too many to name, upon whom the characters in this book are based. In many cases I have changed your names, but you know who you are and I thank you for being part of the story and your teaching along the way.
Finally, I would like to thank Shabana Churruca, Jose Churruca, and Anisa Churruca who continue to teach me the meaning of family, and of course my eternal gratitude to my parents Hakim Mandviwala and the late Fatima Mandviwala, my source material, who always allowed me turn their lives into art and who never compromised their love.
AASIF MANDVI is a correspondent on Comedy Central’s The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and one of the stars of HBO’s upcoming series The Brink, for which he also serves as writer/producer. He won an OBIE award for his one-man play Sakina’s Restaurant which he later adapted into the film Today’s Special. He has appeared in numerous theater, film and television productions including the Pulitzer Prize–winning play Disgraced at Lincoln Center, and the films Million Dollar Arm and The Internship. He lives in New York City. To learn more about the glamorous life and well-informed opinions he pretends to have, follow him on Twitter @aasif.