“About what?”
“About the world we live in. With the shootings and the bombings…”
“You didn’t make the world we live in,” I said.
She sighed and offered a tired smile. “I haven’t made it any better, though. Apart from you and your sisters. Did you see the latest?” She turned her laptop around so I could read the screen.
AL-QAEDA IN NORTH AFRICA CLAIMS RESPONSIBILITY
Weird: I’d never even heard of that particular splinter group. Not that it mattered; I wanted to soothe my mother. “Yeah, but I also read that an old ISIS flag was left on the White House lawn, and that there are a hundred other, undetonated bombs out there.” I wasn’t lying. I had read those things. But my mom could never truly parse the differences between internet rumors and what was real. Nor could my dad. I couldn’t blame them. They grew up in a different age.
“Thank God nobody was killed,” I said, just as Mom said the exact same thing.
She laughed. I returned the laugh as best I could. I knew she wanted to say more, but she was probably worried she would sound either too cynical or too upbeat.
I stepped toward her and wrapped my arm around her shoulder.
“Nobody was killed,” I repeated, a whisper in her ear.
In the end, that was all that mattered. The rest was all part of the same giant lie, even though it pointed to the same truth. People were afraid. And on one level I got it. I did. If the narrative of “radical Islamic terrorism” was all you knew—if you lived in that bubble—then your lens was distorted. Trouble is, when people don’t see clearly, they don’t think clearly. Ignorance warps into fear, fear hardens into hate. But it didn’t have to be that way, did it? Didn’t some wise person somewhere once say that fear is the first step of wisdom?
I WOKE UP Monday morning certain I should do something different. I thought of the sign at All Souls Church. LOVE RADICALLY. Maybe this was the way to get into that Ramadan spirit. Yes! Perfect.
Today was a day for radical love. It would have to be. Especially because my EDS—the reason I couldn’t fast—was acting up, and that always made me grumpier than usual.
I was first diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome when I was five. EDS is a genetic disorder that affects roughly one in five thousand people. So: Lucky me! Basically it means I have more elastic tissue and weaker ligaments than most people. It also means I can wake up feeling extra fatigued and achy. (Like today.) On the other hand, I’m one of the lucky ones. For many, EDS can be degenerative, even fatal. It’s why I’m not allowed to play competitive sports. It’s also the reason why I spent my childhood glued to my desktop computer…and of course the reason that this morning it took me a little longer than usual to get myself ready and down the stairs.
The kitchen was in typical chaos. I sat down and started gobbling my bowl of cereal as quickly as I could. Hala was clearly in a pissier mood than I was. Yasmin’s eyes were on her oatmeal.
I wondered what my sisters were thinking. And how much they knew. Mom and Dad had made a point to keep them away from the news all day Sunday. Which I got. It was Ramadan. A month of mercy and peace. And their anniversary.
Mom and Dad got married ages ago during the last week of Shaban, the month prior to Ramadan. And then a week later, instead of going on a typical honeymoon, they went on umrah—the lesser pilgrimage to Mecca—during the first week of Ramadan. Mom said it was like an Islamic baptism, a divine bath in the ocean of humanity; Dad said it was like a total reboot. They went to the Kaaba, that black cube-shaped “House of God” in Mecca, the directional beacon toward which all Muslims pray. Tradition holds that Adam and Eve built the Kaaba as an earthly manifestation of the heavenly home from which they were cast. The outside is draped in flowing black silk and embroidered with gold verse. The inside is empty, a void. In a way, that’s the whole point of Islam—to empty the heart (and mind) of everything but God and love. And to know that the two are one and the same. To feel that awe and to humbly submit to it, with gratitude.
But that was then, in the all-consuming presence of the Kaaba. Here in Arlington, Hala had no gratitude—for anything, especially breakfast. And today was her day “off.” Mom didn’t want her to fast every day since she’s so petite, and besides, she’s a third grader. Not necessary. “This bread is burnt,” she grumbled.
I wasn’t feeling a whole lot of gratitude, either. I stood to dump my dishes in the sink. Dad lifted a slightly blackened slice from Hala’s plate. He dangled it between his thumb and his forefinger.
“I know that young people sometimes refer to a failed thing as toast,” he said in a mock-serious voice. “As an academic, I understand the roots of this symbolism. But I am a stickler for the literal. I believe that toast should be defined as bread burnt to the point of crispiness.” He turned to Mom. “Your thoughts, Madame Professor?”
“I concur with your definition of toast, Monsieur Professor,” Mom said with the same exaggerated formality. She grabbed the offending slice from him. “You, Monsieur, may have your own toast at iftar.” She walked over to Hala and put a bowl of oatmeal in front of her. “I do apologize for the toast, but these are your options. Eat something, or you will be toast!” she said, placing her hands squarely on her hips.
Hala protested, but quickly dropped it when Mom continued to stare her down. She lifted a spoonful of oatmeal to her soured face.
On any other day I would have rolled my eyes and left. But seeing my parents now, united in their corny sense of humor, I tried to imagine them as two lovestruck young pilgrims. I tried to see them in the vast crowd around the Kaaba. I actually thought about what our imam said during Saturday’s iftar, how everything we do as Muslims, whether it is fasting or going on pilgrimage or giving in charity, we do for the sake of emptying ourselves, to rid ourselves of the human ego. Ultimately the only thing that matters is whether we go out into the world with love and light guiding our hearts.
I vowed to approximate some of that feeling today. Or to try.
“Bye, everyone,” I said.
“Call Mrs. DLP today if it gets too bad!” Mom called as I moved slowly to the door.
“I will,” I yelled back. I got the subtext. Mrs. DLP—aka Lisa de la Pena’s mom—and I had an appointment for later in the week. But it wasn’t that the EDS was acting up so badly; it was that Mom knew how Mrs. DLP always gave me a mood lift, ever since I’d been first diagnosed. She was practically an honorary auntie.
“Thanks, Mom,” I added. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, dear.”
* * *
—
As I walked outside, I put my game face on. At the very least, I would focus on the positives. I would start with Sunday’s scare itself. There’s a verse in the Quran that basically says: Each soul is as valuable as the entire universe. All these little universes, living, breathing…all had survived. I have to admit that I was also relieved for a selfish reason. Because what if those rumors about Al-Qaeda in Yemen were true? Would people think that I had blood on my hands because I was Muslim, that I was somehow complicit? That maybe, even remotely, a part of me sympathized with Muslim asshats?