Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [109]
That Friday I dedicated a sermon to the plight of all Palestinians. Then, to specifically mourn Rami’s death, I organized an event outside the student center. Attendees read tragic poetry and held up candles in the waning evening light. The event had the lachrymose atmosphere of a wake. It was a funeral in absentia: at the end I read a eulogy called “I am Rami.” The aim of the eulogy was to evoke emotion, to elicit tears and make people suffer—to suffer as I was suffering under the mannat, suffering for the sake of Islam. With suffering we could become one with one another, a seething and pulsating and crying mass of sufferers. Only a crescendo of wails on behalf of suffering Muslims could ensure my continued relevance.
After my article the paper called me to ask about the so-called second intifada and I told the reporter that I thought suicide bombings by Palestinians couldn’t be defended, but neither was Israeli aggression justified. It made me feel honored to have my opinion sought.
As my voice spread around campus, pro-Israel students began writing scornful and angry responses via e-mail and in the university paper. One of the letters to the editor referred to the Palestinians as “savages.”
Sam found out about it even before I did and called me immediately.
“That’s the language of dehumanization!” he thundered. “You can’t let them get away with this!”
Using my authority as president of the MSA, I blasted a mass e-mail to all the prominent student activists, ethnic groups, and school officials, complaining about the offensive word. The e-mail spread all over campus, and there were many fierce and angry responses aimed toward me.
Suddenly something surprising happened: the members of the MSA, seeing their leader under attack, started coming out of nooks and crannies and extended their support. Not only that, but people who had never attended an event before—and in fact had never shown much interest in Islam—were suddenly not just aware of the MSA but looking upon it fondly. I had put “us” on the map.
“Are you the president of the MSA?” an attractive, dark-haired Latina asked me in the student center.
“Why?” I asked cautiously.
“Did you write that e-mail about the dehumanization of Palestinians?”
“Yes.”
“That was good of you,” she said, smiling. “Are you guys planning any events in the near future?”
“If you give me your e-mail address, I’ll add you to my list,” I replied, thinking that I could use that information to ask her out.
I soon discovered that it wasn’t just at the local level that I was becoming well known. Sam had shared my words with other activists all across the country, and soon they began writing me messages of support and encouragement.
Their attention—the sort of attention I didn’t receive for making the public azan, the sort of attention that had been denied to me among the believers in the Islamic Republic of Pakistan—confirmed to me that the path of resistance I had taken, this path of noise and agitation and ruckus—all of which was packaged in the word “justice”—was the path Amir ul Islam should’ve been on his entire life. I asked myself why I hadn’t stood up for Palestine before. Wasn’t it the case that many of the childhood heroes I had—Muhammad and the Caliph Umar and Salahuddin—were remembered because they had some role to play in Palestine? If I wanted one day to be considered by historians as someone who deserved to be mentioned within the annals of Islamic history, I too had to stand for Palestine.
I decided to take the political activism one step further.
“My dear brothers and sisters,” I said, standing up after the Friday prayer. “I realize that we’re not in Ramadan, the month of fasting, but if you’ve been hearing the news from Falasteen, you know that our brothers and sisters are in dire straits. They have to face checkpoints and deal with Israeli settlers, and they’re denied basic human rights like home ownership. To