Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [129]
“Yes, they do,” I admitted, raising my voice. “Dominance matters to the other side and it matters to us. The only difference is that when we win we won’t kill everyone. I think that’s an important distinction. Don’t you?”
Ziad swished his tea around in his mouth and took big puffs on the hooka. “Why do you do this?” he asked, looking at me intently.
“What?”
“This Islamic reform stuff.”
“I already told you. I’m trying to get a think tank going. I want to create a legislation monitoring program that allows us to track the modernization of Islamic law in various Muslim-majority countries. I want to challenge theocracy and terrorism from an Islamic perspective. I want to create a liberal fatwa factory. I want to promote the creation of images so that Islam has an artistic renaissance like that of the Europeans.”
“I’m not asking you your plans. I want to know what your motivation is.”
“My motivation is Islamic reform,” I replied, speaking with exaggerated clarity.
“No. You aren’t following. Why do you throw yourself into Islamic reform? Why do you care about that in particular?”
“I like helping people,” I said. “Look, are you trying to evaluate me? Maybe deconstruct me? How about this: I help people because I’m not happy inside. I’m insanely lonely, and all this is a way for me to make myself feel better. Is that what you wanted to hear, Oprah? Should I shed some tears?”
“Now you’re just mocking me,” Ziad said. “Here’s my issue. If you just want to help people, why not become a lifeguard? Why not work with the homeless in…I don’t know…Philadelphia? Why are you chasing around shaykhs and princesses in the Middle East? Why are you putting up—”
“Islam!” I shouted, fed up with his obstinacy. “It has to do with Islam! I’m doing it for Islam! Isn’t it obvious?”
I thought this would shut Ziad up, but it didn’t. “Ali Eteraz, there are a lot of people in this world who know Islam better than you,” he said. “Why not leave it all to them? Why not give your ideas and suggestions to them? Hell, why not go back to practicing law and raising the money yourself and becoming wealthy enough to buy your own think tank?”
I yanked the hooka nozzle back from him. “I want to get my hands dirty.”
“Why?”
“Do you know the story of the Black Stone?” I asked.
“The one in Mecca? Yeah. It came down from Paradise, and the Prophet Ibrahim made it the cornerstone of the Ka’ba. You kiss it and it cleanses your sins.”
“Yes. Did you know that it used to be white?”
“It did?”
“Yes. And now it’s black.”
“Your point?”
“It’s black because billions of hands have touched it and made it dirty. Do you know what I want to do about it?”
“What?”
“I want to take a rag and clean it. Ever since I was little, that’s been my dream.”
Ziad laughed. “You’re an odd one.”
“Don’t laugh: this is very serious.”
“So you’re on a quest, then?”
“Yes.”
“I hate to repeat myself, but…why?”
“There are things that define a person’s life. In my case it’s a covenant that was made at the Ka’ba before I was born.”
“A covenant?”
“Yes.”
“Are you making this up? People don’t do that kind of thing in today’s world.”
“Yes, they do. I’m living proof!”
“So what does your covenant involve?”
“Simple. In exchange for my being born a male, I would become a great servant of Islam. That’s the deal my parents made. At birth I was given the name Abir ul Islam. It means Perfume of Islam. I was supposed to spread Islam like a fragrance. When I was still an infant, my parents rubbed my chest against the Holy Ka’ba. I took my first steps in the sacred city of Mecca. My draw to Mecca was so strong that when I was on hajj with my parents—I was less than a year old then—I crawled away from them and went off into the desert. Must have been following Muhammad’s path, my parents assumed, once they got over worrying that I was lost. I grew up my entire childhood listening to this…this legend of what I was supposed to be.”
“Some sort of Islamic hero,” said Ziad.
“Yeah. For a while I even thought I was from a caliphal bloodline. Talk about the stuff of legend!”
“What happened