The Submission - Amy Waldman [38]
9
Mo stood in the lobby of the God Box, a name that reflected both the building’s shape and the dizzying array of religious organizations it housed. The Muslim American Coordinating Council—MACC—was one of three Islamic groups listed on the directory, along with five Jewish committees and a dozen Christian ones that ranged from mainline Protestants to evangelical missionaries. It reminded him of a ribbon shredded into narrower and narrower strands.
He had never heard of MACC and its executive director, Issam Malik, until he had watched that televised debate on Fox with Yuki. At the time, Malik had struck Mo as the slick front man for a special interest, even if that interest happened to be Mo’s own. But in the wake of his meeting with Paul, Mo reconsidered. Perhaps Malik was the man to make the case that Mo had the same right as any other American to win. He had decided, in that French fun house of a restaurant where he’d met Rubin, that he would not give in to pressure to withdraw, nor would he reassure anyone that he was “moderate” or “safe” or Sufi, whatever adjective would allow Americans to sleep without worrying that he had placed a bomb under their pillow. It was exactly because they had nothing to worry about from him that he wanted to let them worry.
The walls of MACC’s third-floor suite were covered with framed posters from the ad campaign that the council had launched in subways and newspapers right after the attack. “Safeguard us and we’ll safeguard you” had been the motto, its image two giant hands clasping. At the time Mo had considered it misguided—threatening in a way he was sure they hadn’t intended; naïve in proposing to strike a bargain when Americans were in anything but a bargaining mood. As he wandered down the hall, the clasped hands brought to mind Issam Malik, who in photo after photo was shown gripping the hands of governors, mayors, movie stars, even the president, as if locking them all into agreement.
Mo found Malik on the phone behind the prow of a huge V-shaped desk afloat in a vast office. “Asalamu alaikum,” he said, hanging up the phone. Three televisions flickered—CNN, MSNBC, Fox News—but all were on mute. Three remotes were lined up neatly on the desk.
“How’s it going,” Mo muttered.
Malik rose and came around the desk to shake hands. His grip was firm. He was as well groomed and well built as he had appeared on television. But shorter.
Mo had cold-called him, feeling like a fugitive wanting to turn himself in. “I’m the Muslim,” he’d said when he finally got Malik on the phone. And, when Malik didn’t get it: “The Mystery Muslim. The memorial.”
“Ohhh,” Malik had said. “Wow.”
The gleam that had been in Malik’s voice then was in his eyes now. He led Mo into a room where MACC’s executive committee had assembled. The council was an umbrella organization for assorted Muslim groups, some political, some theological, others legal. The group was striking in its diversity: South Asians, African Americans, Arabs; bearded men and clean-shaven, in suits and in djellabas; two women in headscarves and one—striking and black-haired in an aubergine suit—without. Mo’s eyes lingered on her dark eyes, full lips, and prominent but appealing nose, and registered a nod that suggested conditional approval.
At Malik’s request, Mo recounted his story. “I sympathize,” an older man, who had introduced himself as Imam Rashid, responded immediately. “You tried to do the right thing—make a gesture of reconciliation. After the attack, I went to the site. I volunteered. I got other imams to do the same. Then the FBI put an informant in my mosque.”
“Allah will reward you,” said another. “You’ve done something good for the ummah, to show that Muslims want to live in peace in America.”
“But does America want to live in peace with Muslims?” a man named Ansar, who ran a foreign-policy lobby, asked in a more challenging tone. “Since we’re talking about memorials,