The Submission - Amy Waldman [99]
“Which community, Baba? My community is people like me. People who are rational.”
“But even some of your supposedly rational friends are questioning whether you should do this,” Salman said. “Even some of those people are admitting they don’t entirely trust us. That is the most dangerous thing.” Salman sat next to Shireen on the suitcase, which sagged beneath their weight. They looked like they were waiting to be packed up and shipped into exile. A moment later, Salman stood, clumsily, and began to pace again.
“Your mother and I were talking about your name the other day,” he said. “Why Mohammad, of all names? The most obviously Muslim name you could have. It was your grandfather’s name, of course, and he embodied what we wanted you to be: people talked about his piousness, but he was simply good. But also your name was a statement of faith in this country. We could have given you some solid American name. But as much as we turned our backs on religion, we never shied from being Muslim. We believed so strongly in America that we never thought for a moment that your name would hold you back in any way. And now—” He stopped, bent his head, and pressed his hands to his eyes. “You are not responsible for the reaction, Mo. And yet it is my own son who has brought about this doubt—my doubt for the first time about whether this country has a place for us.”
“Baba, please,” Mo spoke softly. “Of course it does. But sometimes America has to be pushed—it has to be reminded of what it is.”
“Mo, look at what your life has become.” Salman’s extended arms and upturned palms beseeched the vacant space.
The buffet tables were piled high with kebab meats and pita, dates and fried feta. Mo stuck close to his parents, nodding at familiar faces, disappointed that Laila’s was not among them. He couldn’t know whether he or the council had kept her at bay. Without mentioning Mo or the memorial, the mayor made brief remarks about the need to not compound the tragedy of the attack by inflicting new traumas on Muslims.
An older man who looked familiar approached. He had a gray beard and no mustache. Mo put out a hand. It wasn’t taken.
“I hope you are satisfied,” the man said gravely. He had been at the first MACC meeting, Mo remembered. Tariq.
“With …”
“With what you’ve unleashed, with the position you’ve put us in. Before you came along, it would have been shocking, unacceptable to refer to us as the enemy. Now it’s no big deal.”
“That’s not my fault,” Mo said. He wished his father weren’t listening.
“You’ve made your point. You won. You can withdraw now.”
“No, no. We need to counter the backlash, not give in to it.” Issam Malik, who had been expertly monopolizing the mayor, magically appeared at Mo’s elbow.
“Counter, or capitalize on?” Tariq said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Issam asked.
“Just that we seem to be sending out a lot of e-mails soliciting donations on the backs of this controversy. A lot of e-mails noting how many times MACC—you—are in the press. All well and good, but in the meantime, we’ve got people yanking headscarves off our women, and our young people being radicalized in return, and who can blame them? This is going to end in a bad place.” He turned to Mo. “You’re leading us to a bad place. It’s you, not the terrorists, who’ve hijacked our religion. At least the terrorists believe. What’s your excuse?”
“I’m sorry, but you cannot accuse him of such things.” Everyone looked at Salman; who was he?
“My father,” Mo mumbled.
“He is just exercising his rights, his rights as an American,” Salman continued. “You cannot hold him responsible for how people react to that.”
“He has the right, we all agree on that, and it is the message non-Muslims should hear.” Jamilah, MACC’s vice president, had joined them. She sounded more imposing tonight than she had at the MACC meeting. “But among us I’ll say”—she turned to Mo—“that if you step aside, you show we are more interested in healing than confrontation.”
“Why is it always up to us to show that?” asked another woman. Her headscarf, canary yellow, was covered