My father believed that great radio shows are born from passion and authenticity, a place where regular people tell stories that are important to them. I wanted to tell diverse stories that made a difference, that framed personal narratives in a way that allowed people to think about the world in a whole new light. I knew from experience that those narratives needed to be told by people on the inside looking out, because for too long they had been told by people on the outside looking in.
The first time I had heard an outsider explain Islam was in Grade 10 History, when my teacher, Mr. Nielson, delivered a primer on world religions. He was one of the cool teachers at school, a young white man with floppy blond hair, dimples, and chunky square-framed black glasses. He always wore jeans and a button-down shirt paired with a colourful tie. Everyone loved Mr. Nielson; he didn’t make a huge deal if we were late and didn’t deduct marks for typos. I always looked forward to his classes.
We spent a week studying world religions, part of the intro to his Ancient Civilizations course. We started with Christianity before learning about Judaism, then Hinduism, and finally it was my people’s turn. “Islam is a monotheistic religion, meaning that Muslims, the followers of the religion of Islam, worship only one god.”
I beamed at him. So far, so good, Mr. N. Then things went horribly wrong.
“Every Muslim believes in the five pillars of Islam. They are (1) belief in one god, (2) praying five times a day, (3) giving in charity, (4) fighting the jihad, and (5) performing the hajj pilgrimage.”
I blinked.Fighting the jihad?What was he talking about? I raised my hand to correct him. “Um, sir, jihad is not the fourth pillar of Islam. The fourth pillar is fasting during the month of Ramadan.”
Mr. Nielson looked at me indulgently. “I know you might not be comfortable with the truth, Hana, but you don’t need to feel ashamed. Fighting the jihad is a pillar of Islam.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. I could feel my face flushing. As far as I knew, Mr. Nielson was agnostic. Why wasn’t he listening to me, the only Muslim in his class? “The fourth pillar of Islam is fasting in the month of Ramadan. Definitely not jihad.”
“Can you prove it?” Mr. Nielson asked. Even years later, I could feel my neck grow hot with embarrassment at the memory of those words. My classmates were snickering by that point, and I just wanted the confrontation to end.
“Because I read in a book that it’s jihad,” Mr. Nielson continued, his tone hard. “Can you prove that it isn’t?”
Could I prove it? Not in a way that would satisfy him. The lesson continued with no more interruptions.
I had plenty of teachers and professors over the years who listened to my opinions and respected my lived experience as a Muslim woman, but that memory rankled still. If there had been more visible Muslims, more South Asians making art and telling their stories, maybe I wouldn’t have felt so alone and targeted. I would have been able to point to a character in a TV show or movie, or in a book we had readin school, for my “proof.” Instead, all I had was myself, and it hadn’t been enough.
Thomas was right. We had to start somewhere.
I looked up at the sky from my spot against the Thinking Wall, tilting my head to take in that beautiful, uncomplicated blue, the same blue as Marisa’s eyes.
The man who had hit my dad’s car had been Muslim like us, a young man running late for work. He had stayed with Baba, had watched as the firefighters used the jaws of life to pry my father’s limp body from his vehicle. The young man’s name was Javed, and he had apologized repeatedly to me, my sister, and my mother when we arrived on the scene. He had vowed to givesadaqah—money to charity—in my father’s name as penance. When I thought about that awful day, what I remembered most clearly was Javed’s round, clean-shaven face and the sobs that had shaken his thin frame as they had loaded my father onto the stretcher, in stark contrast to my mother’s frozen silence.
Those first few weeks after the accident, my father had been in the hospital, recovering from one surgery or waiting for another. Since Mom had to keep the restaurant running, my sister and I had taken turns spending the day in his room. When it was my turn, I brought earbuds and we passed the time listening toThis American Life,Code Switch, andPlanet Money.I got a kick out ofWelcome to Nightvale, while Baba pretended to understand the humour. Together we binge-listened to season one ofSerial, and after it was over we sat in silence for a long time, each wrapped up in our own thoughts.
My father had always loved radio and now podcasts too. He had cried when I was accepted into the master’s program in communications and broadcasting. “Now you will be able to tell your own story, and our stories too,” he said. “You have been given a gift,beta.”
What would he say about this decision right now? My parents had sacrificed so much to help get me where I was. They had helped pay my tuition, and Mom had chosen to import kitchen help from India rather than ask me to give up my internship at Radio Toronto.
If I wanted to work in a corporation, I had to learn how to keep quiet and learn. Maybe this was all part of the process. Maybe I could be a force for good and guide the show away from harmful stereotypes, encourage nuance and variety.
I leaned my head back again as I came to a decision. I would swallow my pride, look beyond my fears, and stay positive. And my father would finally hear my voice on the radio.
THOMAS PUMPED HIS FIST INthe air when I told him I would help pitch his stupid idea to Nathan Davis.
“If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it my way,” I told him. “That means we’re not going to talk about samosas, henna, butter chicken, or terrorists on the show. We’re going to talk about real issues, not broad stereotypes or overplayed narratives. No honour killings, no bindis, no Bollywood, no discussions about radicalization.”
“Whatever you want, Hana,” Thomas said. “This is our show. We’re in this together.”
Minority Alliance activated.
Chapter Nine
On Friday afternoon, Mom reminded me of my promise to pick up cousin Rashid from the airport. “Take Fahim with you,” she added.
I told her I was perfectly capable of picking up our future Canadian scholar and present-day kitchen drudge by myself. Also, it would be safer entering an international airport without the company of a six-foot-one bearded, Brown Muslim man; his cheerful face would immediately raise suspicions. But Mom wasn’t having it.
Fahim was just as clueless. “Time to catch up with my favourite sister-in-law,” he said, smiling at me. He was working on his dad jokes already.
“You’ll need help with the luggage,” Mom added, ever practical. “No one visits from India without at least ten suitcases.”
I insisted on driving, which made Fahim nervous for some reason. I backed our ancient Toyota minivan out of the parking lot and headed for the airport. Fahim flinched when I changed lanes without signalling, cutting off a pickup truck driver, who honked and shook his fist.
