She laughed and swatted at him with her stack of flyers. “They’re free with the purchase of a burger. Are you going to cheap out on me?”
Rashid vehemently shook his head. “For you I would buy a dozen burgers. Or perhaps we could meet later for chai?”
I steered my cousin away. “You’re eighteen,” I reminded him. “Your mom asked us to keep an eye on you, not send you back with a wife.”
His eyes were still trained on Zulfa. “I enjoy the company of older women. My ammi would be relieved that I had finally settled down.”
I pushed him in the direction of the men’s area of the prayer hall before glancing down at the flyer. More closeups of mouthwatering food set on simple white plates, clearly the work of a professional photographer. Even the advertisement was printed on heavy card stock, giving the restaurant an upscale feel. The care that Aydin and Zulfa had put into the project was clear in every perfectly posed poutine, and I felt even worse about trying to destroy them.
Rashid and Fahim helped Baba find a chair in the prayer hall. Unlike in other mosques, there was no formal separation between men and women in the Toronto Muslim Assembly.
After the adhan, the call to prayer, the congregants settled down to hear Imam Abdul Bari’s words. His sermons were usually jovial andpunny; today he spoke on the importance of unity. The Imam was wearing a blue robe; I wondered if he had a Hawaiian shirt beneath.
Around me, women dressed in colourful hijabs and dresses, jeans, or skirts sat on the floor, cross-legged or with their knees up, listening. A few of the younger ones nearby glanced over at me and then nudged their friends. I made eye contact and smiled, assuming they were customers I had interacted with in the past, but they looked away. Weird.
“Prophet Muhammad showed kindness and love, even to his enemies,” the Imam said. I closed my eyes at his words.Et tu,Abdul Bari?
“He was silent in the face of their taunts and with patience cleared the garbage they hurled at him. He stood firm in the face of hostility, intent on his goal: changing his society. While he showed his enemies compassion, he was always just, because he was in the habit of constantly checking hisniyyah,his intention. Brothers and sisters, I urge you to reflect on the famous words of our beloved Prophet: ‘Actions are judged by intentions, so each one will have what they intended.’”
After the sermon, the crowd prayed together, the ritual movements a well-orchestrated dance, each step familiar and comforting. Bow from the waist. Up again. Bow down in prostration. Sit upright, then prostrate once more.
An enveloping peace drifted over me as Imam Abdul Bari recited Arabic verses from the Quran in his deep, melodic voice. “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmathullah. Assalamu alaikum wa rahmathullah.” The prayer concluded with the symbolic greeting of the angels that Muslims believe keep us company throughout our lives.
Around me, other young women continued to cast glances my way. I wiped my mouth and fixed my hijab, but the staring continued. What was going on?
The prayer hall emptied slowly, and I spotted Aydin slipping outthe side entrance. Our eyes met and he nodded briefly before disappearing. I walked into the hallway to locate my shoes and spotted my cousin standing beside the main entrance.
“Hana Apa, look!” There was barely concealed excitement in Rashid’s voice as he passed me his phone. He pressed Play on a saved video.
The image was shaky at first, but as it cleared, I heard a man shout in a tinny voice: “You planning an attack on Toronto?”
I flinched, remembering those words. “What is this?” I asked Rashid.
“I was looking over photos and video to send home when I realized my camera had been recording the entire time when those men tried to attack us. I uploaded the video to YouTube and Facebook last night, and it already has thirty thousand views!”
My heart stuttered. What had he done?
Oblivious, Rashid was scrolling down the comments, reading some out loud. “People are so angry about this video. I’ve received so many messages of support from strangers.”
I read a few of the comments over his shoulder. They seemed to be evenly divided between righteous outrage on our behalf and ugly bigotry. “You don’t know what you’ve started,” I said. I looked at the video again, a profile shot of me in my blue hijab, another of Aydin stepping in front of me. The confrontation was there for anyone to see, comment on, and share. I buried my face in my hands.
“This is a good thing, Hana Apa,” Rashid said, brows furrowed in confusion at my reaction. “Those men thought they would be able to hide in the shadows, but I have exposed them to the mob. Let’s see how much they enjoy the spotlight.”
“But people will come after us as well,” I said quietly.
Rashid might be the son of a New Delhi mafia boss, but I was a broadcaster-in-training, and I knew how quickly stories like thatcould spin out of control. What had happened to us downtown had been ugly, but the fallout might be worse.
“Hana! Are you all right?” Fahim asked, coming up to us. “I just heard about the attack. Why didn’t you tell us what happened?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “It was nothing.” The last thing I needed was for my family to start worrying about me.
Fahim looked at Rashid, and for once he wasn’t smiling. “You should have been more careful,” he said. “Women in hijab are often targeted in Toronto.”
A flash of something hard crossed my cousin’s face and he folded his arms. “They are often targeted around the world,” he said evenly. “In India also. Which is why I posted the video, to show what hatred looks like up close, so we may confront it directly. I had the situation well in hand. Those men were nothing.”
“They could have been armed. They could have hurt her.” Fahim looked down at me, fear clear on his face. “You have to be more careful when you’re walking around the city.”
I looked from Rashid to Fahim and back again. “That confrontation would have happened whether I was being careful or not,” I said slowly. “It didn’t happen because I was wearing hijab. None of it was my fault.”
