I nodded, and she shrugged. “When we first moved to Canada, people were unkind all the time. More than once, strangers yelled things at me, obscenities and profanities I didn’t understand. One time in the grocery store, a woman rammed me with her shopping cart. I thought she did it by accident and apologized for being in her way, and I bent down to help pick up the apples that had fallen out of her cart. She told me to return to my home country.” Mom smiled. “I was so new, so ignorant, I thought she was advising me to visit my mother in India. That was when Nani was sick.”
She shrugged again, and I stared at her. “You never told me that,” I said.
Mom looked away. “It didn’t matter. What they said—what anyone said—it didn’t hurt so very badly. Because I was here, you see? By then we had you and Fazeela, we had started our businesses. We knew that things would get better when our roots had gone a little deeper, when we had settled more firmly into the soil of this country.”
I tried to swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “But Iamsettled,” I said. “I was born here. And it’s still happening.”
Mom squeezed my hand. “Only once in so many years? Hana, that is nothing. I know your sister is concerned, and Rashid was wrong to post the video online, but things will calm down soon.”
My mom’s perspective was based on her expectations as an immigrant. She believed that enduring some hatred was inevitable, that it was the price one paid for living as a minority in a new and sometimes hostile country. I understood her perspective, but I didn’t agree. I changed the subject. “Who has been calling?” I asked.
“Some of the neighbours. Also some radio stations and local media. They want to speak with you.”
The phone rang and Mom picked up. After listening for a moment, she passed the receiver to me.
A reporter from one of the city’s big newspapers was on the line. She asked me about the incident and I related the details as best I could, confirming the video and our names. The next call was from the police station that serviced the downtown core. A polite officer took down details of what had happened and promised to be in touch. A few more newspapers called, and a local radio station asked for an on-air interview, which I declined. I knew Marisa would be upset if I appeared on another station, and I didn’t want to talk to her again about the incident. I knew things had become serious when a twenty-four-hour news channel called for more information and said we would be making the evening news.
Rashid had been at least partially right. The journalists were sympathetic about what had happened. But talking about the attack over and over with curious strangers was exhausting. I was grateful the restaurant was empty, as it gave me space to think.
The online comments continued to be polarized. When I checked a few hours later, the view count for the video was close to a hundred thousand, and it had been shared nearly ten thousand times on Rashid’s Facebook page alone.
In the afternoon my cellphone rang. It was Marisa; I had been expecting her call.
“Why didn’t you tell me there’s video of your downtown confrontation?” she said in lieu of a greeting. “Clever girl, uploading the recording to the internet.”
“That was my cousin’s doing, not mine,” I said.
“Oh, the one who threw the phone into the hands of that rather gorgeous young man?” she asked. I didn’t know how to respond to that, so Marisa continued. “I’m calling to let you know we can have you on the radio this afternoon. A full interview, where you can relate your side of the story, followed by a phone-in segment. Isn’t that exciting?”
“Thank you for calling to check up on me,” I said through gritted teeth. “As I told you before, I’m not comfortable talking about this on air.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to speak to those sharks at the all-news station. Remember, you work for us. Loyalty above all things, Hana.”
I watched the evening news on the small TV set we kept in the kitchen. The white male newscaster looked grim as he played Rashid’s blurry hand-held footage. The video captured my shocked expression, the determined one on Aydin’s face when he stepped in front of me. The report wrapped up with a brief mention about the rise of hate groups in Ontario.
I peeked again at the comments section below the video, and immediately wished I hadn’t. The comments were starting to get more personal, questioning what we had been doing walking around downtown Toronto, whether we were actually Canadian citizens, while others wondered why Rashid had been filming in the first place.
The most liked comment was posted by someone with the username Alt_RightDungeon, and it made my heart sink. Somebody had copied into the comments section the flyer Rashid had posted on Facebook, and Alt_RightDungeon was suggesting that the “Brotherhood” visit the neighbourhood, maybe attend the “terrorist-halal-fest” and holda counter-festival of their own, serving bacon, ham, and pork sausage.
A few comments later, someone named AnarchyNow! had figured out who we were.
AnarchyNow!
Hana Khan, Aydin Shah, Rashid Khan. Aydin Shah is the son of Junaid Shah, CEO of Shah Industries, the man who helped decimate the West Coast housing scene by buying up properties in working-class neighbourhoods, driving up rent and gentrifying. I bet they’re in town to do the same thing to Toronto’s east end.
“Useless rich immigrants,” another poster added, and I shook my head. Either we were being criticized for not fitting in and sticking to traditional beliefs or we were being hounded for chasing capital.
I closed all my browsers, told my mom to take a message if more media called the restaurant looking for me, and left Three Sisters. The day had been difficult and overwhelming. I had been so consumed with handling the backlash for my family, I had completely forgotten about the third victim of the attack. If the media had got hold of my contact information, they were likely calling Aydin as well.
I had to find him and Rashid. We had to discuss what was happening online and the impact it might have on Golden Crescent. Things were spiralling out of control, everything happening too fast, and my head hurt. I needed backup. It was time to close ranks before something worse happened.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Aydin wasn’t at his restaurant. He wasn’t at the baseball diamond or the Tim Hortons either, and he didn’t pick up his phone when Rashid called. We finally found him at the mosque, speaking quietly to Imam Abdul Bari.
My cousin kept shooting me nervous looks while we waited. “Have I ruined everything, Hana Apa?” he finally asked.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” I said shortly.
