Next I filled a large bucket with hot, soapy water and retrieved some acetone we kept stored in a cupboard, then dragged the bucket through the kitchen towards the main door. Mom still hadn’t moved.
The paint on the window was thick and goopy, caked in some spots as if the vandals had added layers to the original design, but thin in others. Overall, the swastika was sloppily done, almost as if the white supremacists hadn’t cared about their handiwork. Nobody had standards anymore. Where was the pride in a job well done?
I started to scrub, reaching as high as I could. We must have been attacked by seven-foot-tall Nazis, or maybe they had a ladder. I could only reach the top of one arm of the swastika. The water was scalding and the acetone burned my eyes as I worked. After ten minutes I had only managed to smear the arm into a dark red swirl.
“Hana, leave it. The BOA or City Council will have funds for this,” Mom called. “I sent Fahim home for the day to be with Fazeela. She was so upset, and that’s not good for the baby. Leave it,jaan.”
But I couldn’t leave it. This ugly red graffiti was the reason my chai-addicted, workaholic mom was staring at the walls of her restaurant with lifeless eyes. Not even unexpected guests or the threat of losing her livelihood had done that to her. It needed to be dealt with—right now.
I plunged the rag back into the soapy water. Red pigment dribbled down my hands as I scrubbed. The paint crept under my fingernails, caking my fingers in red slime. I paused for a moment to wipe my forehead and looked around. Lunch was an hour away, and across the street Yusuf’s store was closed. The profanity on the sidewalk in front of the shop was easy to read. They would have to use a power washer to blast it off.
I returned to the task. Half the swastika was smeared now, so blurry that it resembled a misshapen letterY. My shoulders ached, but I dipped the rag back in the bucket and reached up once more, as high as my arms would go, then higher.
When I looked inside the restaurant again, Mom had disappeared. I wondered if the people who had drawn their crooked symbol on our window knew that the swastika is actually an ancient symbol of good luck, and that it originated in India. I wondered if the person who had so effortlessly demanded that my family return to the home they left decades ago knew that the symbol Hitler had appropriated for the Third Reich was a religious shorthand for positivity. My parents had bought our house from a Hindu family, and they had found tiny “swastiks” in the backs of cupboards and under the kitchen counter, put there to bless the house and its inhabitants.
My neck hurt. I massaged my shoulders and shook out my arms before plunging into the bucket once more. The water was now a dull, chalky red.
“Here, use this.” Mom handed me a squeegee. She was holding a razor blade in one hand, stepladder in the other. She carefully climbed up to scrape the top of the window while I wiped the smeared red paint dripping down below. We worked in silence until most of the damage was cleared.
Inside the restaurant, the red light flashed on the tea urn. I poured us both a cup of strong chai while Mom washed her hands and then her face. She looked more awake now, less pale, and we drank our tea in silence. Mom finished her cup quickly, even though it was boiling hot. Years spent cooking had given her a crazy-high heat tolerance; she was nearly impervious to burns.
“I have to make vegetable fry for the lunch special today.” She paused by the kitchen door. “Thank you,beta. Leave some flyers for the street festival with me. I’ll put them in the takeout bags and hand them out to customers.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
According to Constable Lukie, the police officer who called me that evening at home, their working theory was that, while the downtown attack may have inspired the Golden Crescent rampage, it was unlikely the two events were directly related. “A hate crime has many qualifiers, and right now we can’t be certain this was a targeted attack,” she explained, to my dumbfounded silence.
What about the swastika? I asked. The reference to Muslim pigs, the demand that we return home, the profanity on Brother Musa’s sidewalk that made reference to his Arab heritage?
“It’s too early to tell what the real motivations were in this case,” Constable Lukie explained patiently. I knew she was doing her job, staying objective, but my throat tightened just the same. “The video that was posted online likely inspired this act of mischief and vandalism. Luckily there is some camera footage, which we will be reviewing in the next few days, and we will speak to any witnesses who come forward. My deepest regrets to you and your family, Ms. Khan,” she continued, voice sincere.
Constable Lukie promised to be in touch as soon as she had news. She signed off with one final admonition: “According to our review of the online comments, there were a number of references to an upcoming festival.”
I explained about the Golden Crescent summer festival. With a sigh, she said, “In light of recent events, you might want to consider cancelling.”
I thought about the thousand flyers we had distributed and pasted on storefronts that day. “It’s a local festival,” I said. “The neighbourhood kids look forward to it every year. Parents and grandparents show up. It’s a community tradition. We can’t—” My voice broke, and Constable Lukie waited until I had regained control. “We’re not cancelling,” I said firmly.
“You can arrange for some police presence, but you must promise to let me know if you receive any more targeted threats. Our priority right now is finding the people responsible for the vandalism on Golden Crescent, and making sure no one gets hurt,” she said.
When I hung up, Baba was standing in the living room. “Fazeela told me about the video and the attack on the street. People have been calling all day. Hana, what is going on?” he asked.
“Nothing to worry about,” I said, the lie coming automatically to my lips. I had become so used to protecting him from reality, it had become a habit.
Baba sighed. “Stop,beta. I know the restaurant is in trouble. I know that things have not been going well. Your mother is worried, and Fahim has not smiled in days. Keeping things from me will not help.”
“I want you to get better. I don’t want you to worry about anything except that,” I said quietly. My father’s receding hair had gone completely grey in the past few years, I noted.
He sat down beside me on the couch and covered my hand with his own. “It is a luxury to worry about my family. I nearly died in that accident, and I am thankful for whatever time I have been granted. You must stop trying to shut me out. I am part of this family as well.”
He was right. I couldn’t hide things from him anymore, and I didn’t want to. Interspersed with my tears and then his tears, I told my father everything. Kawkab Khala joined us during my retelling of the downtown attack and the day’s events, settling into the armchair and listening to my narration without interruption.
When I finished, they were both silent.
“You are very brave, Hana,” my aunt finally said. I waited for her usual jab, but she was serious.
“My Hana has always been this way,” my father said. His eyes were red-rimmed. It felt good to tell Baba the truth. His shoulders had once again become strong enough to handle this worry.
“We will show those cowards we are not intimidated by their clumsy fear tactics,” Kawkab Khala said, and there was something in her voice that made me want to stand up and cheer. Knowing what I did about her personal history, my aunt’s vote of confidence lit a fire within me.
