“Of course we are, darling,” Marisa said, not bothering to turn around.
Thomas caught my eye and straightened. “What’s wrong, Hana?” he asked.
It was now or never. Channelling my inner Kawkab Khala, I started in. “I’ve thought a lot about responsible storytelling lately,” I said carefully.
“Yes, Hana?” Marisa said, clicking through Thomas’s document. She still hadn’t turned around.
My nails dug into my palms. “I don’t want you to pursue the storyabout radicalization among young Muslims,” I blurted. “It’s dangerous. It will incite more hatred against a community already under tremendous scrutiny and suspicion.”
I finally had my boss’s attention. Marisa stared at me while Thomas shifted position, his hands rising in a subtle motion.Calm down, his eyes beseeched.Don’t start anything.
I ignored him.
“This is an important story that will lead to discussion from interested listeners,” Marisa responded, in her best reasoning-with-a-toddler tone. “I know some ugly things have happened to you and your family recently, but as a journalist, you have to learn to separate your personal biases from current events. Your job is to be objective, darling.” She returned to the screen.
How had I never noticed the patronizing tone in her voice before? Or maybe I had simply been ignoring it all this time, because that had been easier.
“You can’t,” I said, and my voice cracked. I was scared, I realized.
Marisa stilled. “I... can’t?” she repeated, shaking her head. “Hana, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time downtown, and your cousin aggravated a fringe group by posting that video. He made a choice, and the fallout is on him. The fact that the video went viral demonstrates how interested people are in this issue, which is great news for your show. When I chose you and Thomas for this competitive internship, you both agreed to work on assigned projects. This show is important to everyone at the radio station. Good journalism requires you to dig deep and make sacrifices.”
I shifted from one foot to the other, contemplating my options. I could back down right away. She had effectively put me in my place. If I folded, she might give in on my next idea or offer me a paid position,because I had proven myself capable of being “objective,” of being a team player. Except I didn’t want to be on this team. I took a deep breath and acknowledged the truth: I couldn’t do it anymore.
“I’ve never been comfortable with the way you wanted to frame a show about people of colour in Toronto,” I began. The moment the words were out of my mouth, out of my head, my shoulders dropped in relief. “I made my concerns clear at the meeting with Nathan Davis, as well as later, but you didn’t listen to me.”
Marisa’s jaw tightened at my words, and two bright spots of colour appeared high on her cheeks. “Do you have any idea what a gift you’ve been given?” she said. “Working on a show of your own, at this stage of your career, is an incredible opportunity. If you’re having trouble making the best of things now, how will you survive in this field? You should be thanking me, not causing further problems.”
Her true feelings finally. I should be thanking her. I should feel honoured and privileged to work on the story—any story—she had gifted me. The worst of it was, I knew she was right on one level. Itwasan opportunity. But she was also wrong on a different level, one that held in the balance my sense of self, the history and responsibility I carried, and that balance was not equal.
Thomas stared at me, willing me to reverse my position, to backpedal.
I closed my eyes.Bismillah. Time to go all in.
“I went into broadcasting to tell stories about real people,” I said, gaze steady on her face. “Not to reinforce the projections of strangers. I can’t be party to perpetuating harmful stereotypes about Brown people and Muslims. Promoting the same old narrative about the dangerous outsider will cause harm to my community. I know, because it already has.”
“That’s unfair. We want to hear everyone’s stories,” Marisa said.
“No, you don’t,” I replied. “You want to hear me retell the stories you tell yourself about people who look like me.”
Thomas had remained silent during the entire exchange. He spoke up now. “Hana, let’s talk about this. We can work things out.”
I felt a deep well of sadness at his words. It was too late, and we both knew it.
“No, Thomas. Hana has made it clear that she can’t work here or work on her assigned projects without compromising her moral compass,” Marisa said. “She is free to move on to a situation that better aligns with her beliefs.”
Was it better in the end to find out where you stood and leave with that knowledge? No matter what I said, Marisa would never understand the experiences that had shaped me. Then again, I found her pretty baffling too.
I held out my hand. “Thank you for the opportunity and for your guidance, Marisa. I hope our paths cross again someday.”
She grasped my hand. “Be good, Hana.”
I packed up my things from the office. It wasn’t until I walked out of the station that the trembling began. I had to place my hands on my knees and take deep breaths until my vision cleared.
I had worked for months to secure that internship. It was meant to be a step towards a better, more secure job in broadcasting. All that work and effort, all those hours of filing and archiving, of holding my tongue or getting my ideas shot down, had come to nothing. The prospect of job security my father wanted for me—that I had dreamed of for myself—had now completely vanished from my life. The restaurant would close, Aydin would win, and my career in broadcasting was over.
What had I done?
I WOKE UP FRANTIC FROM A SHADOWY NIGHTMARE.The blanket lay in an untidy heap on the floor and I was sprawled out on the sofa, arms and legs splayed. I sat up and looked at my phone. It was late morning. Someone (most likely my mother) had left my favourite breakfast for me on the coffee table: upma, a savoury ground-wheat porridge of rava cooked with onion, mustard seeds, curry leaves, dry-roasted red chilies, and toasted whole cashews.
