Land of no regrets, p.23
Land of No Regrets, page 23
The fallout from the fight was real and immediate. Abdi was expelled. Heart Attack One had a broken hand and was absent for weeks. The rest of the maulanas took care of his class and absorbed some of his students while the beast licked his battle wounds. The noose grew tighter around us. We were quieter; they were quieter. They’d caught a glimpse of the real us and realized that the cleaned kitchen after the cooking debacle was perhaps a ruse. The timing was horrible as well. With the Qirat competition around the corner, the last thing the faculty wanted to deal with was the disciplinary fallout of a wild fight between a teacher and a student.
But Nawaaz and Farid’s mission had been successful. They showed us the page they’d torn from the phone book that night with a list of Cynthia Lewises. We had our work cut out for us.
We took turns at the phone booth during exercise hours, calling up each Cynthia one after the other. Sometimes the numbers were out of service, sometimes the person on the other end thought she was being prank called. They were always the wrong Cynthia Lewis though. We tried a number of different strategies.
“Hi, is this the Cynthia Lewis who went to Al Haque . . . uh, I mean Sacred Heart Catholic School in Northumberland County in like the 1970s?”
“Hi, are you Catholic?”
“Is this the Cynthia Lewis who, nawuzubillah, was friends with Catherine?”
“I’m wondering if you used to go to a kaafir school in the 1970s?”
“Hello, your daughter come to my house today, and she kick my dog.”
The car arrived as well. Nawaaz had been using the payphone to connect with his friend Marcus in Flemingdon, and Marcus had the car delivered to us by two older men who drove it all the way to the outskirts of Northumberland County and left it in a turn-off by a ravine. One afternoon, we hiked through the melting snow, following the county road past the phone booth and into a thicket of pines, and spotted the beat-up black Civic dumped between two trees. The perfect car to blend in, stay hidden and survive with. We were scared and excited all at once. We pushed it out of the ravine with Farid at the wheel and then took it for a short spin up and down the county road. Farid and Nawaaz took turns driving.
Maaz and I were a little anxious about it all. I was surprised we’d even pulled off acquiring a car, and now I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. We were making decisions and coming up with plans as we went along. We were in nebulous territory. Of course, young sahaba had run off into the same as teenagers without shirts, with swords tied around their necks to join conquests and adventures, sand between their toes and empty stomachs hungry for love and glory. They spread what they spread for eternal splendour, and we spread what we spread for eternal damnation, teenagers in faded Phat Farm coats and Enyce jeans, able to see through the leaps and stretches equating horses to cars, sand to snow and good immigrants to those who drank Molson Canadian.
We drove up and down the same stretch of county road until we were bored. We found a place to hide the car off the main road, parking underneath a few pine trees close to the phone booth where the road took a turn.
* * *
In the final few days leading up to the Qirat competition, we were busy scrubbing Al Haque top to bottom, putting on our best face for the students who would come from Al-Rahmah and Darul Uloom. We had no doubt that the kids at other madrasas were just like us and couldn’t care less whether the place smelled like lavender or cumin, but to suggest that to Sharmil Bhai would undoubtedly result in Al Haque’s first official murder.
A few nights before the Qirat competition, the slight, bespectacled Maulana Ibrar—aka Heart Attack Four—delivered an epochal sermon after Isha. He’d been deeply troubled upon witnessing the historic duel in the main prayer hall between teacher and student, and had been thinking about what to do for quite some time. That “what to do,” though, became what it always was: a sermon. But what else did he know? The sermon would be effective for some people. Five percent, or fifty percent, or ninety percent, it’s hard to say how many changed because of it. But it was imploring, begging—from a position of power no less—and thus, effective. It began with a “My dear beloved youngsters” and ended with a “please.” Less perdition and a lot more tears. Love goes a long way. It was in this way that Maulana Ibrar would continue his meteoric rise as a highly influential scholar, preaching and teaching at Al Haque and other renowned institutions until he was old and grey. He’d carry on handwritten correspondence with former students by candlelight in the age of computers, answering every question with a “Listen to your parents,” “Listen to your husband,” “Listen to your elders,” “Be patient,” “Don’t go there” and every other version of “no” he could think of. Inspiring obedience through words, both written and spoken, and believing that this would work for everyone. Experiencing shock when it didn’t, but subsequently trying nothing different. Because you can’t change the words, because that would change the truth and the truth doesn’t change. And because it doesn’t change, neither did we. That night at Al Haque was no different. Sermons, slaps and sermons that slap only go so far.
Chapter 14
Oh, What a Time, What a Year
The next morning brought an end to Cynthia’s diary. We were on the roof when we read the final entry, our knotted stomachs churning.
3/1/78
Dear Mark,
I want you to know that death isn’t that scary. It’s kind of scary, but not completely scary. If you believe in another life—an eternal life anyway—you shouldn’t be too scared of it. But of course, life is great. It makes sense to be scared. When the sun hits your face at the right time of day, at the right time of year, you don’t want to die. When you taste Grandma’s corn soup and it’s so good you know it will grow a missing limb back, you don’t want to die. So of course, dying is scary, but I want you to know that’s also why we’re alive. We have to be ready to die for those things no? Otherwise why are you alive, and what will you die for?
I want you to know that that’s why I’m going to do what I’m going to do. I’m not that afraid to die. I’m not just going to sit here. I’m leaving. Give anyone who’s watching me a bit of hope maybe when they find me missing tomorrow. And if no one’s watching, then it’s for myself. I just have to see her one last time. God, I can’t even write this out straight I’m shaking so much. I’m scared. I don’t even know where to look but I can’t stay here one more night.
One thing is for sure though: if you ever find a light in your dark life, and you taste something so good you need to share it and try to save everyone, I understand. But if people find a light somewhere else, can you please just leave them alone? Please. The world is an enormous place; there are street corners where people pet strange cats under green branches without names and don’t know your light. They’re not hurting anyone. The sun rises and sets again and again while they grow and worship and die happy in the company of loved ones. We find guidance everywhere, and can be virtuous and in the service of God everywhere. I don’t even know if you’ll understand this Mark. They want us to never make sense. I hope I’m making sense to you, and you’ll understand these things one day.
Don’t be afraid of death. If you find something that makes you curious, chase it. If you find a light, chase it. I’m going to find Cat or die trying. I don’t even know where to start, but it’s going to be as far away from here as possible. Maybe I can find a gas station or a bus stop to take me to Quebec or something. Even if I freeze to death and they don’t find my body until years later, this dying is worth it. All I can see is her smile, and I want to see it one last time. Just to touch her once more and smell her hair. Feel her and know that feeling was real.
—Cyn
“She left. She actually left,” I whispered.
“Holy shit,” Maaz echoed, looking around at each of us.
“I didn’t think she’d really do it.” Farid was shaking his head, looking up at the sky with a smile.
“That’s crazy,” Nawaaz said quietly.
I know we all remembered the pact we’d made, but we avoided bringing it up. We danced around the fact that it was our turn now. Faced with the immediacy and the reality of Cynthia’s decision, we balked. We stared at the sky in silence, lost in excuses. Sure, we had the elements of a plan. A phone, a car, a person. But we lacked the conviction. Though not for much longer. You can’t escape the world.
It was on one of these world-affirming mornings a few days later that we walked across the melting, muddied field and heard the voice of Cynthia Lewis for the first time. The right one. We were nearing the end of our list and weren’t expecting much.
“Hullo, is this Cynthia Lewis?” Nawaaz asked. He had the deepest voice, and thus the highest likelihood of being taken seriously.
“Yes. How can I help you?”
“Ma’am, we are pleased to inform you that your alma mater, Sacred Heart, is offering you a trip to France to see the Notre Dame Cathedral. Congratulations!”
“Hah. No thanks.”
We were quiet so we could all hear her response. Our eyes lit up. We’d found her! We scrambled up from the road where we were sitting and rushed into the phone booth, cramming up against Nawaaz, who looked more annoyed than pleased, his face pressed against the glass.
“Wait wait wait. Sorry! Is this . . . uh the Cynthia Lewis who went to Sacred Heart in, like, the 1970s?”
“Yeah. Why? I mean, I was there for barely a year. Not sure how I’d win something. How did you even get my number?”
“Oh, uh . . .” Nawaaz’s voice trailed off. He looked at us, snapping his fingers, begging us for a quick response.
I grabbed the phone. “We found your diary!” I blurted. “Your journal thingie. We go there now. Not there, exactly. But what used to be there.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“You went to Sacred Heart in the 1970s right?”
“Yeah . . .”
“Well, we found a diary or something. We think it’s yours.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Well, we found it and read it and, like, wanted to return it. It might be yours. Did you have a friend named Catherine?”
There was a long pause.
“Who . . . who are you?”
“Oh, we’re just ki—students. We’re students here. At a madrasa. It’s like a Catholic school convent or something, but for Muslims. And we found your book. And we want to return it. Do you . . . do you want it back?”
We all held our breath. There was so much riding on her response.
“Sure. But . . . how did you guys find that thing? I completely forgot about it.” Her voice was friendly and beckoning.
“Oh, we were just going through stuff in the attic. It was in a box. I’m sorry we read it. It was just . . .” I was running out of words.
“Interesting,” Maaz jumped in. “It was interesting. It was kinda familiar. The stuff you went through and the stuff we’re going through.”
“How so?” she asked.
“Well, we have teachers who don’t . . . get us. Who are trying to teach us but are full of it. We have things we miss and aren’t supposed to do. We’re stuck, the same as you were. Our old friends are moving on and getting new friends and stuff, and we don’t fit in there anymore, and we don’t fit in here either. It feels like it was the same way you didn’t fit in.”
Fitting in and creating a place for yourself was a problem we hoped Cynthia could understand because she’d been through it. It was the same problem, just eras apart. In 1970, the children of fascists would kidnap two men and claim the protection of their language as paramount in their demands. The October Crisis used sovereignty as a mask to protect racism forever, allowing a province and a nation to kowtow to the demands of children, saying “Aww, shucks” and smiling slyly about a badass chapter in history when we too had something dangerous and sexy in the form of terrorists. It wasn’t all just constitutional amendments and tax rates. In the ensuing decade, while Cynthia and Catherine courted progress at Sacred Heart, polls revealed widespread support for the group, rolling in governments that had French and fake France first in mind. Years later, with four kids fighting another losing war on the same front, laws were put into place to combat assimilation and ban burqas, English and anything religious (except Catholic religious), all in the name of sovereignty and making losers feel better about a war they lost in 1759. Of course, the provinces and nation continue to change despite this, as brown and black and Asian bodies fuck English and French out of existence. If they can’t assimilate, you’ll assimilate.
Cynthia recognized the parallels.
“You guys will be okay,” she said quietly.
“How do you know?” I asked.
It was our great anxiety. Our great worry. The grand unknown. The big question. Would we be okay? What did the future hold? Was this woman a seer?
“Because I’m okay, that’s why. If you really want to make it out, you’ll make it out. You’ll find a way. If you’re serious about getting out, you’ll get out.”
“Yeah but how do you know?” Maaz repeated.
“How serious are you about leaving? Is this just bored mischief, or do you really want something different for your life?”
We were quiet. We all had the same answer.
“Things’ll be okay. Trust me,” she said.
“Do you still want your journal back?” Farid asked.
“Sure, yeah! Take down my address and let’s find a time or something. Oh, and I don’t know why I’m saying this—and I probably shouldn’t, to be honest—but if you guys ever need to call me, feel free. Seriously. I know how twisted up things can get.”
We had no pen and paper on us, but it didn’t matter. At that point, we were master memorizers, able to commit to heart things that were mentioned only once. Maaz memorized the first half of her address, Farid the second. Nawaaz memorized the area she was in, and together with the number we already had, we held all four pieces of the heart container.
When we got back to Al Haque that night we were a little nervous. The fruits of our excursion weighed heavily on us. We were looking over our shoulders, snapping at Jara and Syed and whoever else happened to ask us innocent questions. It was why we only half heard the rules to the Qirat competition that night after Maghrib.
Maulana Hasan announced that verses would be placed in envelopes, and the competing students would have to pick an envelope from the pile. Maulana Hasan would then open the selected envelope and recite the ayat inside. The student would continue the recitation from whichever surah the ayat was from. Marks would be deducted for poor recitation, stumbling, lack of fluency and mispronouncing words. We had the great disadvantage of not understanding everything we were saying because we were still in the process of learning rudimentary Arabic. It was important though. Allah had chosen to reveal his holy book in Arabic and not Swahili, abetting a language and a people in empowering languages and last names so that other languages and last names were considered second class. Are all languages created equal?
Our ears perked up when Maulana Hasan mentioned that we’d have a pizza party at the end of the competition, regardless of the results. This was a serendipitous surprise. It was a big deal. It didn’t matter whether one of our classmates won or lost the competition, we’d all eat. Maulana Hasan said it was contingent on us behaving ourselves for the two days while the students from the other schools were here, but we knew better. As long as we didn’t end up killing each other, we would get pizza. To say we were looking forward to it would be an understatement. Maulana Hasan and the other ustads knew exactly what would motivate us. We wouldn’t have the West, but we would have a slice.
That night, we were hanging out in our foyer when Maaz suggested we go up to the roof. It was the middle of February, but we decided to bundle up and brave the cold. There was no snow on the roof, but the gravel poked through our socks like pins. We leaned against the edge, looking up at a starless sky.
“Yo, I wanna run a mission for the envelopes,” Maaz said.
“Huh?” I asked.
“The envelopes. From the Qirat competition. They have to be locked or hidden somewhere right? Let’s snatch that.”
Nawaaz, Farid and I looked at each other.
“Why? The pizza’s guaranteed,” I said.
“Yeah but we could guarantee a win too. We could win this thing.”
“You want to win?”
“Well, why not if I can, right?”
Ever since our kitchen escapade, most students except for Hafiz Abdullah had relaxed about the Qirat competition. Maaz was still memorizing and reviewing surahs, but he wasn’t as dogmatic about it as Khalid or Hafiz Abdullah.
