Chapter 15 Salma #4
And with those words, my rage cut through any fear or vulnerability.
How dare he call us “child”? How dare he tell us that what I saw wasn’t really what I saw?
The lights in the bathroom became brighter.
I leaned forward, fists by my side, and screamed as loudly as I could.
He backed up with his hands up like I was holding a gun.
And with him on his back foot, I pivoted, grabbed Asma by the arm, and sprinted up the stairs and out the door to the patio.
Impossibly, the scene outside was unchanged.
Men were still sitting around in a big circle, talking and laughing.
Moms were still at one end of the patio giggling like schoolgirls.
Fireworks were going off in the parking lot across the street.
No one had heard me scream. No one came to help. It was like nothing had happened.
I clung to Asma’s hand and dragged her outside into the dark and mayhem and straight into the throng of children who were milling about in the yard.
“Daisy! Daisy!” I looked around until I found her.
“Your dad’s inside looking for you. He’s ready to go, and he’s really mad! ” I’m pretty sure I was shrieking.
Asma pulled me around to the side of the house and put her arms around me like I was the one who had been attacked.
My legs trembled with adrenaline. We leaned against the house and sank down to the ground at the edge of Ami’s vegetable garden.
Asma ran her hand through the loamy dirt and licked it.
Through the sulfurous smoke of the fireworks, we could see Fazal Karim, head craned, looking around.
We heard guests saying their salaams, and gradually the air cleared.
We looked up at the night sky, the one that is visible only in the country, the one where, if you look up long enough, you can believe that you may defy gravity and be pulled into the void.
That was the first time I understood that we were insignificant to the universe.
As millennia of women before us had learned previously, girls were unnecessary and dispensable. The world did not care about us.
Abu cleaned the fireworks debris while Ami cleared the table of serving platters.
They were both in an uplifted mood. The night, from their perspective, had been a success.
After the last guest left, Asma and I left the safety of our hiding spot and cleared the table and folded the lawn chairs.
Every time Ami or Abu asked us to do something, we did it together, never leaving each other’s side.
Later, after the lights were out, I walked to my bedroom, and I heard Asma say to Ami, “Something happened tonight.”
“What is it?” Ami sounded tired and distracted.
“Fazal Karim . . .” Asma paused like she was still weighing whether to say it. “He kissed me really weird.” She whispered the last part so softly that I could barely hear her.
There was a long pause, and then Ami said, “Uncle Fazal Karim.”
“He kissed me like people do in TV shows.”
There was another long pause, and then Ami said in a monotone, “Never tell your father.”
If a mother’s love inoculates one against the harm the world can so casually throw around, what does a mother’s failure to protect do?
I do not mean to conflate or compare what happened to Asma with what Poppy is feeling.
It’s just that it triggers in me the same sick recognition that too often children pay the price for adult dysfunction.
That’s the problem with memories and feelings; they don’t correlate neatly to parallel events.
They just show up in all their mismatched and unfettered glory.
I was stunned and confused when I heard my mother’s response, and I remain confused now.
How was that her first reaction? Not “Are you okay?” Not “Did he hurt you?” Just a flatly intoned “Never tell your father.” It is tempting to attribute her comment to what happened later, a narrative precursor.
But no. I think the answer is simpler. Either she had a similar experience in her own life and she simply didn’t know how to handle it, or she was scared at what Abu might do to Fazal Karim, and our already tenuous hold on American life would unravel just like that.
I would have liked to see Abu’s righteous anger sever the ties of male brotherhood from root to shaft in avenging his daughter.
What message would that have sent? How would that have impacted their relationship?
I can immediately recognize the girls who have been raised in the glow of their fathers’ image of them, the ones who have been raised up and lauded.
They carry an easy confidence, comfortable in their own skin, assured that they are brilliant just as they are.
Would Asma have trusted Abu more and believed that he really did know what was best for her?
Would it have made her pause before she did something to transgress?
Would she have not accepted the part in Pippin or not invited them to save them their honor?
As for Asma, she refused to talk about what happened.
Shortly after that night, she started changing into miniskirts and tank tops in the back of the bus, had her first boyfriend, and started sneaking out of the house to go to parties with her best friend, Heather.
The new pact was far simpler. If you don’t protect me from harm, I will no longer protect you.