Read Online Amsterdam 2012 by Ruth Francisco - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ruth Francisco
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uncomfortable—her rote recitation of the Quran . Her crush on a white horse. I remembered the Born Again Christians I used to flee from. I picked up a book of Islamic folktales that lay on her bedspread.
“You can read it if you want,” Cynthia said, returning to her Quran , her head tilted to one side, a gentle smile playing on her lips. She looked pious as a novice—despite the harem pants.
I took the book and left. This is great, I thought, my boyfriend is being held as a terrorism suspect, my brother is a Nazi, and my sister is a Muhammad groupie.
#
“How can you let her read that stuff?” The next morning I confronted my mother in the kitchen.
“It’s just a phase, dear. Don’t you remember when you wanted to become a Catholic nun? You thought you were Saint Theresa. You refused to eat and claimed you had mystical visions. But you grew out of it as soon as James Ramamurthy asked you out. Then you wanted to be a Buddhist.” My mother tittered, which I didn’t appreciate. “A lot of the girls are attracted to the romance of the flying carpets and magic lamps. They’re all into the harem pants. I swear it’s a relief from those hip hugger jeans and belly rings you and your friends were crazy for.”
“You might want to tell her the romantic part where Arabs cut off a girl’s clitoris,” I retorted sharply. “Or that women are often gang-raped for something the men in their family did, and then are murdered to clear the family honor. Or that a Muslim can divorce his wife merely by saying, ‘I divorce thee’ three times and take her children. Or that women are not even allowed to leave the house without permission. Or that—”
“Ann, stop. You know as well as I do none of that has anything to do with the teachings of Islam.”
“Mom! Europe is being swallowed up by Islamic extremists, and your own daughter is prancing around in harem pants. Don’t you think it’s about time to start worrying?”
“What do you want me to do, sweetheart? Forbid her? She has to study it for class. Don’t worry, Ann. Cynthia isn’t going to become a Muslim anymore than you became a Catholic nun.”
More don’t worries . It was beginning to make me feel a little hysterical. “Don’t parents have the option of keeping their kids out of that religion class? You could do that. Cynthia recited Quranic verses to me by heart!”
My mother shrugged and turned on the faucet to wash spinach. I left the kitchen. My parents were diehard liberals. In their eyes, President Elliot Gladwell could do no wrong. Nothing I could say would change their minds.
#
“Mrs. Aulis , could we speak with your daughter please?”
Two men in suits came to our door. They didn’t look much older than me. I wondered when they learned to make questions sound like commands. I wondered what had taken them so long.
My mother looked over her shoulder at me, fingers rigid with alarm. “What’s this about?” she demanded, turning back to the intruders.
Neither man acted as if they heard her question, but showed her their badges. “We would like to take your daughter Ann to our headquarters in Westwood,” said the taller one. “We think she would be more comfortable answering questions there.”
“You are welcome to take Ann to Westwood. I will have my lawyer meet her there,” my mother said firmly.
“Well,” said the shorter man, “I suppose we could interview her here, if you prefer.”
We sat in the living room. The agents asked for water, probably trying to get my mother to leave the room. She stayed, handing them bottled water from Dad’s wet bar.
“You may have guessed this has to do with your friend Peter Abulhassen ,” said one agent to me.
“Yeah,” I said, “I figured that much.”
“If you don’t mind, we’d like to ask a few questions about him and
“You can read it if you want,” Cynthia said, returning to her Quran , her head tilted to one side, a gentle smile playing on her lips. She looked pious as a novice—despite the harem pants.
I took the book and left. This is great, I thought, my boyfriend is being held as a terrorism suspect, my brother is a Nazi, and my sister is a Muhammad groupie.
#
“How can you let her read that stuff?” The next morning I confronted my mother in the kitchen.
“It’s just a phase, dear. Don’t you remember when you wanted to become a Catholic nun? You thought you were Saint Theresa. You refused to eat and claimed you had mystical visions. But you grew out of it as soon as James Ramamurthy asked you out. Then you wanted to be a Buddhist.” My mother tittered, which I didn’t appreciate. “A lot of the girls are attracted to the romance of the flying carpets and magic lamps. They’re all into the harem pants. I swear it’s a relief from those hip hugger jeans and belly rings you and your friends were crazy for.”
“You might want to tell her the romantic part where Arabs cut off a girl’s clitoris,” I retorted sharply. “Or that women are often gang-raped for something the men in their family did, and then are murdered to clear the family honor. Or that a Muslim can divorce his wife merely by saying, ‘I divorce thee’ three times and take her children. Or that women are not even allowed to leave the house without permission. Or that—”
“Ann, stop. You know as well as I do none of that has anything to do with the teachings of Islam.”
“Mom! Europe is being swallowed up by Islamic extremists, and your own daughter is prancing around in harem pants. Don’t you think it’s about time to start worrying?”
“What do you want me to do, sweetheart? Forbid her? She has to study it for class. Don’t worry, Ann. Cynthia isn’t going to become a Muslim anymore than you became a Catholic nun.”
More don’t worries . It was beginning to make me feel a little hysterical. “Don’t parents have the option of keeping their kids out of that religion class? You could do that. Cynthia recited Quranic verses to me by heart!”
My mother shrugged and turned on the faucet to wash spinach. I left the kitchen. My parents were diehard liberals. In their eyes, President Elliot Gladwell could do no wrong. Nothing I could say would change their minds.
#
“Mrs. Aulis , could we speak with your daughter please?”
Two men in suits came to our door. They didn’t look much older than me. I wondered when they learned to make questions sound like commands. I wondered what had taken them so long.
My mother looked over her shoulder at me, fingers rigid with alarm. “What’s this about?” she demanded, turning back to the intruders.
Neither man acted as if they heard her question, but showed her their badges. “We would like to take your daughter Ann to our headquarters in Westwood,” said the taller one. “We think she would be more comfortable answering questions there.”
“You are welcome to take Ann to Westwood. I will have my lawyer meet her there,” my mother said firmly.
“Well,” said the shorter man, “I suppose we could interview her here, if you prefer.”
We sat in the living room. The agents asked for water, probably trying to get my mother to leave the room. She stayed, handing them bottled water from Dad’s wet bar.
“You may have guessed this has to do with your friend Peter Abulhassen ,” said one agent to me.
“Yeah,” I said, “I figured that much.”
“If you don’t mind, we’d like to ask a few questions about him and
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