Reprisal

“How can you represent this terrorist?”

“I don’t want to, believe me.” An uncomfortable twinge raced through her lower body when she remembered the email. Zehra pushed the thought away

“These crazy ones give all us Muslims a bad name. Remember after the Oklahoma City bombing, we were afraid to let you and your brother outside for days? I was scared to death our usually wonderful neighbors would do something to you. Why do you insist on defending these terrorists? I’m so disappointed.”

“I said I don’t want the case, Mom. I’m trying to get rid of it,” she sighed.

“Well … why don’t you go back to medical school?”

Zehra stopped her. “Okay, Mom. Let’s go meet him.”

“Huh? Oh, yes. He’s such a nice man. And so handsome.” Martha’s face glistened like the edge of the sweating wine bottle.

Pulling Zehra by the hand, she led her back into the living room. As they entered, a tall man stood with his legs together and his arms flat against his sides. He nodded and waited for the introduction.

Oh, brother! Zehra thought, here we go.

“Zehra, this is Robert Ali. He’s got a good job at 3M.”

He stuck out his hand to grasp Zehra’s. He nodded again and said, “Hello, Zehra. I’m an accountant at 3M, but I’m also interested in the theatre.”

“How interesting.” She looked up into a narrow face with a sharp nose and large nostrils. She marveled at the contrast in colors-pale face surrounded by thick black hair, black eyes, black nostrils, and a black, pressed dress shirt.

“After your mother told me all about you, I was anxious to meet you.”

Zehra shot her mother a glance. “Oh, I’m sure she told you everything.” She felt like an abandoned dog in a pound that Robert inspected for possible purchase.

“I’ve got a role in a play at the White Bear community theatre.”

“How interesting.”

“How do you like your job?”

Zehra said, “Well, right now, with the case I just got, I’d be happier teaching snowboarding.”

“My role is Marc Antony in Julius Caesar. That’s by Shakespeare, you know.” He emphasized the playwright that any sixth grader would recognize.

“I know. How interesting.”

“Do you like Indian food?”

“Huh? Yeah, the spicier, the better.”

“The early reviews in the paper, the White Bear Lake Community News, said my performance in rehearsals has been outstanding. I think it comes from my naturally out-going personality and my love of fun.”

Zehra felt dizzy. “Mom, where’s Dad?”

“He’s still stuck in Arden Hills at his job. It might be described as part time, but he works like it’s full time.” She whispered to Zehra, “He told me he’s working with a nice young Muslim man. A bio-engineer.” Her eyebrows bounced upward. Louder, she said, “The lamb’s almost ready. Lamb is Robert’s favorite dish.” She smiled at him. “Isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. I tried to get the director to substitute lamb in the food scene but not too many Americans are used to it.”

As they filed into the kitchen to check on dinner, Zehra looked at her mother. Pretty, in an old-world way. Long nose, deep, expressive eyes, dark skin, and long hair cut below her shoulders, which she hid during the day when she usually wore hijab, the head covering worn by millions of Muslim women. The irony struck Zehra again. All the Americanized habits still couldn’t eliminate a few of the old-world ones. When she looked at her mother, she saw intelligence and love.

In their own way, her parents had fought battles, too.

It started with the struggle her parents faced when they decided to leave Iran, years ago. Ruled by the Shah and supported by the United States, they were part of the educated elite. But her parents sensed trouble. Available at the time, dual citizenship enabled them to come to America.

They came as Muslims who looked like they had a perpetual tan. A few Iranians had opened doors previously, but after “students” captured the U.S. embassy and the Ayatollah took power in 1979, they faced suspicion and hostility. They were forced to hide their own identity and religion for a long time. Anyone who looked dark and Middle Eastern was suspect by many Americans.

The struggle continued over the years.

Thank goodness, things progressed so that Zehra lived a much different life, although hers presented its own, new struggles. She knew she’d inherited her mother’s drive and was grateful for it. The support of her parents comforted her all the time and provided a rock through tough periods-except for arranging men to meet her.

Zehra marveled that in spite of the difficulties her parents experienced, they were the most patriotic Americans she knew.

Her mother lifted a pot of water onto the stove to boil for rice. The lamb stew contained some of her early- season herbs from the garden. She spoke without looking at Zehra, which always meant her mother was uneasy about something. “I still can’t get over your defending that crazy man. I saw you were interviewed by the StarTribune. Sounds like you’re having trouble? I’m worried.”

Zehra sighed. “It’s tough. The Somali people are wonderful, what I know about them, but they won’t cooperate with the police or FBI. So getting any trust or communication with them is hard. El-Amin refuses to cooperate with me. He represents all the things I hate about extremist Islam, but I’m forced to defend him. I don’t want to have anything to do with guys like him.”

Her mother’s face jerked around. “The men are the worst.”

“Well some, I guess. This guy’s bad. Always quotes me the Qur’an …”

“Do you read it often?” asked Robert, who’d followed them into the kitchen. He stood straight with his hands cupped together in front of his waist.

“Yeah, I do. I mean, not every day, but it gives me peace. I also like the old poet Rumi. I know it’s old fashioned, but I still like him.”

“I absolutely love Shakespeare. I’m not sure the Qur’an is very relevant for us today in the U.S.”

He leaned closer to her, and she smelled stale breath.

She said, “I disagree. I think it’s more important than ever to study the Qur’an. There’s so much misunderstanding in America about Islam. We need to be able to quote the Qur’an accurately. If some of us who are moderate and progressive don’t stand up and teach others, we’ll always be associated with the fringe extremists. And women will always be subjugated. Things are changing, and we should be a part of that.” Hopefully, the speech would scare off the proud thespian for good. No such luck.

He looked into her eyes with a basset hound’s expression in his own. “You’re so interesting, Zehra.” He paused for one second and then said, “It reminds me of my passion for the theatre. I hope to have, well … I should have a leading role this fall in our new production. Maybe you’d like to see it?”

“Uh, I’ll check my schedule.”

Her mother interrupted them. “You go on and on about that new stuff, Zehra. All those things you want to change. Don’t you understand that as things change more, you must cling to the principles that have sustained us through so much? The Qur’an says …”

“Drop it about the Qur’an. I’m sick of people telling me what it says. I can read it for myself, and I don’t need anyone to interpret it for me.” Her mother’s eyes softened, and she looked away. Zehra regretted her sharp tone. The new case, the jerk for a client, and the set-backs in the investigation-they all upset her. “Look, Mom. I’m sorry. It’s not you.”

Martha avoided any more argument by going to the simmering pot. She stirred and added more spices.

Zehra’s Casio watch beeped.

Robert picked up her wrist in his limp grasp. “What’s this?”

“Oh … Casio makes this watch for Muslims that goes off five times a day to remind me to pray. Stupid, but I like it.”

Martha turned the heat lower on the rice and wiped her hands. She looked up at Robert. “You’re faithful? Join