Amina's Voice: Chapters 19-25

Salma Auntie carries the last steaming dish to the dining table, and then stands back to admire the elaborate feast.

Mustafa pours an assortment of sodas and water into plastic cups and sets them out on the counter.

Baba’s footsteps descend the stairs, muffled by the carpet.

Finally I fall into a deep sleep until the shrill ringing of the phone next to my head wakes me up again a few hours later.

Mama’s voice, a low whisper, quavers.

I shiver as I hear the anguish in my mother’s tone, even as I lie buried under the down comforter on my parents’ bed.

She parks the car in the nearly empty lot, and we all pile out and cut through the grass, still dewy in the frigid morning air, to where Baba stands on the steps.

I take a deep breath, like I’m about to go underwater, and slowly enter the foyer.

The microphone and podium on the stage, where I heard a presentation by a children’s book illustrator a few weeks earlier, are destroyed.

I peek in horror, unable to bear the thought of anyone mishandling the Holy Quran—tearing out the pages and apparently stomping on them.

Baba sounds reproachful as he hurries toward us from the side of the building.

Their voices were somber as they compared notes, but at times someone would speak loudly in anger.

“We’re here at the scene of a serious attack of vandalism and arson at the Islamic Center of Greater Milwaukee,” the woman says.

“We’re here at the scene of a serious attack of vandalism and arson at the Islamic Center of Greater Milwaukee,” the woman says.

I gasp when I see the images of the interior of the mosque, which is charred and almost unrecognizable.

Mustafa turns off the TV, and everyone sits quietly with grim expressions on their faces.

When I look at him with surprise he gives me a sly look.

I play as if no one is listening, basking in the richness of the sound.

Imam Malik nods toward Officer Jenkins, who says, “We are working with the leadership to set up additional security measures at the Islamic Center, including a more sophisticated surveillance and alarm system. We also need everyone to be extra vigilant for any suspicious activity.”

“What happened is just appalling. We all have to stick together in times like these.”

The room is cavernous, with high, slanted ceilings and exposed wooden beams that give me the feeling of being in a giant barn.

At home a week earlier, I finally confided to the imam about how panicked I was about speaking in front of a crowd.

In this way, with my vocal cords as my instrument, I glide through the verses, wavering slightly at first, but getting stronger as I continue.

His face is serene, and he only glances at the open book in front of him occasionally.

Finally, Imam Malik runs back up to the stage, looking flustered and excited at once.

The small seat he’s perched on gives way, and Imam Malik falls into the water.

“Oh yeah!” he cackles.

The carnival is spread out across the expansive church lawn, and parents and friends work at a dozen booths.

On Ms. Holly’s signal, I launch into the medley of songs and the chorus sings along.

There’s a smattering of applause and cheering.