Page 93 of Hana Khan Carries On
Arms folded across his chest, Gary contemplated the man. “Impressive penmanship,” he said drily. “I like the way he’s covered all his bases with that last word.”
My eyes locked on the man’s face. His eyes were cold and flinty, even as his face glistened with sweat. He glared at festivalgoers and stall vendors alike, who, after a few curious glances, ignored him. In response, he shook his sign and bellowed, “WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE! GO BACK TO ARABIA, TOWEL HEADS!”
Mom glanced over at me from the Three Sisters table, one eyebrow raised. She shook her head, then returned her attention to the grill.
I hurried over to Black T-Shirt. “Can I help you?” I asked politely.
“Yes, you can help me. You can LEAVE MY COUNTRY! WEDON’T WANT YOU HERE!” he roared in my face. A few people looked over again, their unease rising.
I took a deep breath and channelled my mom—Angela Merkel in a black hijab. “You don’t make the rules. This is my street and my festival, and you are not welcome here.”
“You mean your HALAL food festival! The ISLAMIST TAKEOVER of CANADA will be PUT DOWN by FORCE if necessary!” The man’s eyes were bulging now, and spittle flew from his mouth. “You can’t make me leave! I have a RIGHT to protest! FREEDOM of SPEECH hasn’t been outlawed in this country!” He stepped closer.
Fahim eased up beside me, Rashid flanking him, and their silent presence gave me courage. “True, but you can’t protest on this side of the street,” I said, my voice measured. “We have a permit.”
Black T-Shirt predictably refused to leave, so I left him shaking his sign and yelling and went to find Constable Lukie. She was near Wholistic Grill with her partner, a tall white man with massive biceps and full-sleeve tattoos. By the time we returned to Black T-Shirt, he had been joined by a few other people, three men and one woman, all dressed the same and holding similarly worded placards. After a heated debate with Constable Lukie and her partner, the small group of protesters moved to the other side of the street, though they didn’t let up with their taunts. They continued to yell and heckle stall holders and festival attendees alike, and the mood instantly dimmed.
I kept an eye on the protestor numbers, which slowly swelled from five to ten, and then from fifteen to twenty-five people. There was some diversity in their ranks: mostly men, but a few women too; mostly white, but also a few Brown and olive faces, all yelling, chanting, and stomping their feet. Constable Lukie called for backup, and soon there were four officers, two of whom kept a close watch on thegroup across the street. The other two watched our side just as carefully. Who had the police been assigned to protect? I wondered. Especially since the protestors now outnumbered the festival participants. I looked around and my heart sank. No children, no teenagers. Most of the people who remained seemed to be related to the business owners. The protestors had accomplished their purpose: people coaxed outside by the promise of food, shopping, and family fun had been scared off by Black T-Shirt and friends.
“Go home, terrorist, or we’ll make you leave!” a brown-skinned woman yelled as she made eye contact with me. She glared, mouthing profanities. I wondered what had driven her to that. Did she truly hate me, or had she been hurt so badly by something or someone that she had to lash out at others?
I looked around and locked eyes with Rashid. Zulfa stood beside him, and she gave me an encouraging smile. My cousin made a motion with his hands.Be easy, Hana Apa.The day is not over yet.
But the wave of despair that had washed over me at the sight of the swelling crowd of black T-shirts and the dwindling crowd of Golden Crescent families peaked and broke. I hurried to find comfort. Inside the empty Three Sisters Biryani Poutine, I fell into a booth in the corner and dropped my head. It would never be enough. No matter how much we planned and wished and tried, it would never be enough to stop the tide of hatred.
My phone pinged, a message from StanleyP.
StanleyP
I promised you a picture.
A photo accompanied the message, and I stared at it. A solemn-looking Aydin stood in front of Wholistic Grill. He had a half-smile on his face.
StanleyP
Last secret, though to be fair, I finally sorted this one out yesterday. I had my suspicions all along, but it seemed too crazy. I think you suspected too. Don’t feel bad that I figured it out first. I had a slight head start in the clue department: in your first podcast you said you were a twenty-something Muslim woman who lived in Toronto.
My face was flushed and I felt faint. I kept returning to the picture he had sent. StanleyP was Aydin Shah? My friend and confidant, my first listener and biggest supporter, the man who had advised me on battle tactics, who had teased me mercilessly and encouraged my dreams, had been my competition all along? I recalled the way he had talked about his “girl.” Was that me? If so, why had he left without a word and ignored all my messages? I continued to read, head spinning.
StanleyP
The coincidences kept piling up, and when you mentioned your cousin and building a dam, I had my proof. Finally.
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. Of course my cousin was somehow behind this mystery. Rashid might as well change his name to Loki, or maybe Shaitan. I looked more closely at the photo and realized that it was more than recent. There were stalls and tables set up in the background, and I could make out the signs for the street festival.He’s here, right now.
StanleyP
I have the advantage at this point, so let me officially introduce myself. My real name is Aydin Shah. I’m a 27-year-old Muslim man who used to live in Vancouver but recently moved to the centre of the universe, Toronna. I have no siblings, my mother died when I was five, and my father is a jerk who somehow blocked all your texts in the past few days. Also, I recently opened up a restaurant on the same street as the most perfect girl in the world. Hello, Hana.
Aydin/StanleyP had returned home. And he still didn’t know about his mother. I wrote back, not sure what else to do:Salaams, Aydin.
It was time to rejoin the fight outside.
I HAD BEEN GONE FORless than thirty minutes, but when I emerged from Three Sisters, the festival was completely transformed. The street was now bustling with people browsing stalls and munching on snacks. The number of protesters had grown as well, to about forty people, all yelling, chanting, and holding up hateful messages.
Except now they had company. The counter-protestors had shown up as promised, about two dozen in total. They waved placards of their own that read:ALL ARE WELCOME!andWE SAY NO TO HATE!Though they were outnumbered by the black T-shirt army, they were just as loud. I spotted Yusuf in the middle of the throng, clutching a megaphone and working the crowd, Lily by his side. My do-gooder friends simply couldn’t help themselves. Lily caught my eye and gave me an uncertain smile, which I returned.
Imam Abdul Bari stood on the fringes. When he caught my gaze,he smiled beatifically. The sight of his silent courage, despite his recent devastating loss, made me stand a bit straighter.
