The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf Read Online Free PDF

embrace, only to find the Center siphon off some of its members toward the (very white) south side of the city to work at the Dawah office. Meanwhile, earnest young Dawah members like the Shamys attended juma at Masjid Salam and felt free to tell the Afro-American brethren how to run things, despite the fact that, as far as the number of years in Islam went, many of the birth-Muslims hadn't been awakened to their Islamic consciousness any earlier than the converts had converted.
    Masjid Salam was where Khadra and the other Dawah children went for weekend Islamic school. The name of the mosque was taped in homemade lettering across the big front window. Blackeyed Susans and spindly Queen Anne's lace grew up to the windowsill in summer. It used to be a travel agency and there was still a poster of a spinning globe in one corner of the window. A faded calico curtain was pinned up across the window.
    There was a new-carpet smell to the flat, cheap office carpet in the masallah, where masking tape marked prayer lines for men and women, with open space between them that got filled up only on Fridays. A cubby shelf for shoes stood in the foyer. At the rear of the prayer area was a little hallway that led to a small dim bathroom, freshly painted white to cover up graffiti and grease stains from previous renters. Spray cans of cleanser stood under the chipped porcelain sink and on the floor next to the toilet was a plastic jug for washing yourself. The jug looked like it might have been red once but was faded to a dusty salmon color. Taped up by the scratched mirror was a piece of notebook paper with "Cleanliness, is part of iman!" scrawled earnestly in black magic marker, the letters blurry where water from somebody's elbow-rinsing had splashed them.

    In the narrow back hallway was a map captioned "The Muslim World." The countries that were mostly Muslim were dark green. Light green meant they had a lot of Muslims, yellow-green and yellow meant they had some, and the pink and dark pink countries had next to none. The U.S.S.R., Khadra was surprised to see, was light green. China was yellow. The U.S. was only pink. Muslims didn't count for much here.
    That's all there was to the mosque: the open masallah area and the back bathroom and hallway. The prayer space was where everyone sat: men, women, children, and where everything happened: lessons, meetings, elections, dinners. And of course, prayers.
    First position, qiyam. Standing, feet planted hip-distance apart for balance, focus, before you raise your arms in allahu. "Straighten your lines, close the gaps-stand shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot," the imam at Salam Mosque said before he called the first allahu. "Shaytan gets between you if you leave a gap." Like one of the pushy boys in the lunch line at school, Khadra imagined. She squinched close up against Tayiba and tugged Hanifa's arm to pull her into line. "No pushy Shaytan gonna get between us, hunh."
    "Walk addaleeeeen, "called the imam.
    `2laaahmeeeen, " the congregation responded. Khadra loved the `ameens.' The strong vibrations of the men's voices and the murmurs of the women made her feel safe. Sandwiched between them, she was right where she belonged. Everyone knew her, and who her mother and father were; little jihad whimpering down the prayer line was as likely to get picked up by Aunt Fatma or Aunt Khadija as by his mother.

    You went into ruku, the bow, with your knees locked and back straight as a table-someone should be able to put a full glass on your back without spilling. You whispered your subhana-rabial-atheems, looking down at your toes in their own little lines. Here comes the signal to rise-
    "Sami allahu li man hamida, " everyone rose from ruku. Khadra's father and all the uncles in Western pants had to pick wedgies out of their butts at this point. But those who wore loose shalvars or dashikis were good to go.
    "Rabbana wa laka alhamd, " one congregant responded loudly.
    Now you dropped into sajda,