The Long Way to Joseph Anton
by I. Rida Mahmood
Fall, 1993 – Amman, Jordan
We sat at our desks as we succeeded one another into the classroom after the morning assembly. Most of us huddled with their neighbor; some sat in an awkward, contorted position in their seat, with their torso facing forward and their head turned back. Small mouths chattered incessantly, giggled occasionally, exchanging the latest jokes, or filling each other in with highlights of the latest episode of their favorite anime show – or that late night drama, for those whose parents were more lenient about bedtime. Many heads wore a ponytail; others wore a long, tight braid; some wore a stylish headband to keep their hair away from their eyes. Few heads were covered with a white headscarf.
The teacher walked in. Silence prevailed. All up on their feet.
After the usual exchange of greetings, we sat down. Time to begin the first class of the day: Islamic Studies.
The teacher’s eyes widened, her hand on her chest.
“Girls, have you watched the news last night?” Her veiled head oscillated, scouting out volunteers. It couldn’t be me, as I was among those who were sent to bed every night at 8:00 p.m. sharp, right when the news broadcast began.
“About the Indian writer?” asked a girl in the middle row. My envious eyes almost pierced the back of her head.
“Yes!” said the teacher, her tone a mix of relief and excitement. “That horrible Indian writer! Did you hear the title of his book? He named it Ayat Shaytaniyah!”
The whole class let out a loud gasp. What? Satanic Verses? The horror!
The teacher went on a tirade against the author, whose name she couldn’t recall. As she vented her frustration and contempt, she gloated over Khomeini’s fatwa, calling for the author’s death. “He will spend the rest of his life on the run!”
The author’s name, of course, was Salman Rushdie. And I guarantee that, to this day, our revered teacher hasn’t bothered to read his “Satanic” work – or any of his works for that matter.
I can’t say for sure what prompted Jordan’s national TV to report on Rushdie in 1993. Perhaps it was in objection to awarding him the Booker of Bookers that year; a gesture that the religious entities most likely saw as an affront to the Muslim World. After all, I didn’t watch the news. But it was thanks to this report that the work of Salman Rushdie found its way into my psyche, at the age of 10, all despite my parents’ strict bedtime rules.
* * *
Few years into the new millennium – Amman, Jordan
Intrigued by a slew of online – and thankfully unsuccessful – petitions to extradite Rushdie to Pakistani authorities, I got my hands on a copy of the notorious work, with the help of a few kindred spirits. It began:
To say I was mesmerized is an understatement.
This was the voice of Orpheus emanating from the pages and I was serenaded, lured into a magical interstice between the realms of poetry and prose. I say this as an English major who spent a great chunk of her life in the company of the greats, from Shakespeare to John Milton to George Bernard Shaw to Charles Dickens to Oscar Wilde to James Joyce to William Faulkner to F. Scott Fitzgerald to T. S. Elliot to E. E. Cummings to…
I searched for an offensive passage, but to no avail. And even if I did stumble upon it, nothing a writer may possibly pen down could warrant a death sentence or threat.
Nothing.
* * *
October 7, 2013 – The Other Side of the World
I arrived on Olive Way. The evening was rainless, my favorite city still walkable as ever. Ten minutes of brisk walking and I was in front of Town Hall Seattle. The lines were so long they looped around three sides of the building. Somehow, I still managed to find my friend Nick. We hugged. My enthusiasm must’ve seeped through him.
“You look a little excited,” he said. We laughed.
We managed to find good seats. Many people had to attend standing in the back of the hall. After the presentation and the Q&A, I met the man in the flesh, the man I was taught to hate, only to end up asking for his autograph on my copy of Joseph Anton two decades later.
“Mahmood!” said Rushdie, looking at my name card. “Is that from Pakistan or…?”
“Jordan!” I responded, barely able to contain myself.
“Ah!” he said, as he signed the book with his usual elegance.
How I wished I had more time to let him in on a journey that began in sixth grade, a story that he must’ve heard thousands of times before, with minor differences each time. I looked behind me at a long line of fans waiting for their turn, so I settled for a smile of gratitude and a heartfelt “thank you!”
Fall, 1993 – Amman, Jordan
We sat at our desks as we succeeded one another into the classroom after the morning assembly. Most of us huddled with their neighbor; some sat in an awkward, contorted position in their seat, with their torso facing forward and their head turned back. Small mouths chattered incessantly, giggled occasionally, exchanging the latest jokes, or filling each other in with highlights of the latest episode of their favorite anime show – or that late night drama, for those whose parents were more lenient about bedtime. Many heads wore a ponytail; others wore a long, tight braid; some wore a stylish headband to keep their hair away from their eyes. Few heads were covered with a white headscarf.
The teacher walked in. Silence prevailed. All up on their feet.
After the usual exchange of greetings, we sat down. Time to begin the first class of the day: Islamic Studies.
The teacher’s eyes widened, her hand on her chest.
“Girls, have you watched the news last night?” Her veiled head oscillated, scouting out volunteers. It couldn’t be me, as I was among those who were sent to bed every night at 8:00 p.m. sharp, right when the news broadcast began.
“About the Indian writer?” asked a girl in the middle row. My envious eyes almost pierced the back of her head.
“Yes!” said the teacher, her tone a mix of relief and excitement. “That horrible Indian writer! Did you hear the title of his book? He named it Ayat Shaytaniyah!”
The whole class let out a loud gasp. What? Satanic Verses? The horror!
The teacher went on a tirade against the author, whose name she couldn’t recall. As she vented her frustration and contempt, she gloated over Khomeini’s fatwa, calling for the author’s death. “He will spend the rest of his life on the run!”
The author’s name, of course, was Salman Rushdie. And I guarantee that, to this day, our revered teacher hasn’t bothered to read his “Satanic” work – or any of his works for that matter.
I can’t say for sure what prompted Jordan’s national TV to report on Rushdie in 1993. Perhaps it was in objection to awarding him the Booker of Bookers that year; a gesture that the religious entities most likely saw as an affront to the Muslim World. After all, I didn’t watch the news. But it was thanks to this report that the work of Salman Rushdie found its way into my psyche, at the age of 10, all despite my parents’ strict bedtime rules.
* * *
Few years into the new millennium – Amman, Jordan
Intrigued by a slew of online – and thankfully unsuccessful – petitions to extradite Rushdie to Pakistani authorities, I got my hands on a copy of the notorious work, with the help of a few kindred spirits. It began:
‘To be born again,’ sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, ‘first you have to die. Ho ji! Ho ji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Taka-thun! How to ever smile again, if first you won’t cry? How to win the darling’s love, mister, without a sigh? Baba, if you want to get born again …’ Just before dawn one winter’s morning, New Year’s Day or thereabouts, two real, full-grown, living men fell from a great height, twenty-nine thousand and two feet, towards the English Channel, without benefit of parachutes or wings, out of a clear sky.
To say I was mesmerized is an understatement.
This was the voice of Orpheus emanating from the pages and I was serenaded, lured into a magical interstice between the realms of poetry and prose. I say this as an English major who spent a great chunk of her life in the company of the greats, from Shakespeare to John Milton to George Bernard Shaw to Charles Dickens to Oscar Wilde to James Joyce to William Faulkner to F. Scott Fitzgerald to T. S. Elliot to E. E. Cummings to…
I searched for an offensive passage, but to no avail. And even if I did stumble upon it, nothing a writer may possibly pen down could warrant a death sentence or threat.
Nothing.
* * *
October 7, 2013 – The Other Side of the World
I arrived on Olive Way. The evening was rainless, my favorite city still walkable as ever. Ten minutes of brisk walking and I was in front of Town Hall Seattle. The lines were so long they looped around three sides of the building. Somehow, I still managed to find my friend Nick. We hugged. My enthusiasm must’ve seeped through him.
“You look a little excited,” he said. We laughed.
We managed to find good seats. Many people had to attend standing in the back of the hall. After the presentation and the Q&A, I met the man in the flesh, the man I was taught to hate, only to end up asking for his autograph on my copy of Joseph Anton two decades later.
“Mahmood!” said Rushdie, looking at my name card. “Is that from Pakistan or…?”
“Jordan!” I responded, barely able to contain myself.
“Ah!” he said, as he signed the book with his usual elegance.
How I wished I had more time to let him in on a journey that began in sixth grade, a story that he must’ve heard thousands of times before, with minor differences each time. I looked behind me at a long line of fans waiting for their turn, so I settled for a smile of gratitude and a heartfelt “thank you!”
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