Hana Khan Carries On

by Uzma Jalaluddin

I was good at this, and I wasn’t sure what that said about me. I knew what I was doing was wrong. My parents had raised me to be honest, to accept that everything would work out if only I had faith. But they had also taught me stories from the life of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. One time the Prophet witnessed a Bedouin man leaving his camel untethered in the desert. When he asked the Bedouin why, the man replied that he trusted God to take care of his animal. The Prophet’s advice? “Trust in God, but tie your camel.” I was simply tying my camel, righting the scales of justice in an impossible situation, I rationalized. I almost believed it.

I had already bought the tickets online, so we skipped the traditional desi game of Please let me pay, as my honor depends on this show of generosity. I’ve seen grown men almost come to blows when denied the joy of treating everyone.

You didn’t say “chai tea.” Now I know you’re one of my people.

when you are the daughter of suck it up, buttercup immigrant parents, you learn pretty quickly that all your problems pale in comparison to the existential ones they faced when they were your age. Sad about a boy? Try staying afloat in a strange land. Worried about your job prospects? That’s nothing compared to facing deep-rooted systemic discrimination, language barriers, a lack of job experience, and no family ties to help you stay off the streets when you first shift continents. You get the picture.

And here’s the truth of it all: Things are better for folks like me—the racialized, the marginalized, the Other. But because two truths can exist simultaneously in the universe, things are worse for us too. Real change is a boulder we keep pushing, but don’t fool yourself into thinking it doesn’t push back. Because it does. And sometimes it pushes back hard.

fresh potato pakoras—fritters seasoned with garam masala, salt, red chili powder, fresh coriander, and green chilies, battered in chickpea flour and deep-fried. The greasy spiciness of the pakoras, paired with hot chai, was comforting.

Muslim burial rites are simple. Coffins are plain pine, bodies wrapped in a cotton shroud after being given ghusl—ritual purification—by community volunteers. Graves are traditionally unmarked by anything more than a number. Some families have plots with simple engraved plaques bearing names and dates, but many graves don’t even have that. The Muslims in our community who cared about being buried among their brethren tended to be those traditional enough to eschew the ornate symbols of death that adorned the Catholic part of the cemetery.

“Down with shariah law!” My attention jerked from Gary to a heavyset man standing in the middle of our cordoned-off street. His black T-shirt displayed the now familiar raised white fist, and he held a placard emblazoned with the words my canada doesn’t include: muslims/gays/immigrants/you! Arms folded across his chest, Gary contemplated the man. “Impressive penmanship,” he said dryly. “I like the way he’s covered all his bases with that last word.”