The Community

by N. Jamiyla Chisholm

As far as Ummi was concerned, when it came to the Community, my father had gotten everything when she agreed to move in. Yet she swayed on the tax return and gave him a fifth of it when she cashed the check during a quick doctor’s visit. She didn’t know why she wanted to keep it, as there was nowhere to spend it. That night when she went to sleep with the money under her pillow, she awoke the next morning to nothing. “If I had that money, it wouldn’t have gotten stolen,” my father said. “I would’ve used it on something worthwhile.” “Like what?” she asked. “What do you need to buy, Azim?” “A gun. I would have bought a gun.” “A gun! What in Allah’s name do you need a gun for?” “To protect us. We must be ready for a war, Aquila, at any given moment. You know the white man doesn’t want us to have anything, especially freedom or the right to bear arms.” Ummi felt sad. We’d entered the Community to safeguard against harm, but inside they were buying weapons. It seemed too violent for a simple group of people who wanted to be good Muslims. My father told me once that all the Brothers had guns because a lot of people wanted to harm them. While probably true, the idea of a gun-toting Muslim seemed counterintuitive to the very idea of being a Muslim. The way people said “Hello,” we said, “May peace be upon you.” Carrying a piece wasn’t synonymous with seeking peace. The rumors that Imam Isa acquired his real estate by terrorizing the original homeowners or incinerating the homes if ...