Free American Taliban by Pearl Abraham Page A

desks quickly for ones a row or two away. One student named Fawal intentionally dropped his pencil in front of John’s desk, and instead of bending down to retrieve it, he made an elaborate effort to keep his distance by kicking at the pencil with the point of his shoe. The others laughed, and John understood that Fawal’s performance was a statement or a hazing of some sort, which succeeded because he got his laughs.
    John didn’t catch what Khaled said to Fawal, but he heard the reply, which referred to him as a saa-eH, meaning tourist, and he understood that he’d have to prove himself a serious, nontransient student.
    In session, John listened hard, kept his attention on the instruction, but he also observed his colleagues who were very unlike the kids at John Harlan High. He wondered whether the difference was cultural, religious, or something else.
    Don’t mind, Khaled said, when he asked. They’re being totally uncool.
    Is it because I’m not Arab?
    No, Khaled explained. Muslims accept Muslims of any race. But they can tell you haven’t submitted to Allah.
    How do they know?
    Easy, Khaled said. By the way you walk, stand, speak, dress. A man who prays doesn’t stand so tall.
    What about you?
    I like difference, Khaled said.
    Though Khaled’s hair and skin were dark, his eyes were light, or lighter than the others. And he was taller; still, in his height and lank, he resembled John, and this sameness somehow encouraged their friendship. John wondered whether Khaled’s drawl was some kind ofregional accent; without it, he would sound like an American kid, more or less. Maybe it was just something he was trying on for style.
    Were you born here? John asked.
    Yes, but I spent almost every summer in Pakistan.
    The students here are mostly Arab Americans, Khaled informed him. Their parents are assimilated or in a mixed marriage.
    Khaled, who spoke Pashto and English, was studying classical Arabic because he planned to study abroad the following year, at Islamia College in Peshawar, where his mother’s family lived and where his cousins attended classes. And he wanted to visit Egypt and Saudi Arabia.
    Living in and with a language, he declared solemnly, as if he were reciting a sentence he’d read somewhere, is the only way to truly learn it. The school recommends a year abroad for everyone. You should come with me.
    Right, John said. Think how welcome I’d be there.
    It would be different, Khaled said. There you’ll be their guest. Here you’re an intruder.
    So if Fawal suddenly started attending John Harlan High, John understood, they might have been friends. But here, at the Sharia, he wasn’t welcome because he was invading the one place in Brooklyn, or in America, that was all theirs.
    AS PROMISED , Noor was on the steps in front of the school, in a cluster of students, all talking at once it seemed to John. This was a scene, a kind of post-class ritual, and he was grateful to Noor for this early initiation. It was her way of granting him insidership.
    Some of the men smoked, but the women did not, he noted. Noor was talking to a girl named Samina who turned out to be Khaled’s girlfriend. John introduced Noor to Khaled and was introduced to Samina, a student at Barnard, then Khaled and Samina hurried off to his brother’s house, where they were expected for dinner. The others also soon dispersed, and Noor led the way to the promised café.
    It’s really not far, she said.
    As long as you don’t mind my snail’s pace.
    He inhaled deeply, energized by the night, the new friendships, his first formal lesson in Arabic. Even the nonwelcome, which would take working through. He had the feeling that this was the beginning of hislife. He was finally fully free of the prison of childhood, of well-meaning Barbara and her version of adult life.
    The café was tiny, with only a four-foot bar. Noor secured one of the small tiled tables outside, pulled out a chair for John, and went to order havaj.
    On her