Imam Zahid surveys the crowd. Many hundreds of devout eyes are laser-focused on him, none blinking. God has blessed him with the gift of being a great public speaker, and now is the perfect time to use his talents for good.
Sitting on top of a 12-foot-tall pulpit in the grand mosque of the city, Imam Zahid performs Friday’s sermon. His Oud perfume is not strong enough to cover the smell of the rotten wood that the decade-old pulpit is reeking of. The first thing he should do next time he raises a sizable donation is order a new pulpit for His Mosque, perhaps one made of Cedar and Pine. Until then, he can endure it for the sake of his faith. After all, he did not climb the ladders of success so quickly through ease and peace. It takes hard work and dedication for a 43-year-old man to become the Imam of the grand mosque on Elysian Boulevard. If his all-gray beard was not shaved, it would testify to the difficult days that he has gone through. The few gray hairs sticking out of the thick, brown mole that shines out on his big, white cheek reveal that fact anyway.
Rearranging his Ray-ban glasses, it pains Imam Zahid to look down at his audience sitting on the carpeted floor. The grand mosque, which on Fridays was always packed solid with Muslim prayers of all races and all colors, is now barely half full, of which only a small portion is young. Imam Zahid is deeply concerned about the recent developments. If the trend continues, he will end up performing the Friday sermons only for himself and perhaps a few elderly people on their way to the cemetery. Being their spiritual leader, this is his moral responsibility to save his followers and haul them back to hisHis path of righteousness.
Taking a deep breath, he continues, his voice loud and assertive. “Prophet Muhammad—peace be upon him—has warned us already; That, Shirk or polytheism, when it approaches you, disguises itself; becomes less visible than a black ant walking on a black stone in the black of the night.” While rearranging his glasses again, he scans the crowd and gives them a few seconds for the last sentence to sink in. “A black ant walking on a black stone. That is how invisible Shirk is. What should the believer do? Be vigilant, always, at all moments. Satan is everywhere, and we have to reject him when he attempts to break our faith. That is what Satan’s after. Your faith. Yet, I hear some young believers, unfortunately, take this matter of utmost importance lightly. They’ve let Satan rob them of their faith. They follow the vibe, or vibrant, or… I don’t know whatever teens say these days…”
The audience laughs at Imam Zahid’s humor, except for Omar, who is listening to the sermon intently. He takes Friday sermons seriously; very seriously; probably more so than Imam Zahid himself. Omar has in his heart the innocence and stubbornness typical of a teen his age. He has shaved his mustache but has let the beard grow very long. He would have looked more handsome without it; everybody tells him that. The recently shaved head does not help him look nicer either. He does not mind, for he is not a girlish wuss who tries to look cute for women.
“They follow trendy nonsense,” Imam Zahid says, “blasphemies of this Jesus guy, a Black con artist. Subhanallah! Subhanallah! A black ant on a black stone. The prophet has warned us already, but would you listen to the prophet of God or would you listen to a Black con artist who is not even schooled in faith?—who does not know the first thing about religion.”
Imam Zahid continues, his raised voice increasing Omar’s heartbeat. “Vallah, Vallah, no one enters heaven unless they believe in prophet Muhammad—peace be upon him—and follow him fully and completely. That’s what being a true believer means. That is faith,” he states authoritatively while pointing his hands up, toward the blue sky sky-blue ceiling. “They say ‘but I’m doing good deeds’,” he says mockingly. “This is not what we will be asked in the other world,” he shouts.
What will I be asked in the other world? Omar remembers his ultimate question in life. His hearing keener than ever, he zooms in on Imam’s mouth.
With his lips pressed together, Imam Zahid pauses for a moment. And another. And another.
Omar’s heartbeat reaches its peak; feeling even his goosebumps.
“On judgment day,” Imam Zahid says finally, “when you are facing the hellfire, God will ask you ‘Did you believe in my prophet? Did you follow his tradition?’ No, then Hell is prepared for the deniers no matter how many good deeds they have brought with them.” Turning his face from side to side, Imam Zahid scans the crowd as if he is searching for the chosen one; one who is strong enough to act as the fist of God. He pauses when his gaze falls on Omar.
Is he looking at me, Omar wonders and squints his eyes. He gulps, submerging in the hypnotizing gaze of Imam Zahid. As if the gaze is pulling him through the space, Omar feels closer and closer to Imam Zahid until he sees Imam Zahid sitting before him face to face, giving him a private sermon.
“Brothers,” Omar hears the singular noun and the word penetrates deep into his heart. “Vallah, Vallah, whoever follows this Black agent of Satan is an apostate, and on the judgment day will have no place but in Hell.”
Like school kids rushing out of the classroom when the recess bell rings, the believers left the mosque the moment Imam Zahid’s fiery sermon was finished. But not Omar. For Omar, there is no recess from religion. Religion is life, and life is religion. He has too much respect for Imam Zahid to let his words be gone with the wind. He stays in the mosque, sitting with Frank, a middle-aged blond Caucasian with a long beard—which is the hard proof that he is a true devotee—and Ali, a young man of Omar’s age who speaks broken English with a thick Arabic accent.
Frank did not tell much about Ali when he introduced him a few minutes ago. They probably have just met too. Omar has mixed feelings about Ali. His beard is too short to be considered a serious beard. It is more like a stubble. Its top is also completely shaved off. Omar suspects people do that to open a landing platform for kisses on their cheeks. Ew! Omar shall have a little chat with him after their dialogue with Frank finishes. ‘Monologue’ is actually a better-suited word since Frank does most of the talking.
“Sermon after sermon after sermon, and nobody does a damn thing.” Sitting with crossed legs, Frank looks left and right as if he is concerned one might be eavesdropping. He leans in and whispers, “If this isn’t Jihad then what is? This is Jihad, but it takes guts, and not everybody has them. You get what I’m saying?”
Omar nods.
Ali does not.
Frank continues anyway. “It’s time to act.” He leans back again, checking the surroundings. His eyes goggle as if his gaze has fallen on a houri sent from heaven. Like a crouching tiger lurking for his prey, he hunches up, pushing his hands against the carpet.
Imam Zahid is leaving, walking through the people who are scattered around the mosque. Putting his right hand across the chest while slightly bowing his head, he humbly returns the salutes when people stand up before him.
Frank jumps up when Imam Zahid passes by them. “As-salamu Alaykum,” Frank salutes in an overly enunciated way, attracting everyone’s attention.
Lucky Frank! Omar tells himself, jealous of Frank getting be to eye-to-eye with Imam. Who knows? God willing, Imam Zahid might even shake his hand.
The moment Imam Zahid’s gaze falls on Frank, his face twists into an expression of disdain. With his nose wrinkled, he turns away and responds to the salute of another Muslim on the other side.
What’s going on between those two?! Omar wonders. It must be because Frank missed the Friday sermon last week. Or because he no longer participates in the mosque’s charity programs to provide care for elderly veterans. Or perhaps it was just a big misunderstanding. Imam Zahid must have mistaken Frank with someone else.
Frozen to the spot, Frank’s gaze is glued to Imam Zahid walking away, leaving him in utter humiliation.
Poor Frank! Omar thinks.
Frank finally snaps out of it and rolls his eyes around at the witnesses of his embarrassing moment. Most have already gone back to chatting with their friends. A few are still watching him, one even with a smirk.
Poor Frank! Omar thinks.
After taking a couple of deep breaths, Frank turns and sits back with Omar and Ali, except that Ali is no longer there. He must have sneaked out the moment Frank lost face. “Whatever,” Frank mutters and sits right in front of Omar, his face blank as if nothing has happened. His tone as confident as before, he continues, “As I was saying, it’s time to act, and it takes real men, ah… I mean a real man, to do it.” He extends his hand, showing his palm. “This Black Kafir shall be stopped, one way or another.”
Omar looks at the invitation for the handshake. He has a tough decision to make. A decision that only the ones with an unbreakable faith are strong enough to make. After all, once upon a time this Black Kafir was a good friend. Perhaps no longer a friend, but he is still a good person. Omar is mad at Jesus for putting him in this difficult position. More than that, he is mad at himself. If only he had managed to bring Jesus to the path of righteousness earlier, before he completely lost his mind, rambling blasphemous nonsense. If only…. Never mind. It is too late now anyway. Jesus has crossed the line to the other side, making himself worthy of God’s wrath. The fact that Jesus is a nice person is irrelevant. Omar’s hands are tight when God wants Jesus stopped.
Omar comes to attention when Frank’s face splits into a wide grin. Apparently he is shaking Frank’s hand. Poor Jesus, Omar thinks.