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.Good Muslims didn’t do things like that, and everyone could see from these men’s beards and wardrobes and the way they hiked up their pants that they took Islam very seriously; you could even hear it in their Arabized inflection.No.There had to be a reason unknown to all the onlookers that had prompted the maulvis to accost the juicer.Maybe the juicer was peddling some form of immorality, for example.Or maybe he was a cheat who defrauded the patrons.Maybe he used bad merchandise.It had to be something like that which brought this punishment upon him; it had to be something un-Islamic.The juicer fumbled through his pockets.He lifted the cushion on which he customarily sat and looked underneath.He lifted a corner of the straw mat on which his sugarcanes were spread and peered beneath.He was checking all the places where he might have kept money.“See? Nothing—I have nothing!” he said to the men surrounding him.One of the maulvis struck the juicer for failing to pay, knocking him to the ground.Another man delivered a kick.I didn’t want to question these men who talked in the language of Islam, so I turned away.When I arrived at Ittefaq’s uncle’s shop, a pair of boys were unfurling huge rolls of cloth for a customer.The brightly colored fabrics lay crisscrossed in front of the potential buyer, who rubbed his fingers on each sheet and then inquired about the price.Every time he demurred, Ittefaq’s uncle stepped in and explained the type of cotton he held in his hand and why it was the greatest in the world.When the patron still continued to dither, the uncle calmly asked one of the boys to bring tea for the guest.Such hospitality put additional pressure on the reluctant patron.Once the chai arrived, the sale was put on hold temporarily.Ittefaq took advantage of the pause to introduce me to his uncle and his cousins.As soon as Ittefaq mentioned that I was from America, everyone, including the customer, swiveled around in their seats, making me the center of attention.The customer, a clean-shaven man in his early thirties wearing a T-shirt and jeans, pointed his finger at me.“Why did your Clinton shoot all those missiles!” he demanded.He was referring to President Clinton’s use of Tomahawk missiles to strike militant camps in Afghanistan.“Do you know that some of those missiles landed in Balochistan and killed children?” he continued, his tone suggesting that I was equally responsible.“Your Clinton is killing innocent Muslims!”I looked to Ittefaq for support, but he was completely, perhaps purposefully, oblivious to me.Everyone else jumped in with pointed comments linking me with Clinton.I felt besieged.I tried to think of the reasons that Clinton had used to justify the missile strikes, but I couldn’t remember a single thing.My mind went completely blank.Somehow I needed to change the subject away from missiles toward something, anything, that might earn me some good graces in the eyes of the hostile gathering.“After the Soviet Union fell,” I improvised, “America needed an enemy.It has targeted Islam.”I couldn’t remember exactly where I’d heard this idea discussed, but I recalled reading that a professor named Samuel Huntington had said something similar.My comment silenced the group, so perhaps my strategy was working.Imagining that I could turn the hostility around so that these people would trust me, wouldn’t think I was a CIA agent but would see that I was a good Muslim, I went further.“America wants to be the world’s only power.Just as the British took over the world centuries ago, now America is doing the same.”I was surprised at how easily these thoughts came to me.Feeling encouraged and powerful, I kept going.I recalled a particular e-mail I’d once received that had listed all the times the United States had invaded a foreign nation or supported covert action or engendered a coup d’état, and I did my best to echo its contents to the group.I started with the Spanish-American War and cited examples all the way up to U.S.sanctions against the regime in Iraq.Recalling my political science classes, I marshaled the views of Francis Fukuyama, who had declared that the West represented the end of history, and Kissinger’s realist school of foreign policy, which said that all countries were enemies to the United States.Speaking forcefully, I explained that America was on a mission to turn Islam into its enemy.Having exhausted my argument, I took a deep breath and paused, waiting for the frowns to turn into smiles, waiting for someone to say that it was nice to see an American helping Islam.Yet no such recognition came my way.The men kept on chastising Clinton and Madeleine Albright and American foreign policy and me, as if I’d been a member of the president’s Cabinet.Using some of the facts I’d told them, they made me feel as if it was my fault that Muslim children in Palestine and Kashmir and Iraq were dying.I decided that leaving the shop was the best thing to do.Sidling out while the attention was focused on another speaker, I headed out.“Where are you going?” Ittefaq asked, running after me and grabbing me by the arm.I yanked myself away.“I’m going to the mosque.”Worship was my refuge.If I could go to the mosque and put my head to the floor, at least God would see that I loved Islam, would see that I wasn’t, as the men in the shop had implied, a part of a massive American conspiracy against it.“I’ll come with you,” he offered.“Suit yourself,” I said curtly, upset with him because he didn’t seem to understand why I’d snuck out of the shop.We took a circuitous road that led around the two gol dairas back to Dada Abu’s mohalla.Suddenly Ittefaq grabbed my arm and pulled me around a corner toward a row of single-story cement homes in a narrow alley.“Where are you taking me?” I demanded.“Just come with me,” he said cheerfully.“I have to make a trade.”“Trade what?”He smiled wickedly and patted the porno cards in his pocket.Heaving a deep breath, I followed him out of necessity, uncertain how to get home from there.We entered one of the houses without knocking.Ittefaq’s familiarity with the place made me wonder if it was his home, but I seemed to recall that his family had lived on the other side of town.I followed him past the empty verandah and into a bedroom in the back.When we entered, I saw three older guys in shalwar kameezes.They had big beards and wore large turbans and the sort of vests preferred by mountain men.I stood near the door and waited for Ittefaq to complete his deal.After a moment’s conversation, however, Ittefaq sat down and made himself comfortable.The largest of the men turned to me and glared while his associate reached around me and closed the door.“I want to ask you about America,” the big man said, looking over at Ittefaq as if for his okay.“What do you want to ask?”“It is not possible to be a Muslim in America!” It was a declaration and not a question
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