Redeployment(57)

She was Muslim now, I guess. When I’d first met her, she’d been disillusioned. Then searching. And finally, somehow, Islam. I’d never pictured her as the sort to go for a religion about submission, even if that submission was to God.

She explained that since her recent conversion she’d been thinking more and more about Iraq. Specifically, about American imperialism and the fate of the Ummah and the unbelievable numbers of Iraqis getting killed, numbers too large to be conceptualized and that nobody seemed to care about. She sought me out for firsthand information. The real scoop on what was going on. Or what had been going on years ago when I’d been there.

“Be honest with me,” she said.

It could only have ended badly. There’s a perversity in me that, when I talk to conservatives, makes me want to bash the war and, when I talk to liberals, defend it. I’d lived through the Bush administration f*cking up on a colossal scale, but I’d also gotten a very good look at the sort of state Zarqawi wanted to establish, and talking with anybody who thought they had a clear view of Iraq tended to make me want to rub shit in their eyes.

Besides, she didn’t tiptoe around delicate subjects. “How could you kill your own people?” was, I believe, what she actually said to me.

“What?” I said, almost starting to laugh.

“How could you kill your own people?”

“They’re not my people,” I said.

“We’re all one people,” she said.

I supposed she meant some Malcolm-X-at-Mecca, “us Muslims are all one people” bullshit. I knew otherwise. The Sunni-Shi’a War had pretty clearly illustrated that the Ummah wasn’t a happy family. I snorted, took a pause, and, as I looked at her flat-heeled shoes, felt that old familiar vet-versus-civilian anger coming up.

“I’m not Muslim,” I said.

Zara looked not so much surprised as concerned, as if she were witnessing me lose my mind. Her lips were pursed, perfectly formed, and beautiful, like every other part of her face. I couldn’t tell if she was wearing makeup or not.

“I’m a Copt,” I said, and since that never elicits any reaction, I added, “Coptic Orthodox Church. Egyptian Christians.”

“Oh,” she said. “Like Boutros Boutros-Ghali.” Now she looked interested, head cocked, oval face looking straight at me.

“Muslims hate us,” I said. “There are riots, sometimes. Like the pogroms in Russia against Jews.” That’s what my father always said. The time he saw his cousin die in one of those riots was a foundational myth for our family. Or, it was for him. Being Copt was not a major part of my life. Not if I could help it.

“So you don’t pray,” she said, “because…”

I laughed. “I pray,” I said. “But not to Allah.”

She frowned a little and gave me a look that let me know I was never going to sleep with her.

“So you see, I can kill Muslims as much as I like,” I said, smiling. “Shit, in my religion, that’s how you help an angel get its wings.”





? ? ?


I thought of it as a mild comment. In the Army it wouldn’t have raised any eyebrows. And though Zara had stiffened up and ended the conversation a bit curtly, I hadn’t thought her especially bothered. But two days later, I found myself face-to-face with the Special Assistant to the President for Diversity and Inclusion, a round little man with a potato head nestled on fat, fleshy shoulders. I’d met him before. As a veteran and a Copt, I was the most diverse thing Amherst had going.

At the time, I didn’t even know what I’d done. The e-mail said I may have violated the provisions in the Amherst student honor code related to “respect for the rights, dignity, and integrity of others,” with particular regard to harassment for reasons “that include but are not limited to race, color, religion, national origin, ethnic identification, age, political affiliation or belief, sexual orientation, gender, economic status, or physical or mental disability.” That didn’t help narrow things down for me.

The e-mail directed me to report to the Special Assistant’s office the following morning, giving me all the time needed to work myself into a fervor. I was at the school on a combination of the G.I. Bill, the Yellow Ribbon Program, and various scholarship funds. If I was expelled or suspended, I didn’t know what sort of jeopardy that money would be in. Everything was dependent on me remaining in “good standing with the school.” I tried to call the VA but was put on hold so long I threw my phone at the wall. As I collected the pieces, I saw my father’s face, his tired eyes and thick mustache, the mix of disappointment and, worse, resigned acceptance that this was my fate, to turn every opportunity into shame.