Ayesha At Last(16)

“What if he’s one of those undercover Islamists? Just this morning I asked him about the empty water bottle he carries to the bathroom. He said that Moslems have to purify themselves with water every time they use the facilities. Who knows what they really keep in there!”

Clara flushed red at Sheila’s words, irritation tipping over into anger. “I think you’ve been watching too much Fox News,” she said evenly. “I also don’t think you should refer to Khalid, or any other Muslim, as ‘they’ or ‘them.’ We have employees from all over the world and from all religious backgrounds at Livetech. Academic studies have consistently demonstrated that diversity among employees leads to greater creativity and higher profits.”

Sheila’s eyes were narrowed. “I thought we understood each other. Your job is to help me remove the rotten apples from the orchard, not to attempt rehabilitation. Clara, you don’t know what these people are like. In Saudi Arabia, I wasn’t even allowed to leave the compound by myself!”

“We’re not in Saudi Arabia, Sheila.”

“Someone should tell that to Khalid.”

“Actually, I think his background is South Asian.”

When Clara left the office shortly after, she was sure of two things. One, Khalid needed help, and as the new HR manager at Livetech, it was her job to make sure he wasn’t unfairly dismissed. And two, the only rotten apple in this orchard was sitting in the director’s office, googling “Islamist water bottles.”





Chapter Eight

Khalid sat at his desk, mind spinning after the conversation with Sheila. It was clear that his boss didn’t like him, but why? Was his job in jeopardy because of the way he dressed? He had worn white thawbs to work every day for the last five years, with no complaints. His old boss, John, had even complimented their elegance.

Amir noticed his distraction. “Why did Sheila ask to see you?”

“I don’t know. She had a file folder with my name on it.” Khalid couldn’t keep the note of panic out of his voice. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. “When she requested a meeting, I didn’t think HR would be there. That’s a bad sign, right?” Khalid’s throat felt like it was closing and he forced himself to take deep breaths and calm his racing heart.

Amir shook his head. “I thought there was something going on. That hot chick, the new HR girl, was asking about you. Maybe you should just shake Sheila’s hand and she’ll call off the witch hunt.”

“But it’s forbidden!”

“Forbidden is relative. How about losing the robe and prayer cap? I’ll help you pick out some nice shirts.”

“I like the way I dress.”

“You won’t last ten seconds if she’s out to get you. You know her nickname is ‘Sheila the Shark,’ right?” Amir sounded exasperated. “This political shit is everywhere. The least you can do is stay under the radar. Adopt some camouflage. That’s what I did when I moved here. I learned to blend in.”

“I thought I did blend in. I speak English, I work hard, I do my job well. What is the problem?”

Amir shook his head. “You’re being stubborn. It’s not about what you do. It’s how you look while you’re doing it. Start small: Stop washing your feet in the bathroom sink before prayer.”

“My religion is not something I’m willing to compromise.”

“Brother, don’t be an idiot.”

Khalid hid in the office for the rest of the day, feeling hunted and vulnerable, and when five o’clock rolled around, he hurried toward the subway station. He was so upset he didn’t even read his Quran on the train. Instead he looked around the subway car.

The passengers directly across from him—an old man, a young corporate type, a few students—were all staring into their phones or newspapers. He caught the eye of a man in a business suit across from him, who shifted uncomfortably and looked away.

Are they afraid of me? Khalid wondered. When Sheila looks at me, what does she see?

The assumptions he saw in strangers’ eyes as they took in his beard and skullcap were painful to acknowledge. Khalid had considered shaving or changing his wardrobe many times over the years. It would be easier for the people around him, but it wouldn’t feel right. This is who I am, he thought. This thought was quickly followed by another: If it comes down to my clothes or my job, there’s no contest. I’ll quit.

Except he couldn’t quit. He needed the money. Not so much for himself—Khalid lived simply—but for his sister. He sent Zareena money every month, and he knew she counted on it.

Khalid didn’t feel like going home right away. His mother would ask about his day, and then he would have to lie. If he told her about the conversation with Sheila, she would demand that he go to the Human Rights Commission, or that he be made director of Livetech.

Instead he headed to the only place he felt entirely comfortable: the mosque.

The Toronto Muslim Assembly was located at a busy intersection five minutes away from their new home. It had taken the working-class congregation twenty-five years of fundraising to gather enough money for the land and construction of the building, which included a large prayer hall, a small gym where teenagers played basketball and floor hockey, and a dozen offices and classrooms. With its minaret, large copper dome and white stucco exterior, the mosque was instantly recognizable among the surrounding fast food restaurants and industrial units.