CHAPTER THREE

When Fatima arrived the other ladies had already been seated and were engaged in chit-chat. Naomi’s home as usual smelled sweet. When they were kids they always made an excuse to come inside. They had to use the washroom or they were hurt. Then they would start sniffing. “Hmm, I smell something,” would always be the standard line. Naomi would smile her knowing smile and say, “I wonder what it could be? Maybe it’s window cleaner. I just did the windows.”
“No, that’s not it,” the child would say.
“Maybe it’s laundry soap? I did the laundry this morning.”
“No, I think it’s something to eat?” They would say.
“Oh,” Naomi would put her hand to her head as though the answer had just come to her. “Could it be this?” Then she would lift a cover from a dish to reveal her treat of the day. It might be cookies or cake or her special tarts. Whatever it was they all loved them just as much as Naomi loved making them. But they knew Naomi got the most joy out of seeing people eat her food. She was the same way now. As Fatima entered the house the same familiar sweet aroma coming from her kitchen had comforted her immediately.
“Ms. Naomi? It’s Fatima,”
“Come on in. We’re all waiting for you.” Naomi called from the upper level.
Fatima climbed the stairs from the small foyer to reach the living room. “Sorry I’m late.” Fatima kissed Naomi on the cheek, and hugged her. She took a seat beside Mama and turned to greet the other ladies.
There were three women seated in Naomi’s living room. Sister Harrison, Sister Charles and Sister Barclay were all seated and ready to start the session. Sister Harrison was about 30 years old. She was the church secretary and the mother of three small children. She was cute and perky with what Fatima liked to call a ski slope nose. She had her black hair cut in a chin length bob. She was the first to greet Fatima.
“Hi, just call me Susan.”
Sister Charles was in her late 40’s and had a very stern look about her. It was said that when you got to know her she was the warmest, most generous person. Just don’t get on her wrong side. She ran all the children’s programs, and was part of the visiting committee. She was said to have a firm but loving hand.
Sister Barclay was about 60 and very friendly in a grandmotherly sort of way. Fatima knew her well. She was always in the neighbourhood visiting Naomi and taking her to appointments when the rest of the family was not available.
“Fatima, darling it’s so good to see you again.” Sister Barclay said.
“Thank-you Sister Barclay, it’s good to see you too.”
Sister Barclay looked at Naomi. “I noticed your lovely garden. I can’t wait to see all the flowers come in. They were so beautiful last year. I was admiring the yard before I came in. Lilies are my absolute favourite. I just love them.” She then turned to Fatima, “Naomi told me about the mystery gardener.”
“Yes, that’s my Ali,” Naomi said with pride. “He planted everything just the way I told him to. Even though I can barely see, when the sun shines just right I can see them.” Naomi smoothed out her blouse over her trousers the way she usually did when she had finished making a point.

“Well we are expecting a few others, but we can get started. I know the ladies have a lot of questions. Maybe we can start by introducing ourselves. You all know me I’m Naomi and I have three children. I live with Rachel, my youngest and her two sons, the lights of my life, Joshua and Jonah. I arranged this meeting because the sisters in my ladies group have a real interest and curiosity in the lives of Muslim women, and who better to ask than Muslim women.”
The ladies all introduced themselves and more members of the ladies group arrived as did a few more friends of Fatima and Mama. Then the questions started.
“Do you guys have arranged marriages? Are you allowed to choose your own husband?” Susan was the first to start talking.
“Absolutely, you choose your own husband. You should take advice from parents and we all want our parent’s blessings. Also parents or friends may introduce potential partners, but in the end it is the choice of the couple.” One of the sisters responded.
“Can you date?” Susan continued.
“No there is no dating in the usual sense. You can talk and get to know the person that way, but there is no relationship before marriage.”
“Then how would you get to know the person?” Sister Charles asked.
“Well, the best ways to know someone are to talk to people who know them. People who live with them, have travelled with them and done business with them. It’s more accurate than trying to figure out if the person they are presenting to you is the real deal.”
“What’s the difference between Muslims and Islam?” Sister Barclay asked.
“Islam is the religion, belief in one God and the belief that Muhammad is His last Prophet and a Muslim is the person who practices the religion of Islam.”
“How do you become a Muslim? Can anybody be a Muslim?”
Fatima was tickled at the eager questioning of the ladies. With all the information available about Islam it still amazed Fatima that the same basic questions were always asked. She was happy for the opportunity to share with these charitable and open minded ladies. “Yes, Islam is for all people and for all times. You become a Muslim by declaring that there is no God but God and Muhammad is His messenger.”
“Who is Allah?” Sister Charles
No matter how many times this questioned had been answered, Christians had the most difficult time accepting the answer. “Allah is the God of the Universe, The God of Adam and Eve and all the Prophets including Jesus and Muhammad. The Arabic word for God is Allah. Christian Arabs also say Allah.”
“So you believe in Jesus.” Susan sat forward in her chair. Fatima sat back and let another sister tackle this question.
“Yes, absolutely we do. We love and revere Him very much and believe He will return at the end of time. The Quran tells us that he did not die on the cross, but Allah made it seem so to the people. Allah rescued Him and took Him up to heaven.”

The questions continued until noon. The ladies asked about family and children and friendship with non-Muslims. They were particularly interested in Mama’s experiences in Rwanda and becoming Muslim and being married to Papa.
“How did you survive during the war?” Susan asked gently.
“Well, the tensions had been growing for weeks. Of course no one imagined that it would end the way it did, but Tutsis were being harassed constantly and even beaten in the streets on a regular basis. We started to get very nervous at the beginning of April.” Mama replied.
“Then we heard that the killings were starting in the villages. My friend told me that we should come to her neighbourhood. It was a Muslim neighbourhood and they were Hutus and Tutsis both living there, as in many neighbourhoods, but these people had vowed not to let anyone enter their neighbourhood and harm anyone.
My husband had said I should go, but he headed to one of the village churches because we heard that many people had gathered there for sanctuary. He decided to stay with them if necessary and he thought he might be able to reason with the death squads if they came.” Mama scoffed at her own mention of the death squads. “Reason with death squads? Can you imagine? How wrong he was. He barely escaped with his life.”
The women hung on Mama’s every word. “He was actually able to keep them off for hours and then negotiations were up and they just started chopping everyone in sight. Papa got his left leg badly injured, but still was able to escape to the bush and make his way to my hiding place, with a few other parishioners.”
“How long did you stay in hiding?” Susan asked.
“100 days.”
“What happened during that time?”
“Several times the death squads came but our neighbours came out with rocks, knives, bows and arrows. They would not let them advance one inch. There was even a case of the squads setting fire to a Masjid, but they were too afraid to enter and kill the people. They thought the Muslims had some kind of magic.” Mama laughed. “It was no magic, just Allah.”
“Why didn’t the Muslims join in the massacre also?” Sister Barclay joined in the questioning.
“Their bond in faith was just more important than ethnicity. We can all learn a lesson from that. They not only protected Muslim Tutsi’s but non- Muslims as well.” Mama sat calmly in her seat as she related her story. “It was well-known that the safest place to be was a Muslim neighbourhood. You know, after the massacre some of those murderers even converted to Islam to hide from prosecution in Muslim neighbourhoods. Some of them were sincere, though. They really wanted to seek purification and ablution from their sins.”
“So no Muslims ever came to harm you?” Susan knit her brow and titled her chin upward.
“Yes, of course there were a few. And you know what they were told, ‘If you dare come to hurt anyone first tear the Quran and denounce your faith.’ Do you think they could do it? Never. They turned away, every one of them.”
“They were coming to murder people, but they would not tear the Quran?”
“They could never do it.”
“Wow.” Susan thought of her own small children and wondered how she could survive something so horrendous. “How old were your children?” she asked.
“Rahma wasn’t born yet, but Ali was ten at the time. That’s when he got the name Ali. Our friends, the people we stayed with started calling him that because every time the men would go out, they had formed a system of watching the neighbourhood and they needed to take turns, you know , Ali would cry and cry because he wanted to go to. He had made his own bow and set of arrows and he would cry to go. They said he was as brave as Imam Ali (as). So we called him Ali from then. When we came to Canada he insisted on taking martial arts, archery, everything. He said never again would he allow people to be hurt while he stood by.” Mama wiped a tear from her cheek.
“What about the rest of your family?” Susan asked
The whole room fell silent while they waited for Mama’s reply. All they could hear was the ticking of the kitchen clock. Fatima who was seated beside Mama moved closer, put one arm around her shoulder and held her opposite hand.
“Most of them, dead. My mother is still missing.” Mama rose to her feet and left the room.
“Oh, we are so sorry.” Susan whispered through her hands that now covered her mouth.
“It’s ok. You didn’t know.” Fatima cleared her throat and adjusted her clothes as she thought of Mama’s anguish not knowing if her own mother were dead or alive and what had happened to her. Mama’s family had been miles away from the church that Papa and she had been working at. When the killings started there was no way to get to them or even get information. It was something that had haunted Mama all these years.
Naomi, let out a heavy sigh. “Let’s have lunch.”
Fatima eager to change the mood of the room, jumped to her feet and offered to help, but when she entered the kitchen she realized that Naomi had prepared everything.
“Ms. Naomi you did everything.”
“Well, with my new kitchen everything is easy now.” Naomi came close to Fatima and patted her hand.
“Wow, Sister Grant this kitchen is amazing. It must have cost a fortune.” Susan stood behind Fatima.
“Yes, I am sure it did. With all these bells and whistles I can cook gourmet meals all by myself.” Naomi’s new appliances all had ridges and Braille overlay and the stove had special easy to use timers and a sound system to alert the user if the stove was on, off, on high, medium or low heat. Everything had large knobs with loud clicking sounds. There was even a master switch in case of emergency or doubt to turn off everything in the kitchen at once. The floor had special markers to remind her where she was without having to touch anything.
The ladies helped themselves to an assortment of finger foods, casseroles and desserts and of course Naomi’s famous fruit tarts.
“So Fatima, your husband is a point guard for the Razors?” Sis Charles inquired.
“Yes, he is.” Fatima was used to having people ask her about her husband and their relationship.
“Oh, I have seen him, such a handsome boy.” Sister Barclay said as she took a seat in the living room just steps away from the kitchen.
“Thank-you, he looks just like my husband.” Mama had re-emerged from the back room and was looking as fresh as ever. She was a pretty woman. Her dark skin was smooth and youthful and her brown eyes were round and soft. She was about 5’7 but had a small frame. Still her presence was unforgettable.
“That’s not all true Mama. He’s a lot like you. He may have Papa’s height and some of his features but he has your bone structure and your voice. He has your beautiful rich voice.” Mama indeed had a beautiful voice. Although Papa had taught their children the basics of Quran reading she had taught them to recite Quran and Dua in the most breath taking way. No matter how many times Fatima heard Ali recite; it still swelled her heart and brought tears to her eyes.
“Either way he is gorgeous. How do you deal with the groupies?” Susan asked as she bit into a tart.
“Well...” before Fatima could answer Mama interrupted.
“There are no groupies.” Mama answered in her stern way. “We have trained our son well and we could send him safely to the moon. I am sure of that.”
Susan cleared her throat. “I see,” she said in her perky little way.
“Well,” Fatima added carefully after taking a seat in the kitchen, “in his first year of playing his father travelled with him all the time. He was so young, you know. They wanted to make sure he was ok on the road. And after we got married Papa insisted that I travel with him. It was tough, because I had just started University, but it worked out. We actually had a lot of fun that first year.”
“What about now?” Susan raised her eyebrows over her cup of tea.
“Well, it’s harder now, with three little ones but we’re all pretty comfortable with the arrangement. Still if he needs me I’m there. I have so much support here it’s fairly easy to pick up and go if I have to.”
“Does that ever happen? Will he just call and ask you to come?”
“Sure. Not often, but it has happened,” Fatima replied.
“And what, you just drop everything and go?” Susan pressed.
“No questions asked.” Fatima shrugged.
Susan chuckled and lifted her tea cup. “I would too, if I were you. You just never know.”
“Ok, leave the girl alone, enough about her business; this is not a meeting to discuss her marriage.” Naomi interrupted.
“Oh but it’s so interesting. A young Muslim basketball player and his family right here in the neighbourhood. You know I need all the details.” Susan squealed.
The women continued to eat and talk for one hour, then started to leave. “Well, thank-you all for coming.” Naomi seemed truly pleased at the success of this first meeting.
“We should do this again. There is so much more I want to know. It was so much fun.” Susan piped up.
“Yes, it certainly was informative. How about next week, same time?” Sister Charles suggested.
“Sounds great. Let’s consider it confirmed. Fatima, could you stay for a minute. I want to talk to you.” Naomi said.
“Sure.”
After the ladies had left, Fatima sat beside Naomi. “Did you want me to help you clean up?”
“No, no, I just wanted to talk to you.” Naomi paused and turned her face towards Fatima. “Is Rachel ok?”
Fatima a little nervous, responded with a question, “What do you mean?”
“Well, she didn’t go to the swim club this week, and you know how committed she is to coaching.” Naomi paused as if wondering if she should continue. “And a few weeks ago, Jamie was here.” Naomi nervously folded her hands in her lap.
“A few weeks ago? Are you sure?” Fatima thought Rachel had said it had been months since the last time she had seen him.
“Yes, I saw him,” Naomi insisted.
Fatima widened her eyes and looked doubtful. “Ms Naomi, you saw him?”
“Yes, my sight comes and goes. Sometimes I can see a little. The doctor thinks it’s my imagination, but I know it was Jamie that day.”
Fatima kept listening.
“After that day she was acting strange you know, real quiet and sulky. Then yesterday after you dropped her home she was real sick that night. She went straight to bed.”
Fatima smiled. “Ms Naomi, how did you know that I dropped her home?”
“Fatima please; you know I know your car. I heard you drop her off and I heard her sneak in and go to her room. I also heard her crying all night.” Naomi’s face became red and she flared her nostrils.
Fatima knew how difficult it had been for her since her husband had died. She had become a completely different person after the accident. Naomi never fully recovered after the shock of losing her husband and always felt guilty that she had not been emotionally and psychologically available to help her children through their difficult time.
Now she wanted only to connect with Rachel and help her raise her sons, but Rachel always seemed like she was avoiding spending any real time with Naomi. Fatima knew this caused Naomi deep sadness.
Fatima remained silent for a full minute trying to avoid a response. Naomi waited. “Well, I am sure she will be fine.” Fatima finally responded.
“You are a good friend Fatima.” Naomi patted her hand. “I know you won’t betray her trust. Just make sure she gets what she needs, please?”
“Of course.” Fatima was almost embarrassed by Naomi’s comments. Naomi knew that Fatima was withholding information, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t tell Naomi about what had happened to Rachel. It was not her place to do so.
Naomi started to wag her finger. “I told her if that boy comes around she should just call the police. He is up to some trouble. I can just smell it. He usually comes at night. No shame that boy has, no shame I tell you. She has enough reason to get a restraining order. I don’t know why she won’t do it. Talk to her please Fatima, maybe you can get through to her.”
“I will,” Fatima promised and she intended to keep it. She would talk to Rachel later today.

Fatima smiled to herself as she walked home. How did these old people know everything? You could not put anything past them at all. Well, it was good. We all need people looking out for us, Fatima thought.
So, Jamie was here. Fatima couldn’t get that out of her mind. Rachel hadn’t told her that. Why not? What had happened? Why was he here two weeks ago? Why didn’t we see him? He usually made a big production out of his visits. It stayed on Fatima’s mind all day.


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