Even in your best behaviour, you are just like Nibras.
Or Rohan, or Meer, or Abir, or Safi. Or that Tunisian, Mohamed Lahouaiej-Bouhlel, across the European border and into Nice, as he drives through 80 odd people to get to some version of heaven.
Or maybe that other guy in Germany? What was his name? Does it really matter? A 17-year-old Pakistani, Riaz Khan Ahmadzai, on a train, wielding an axe, claiming to bear the will of a deity, hacked away at unsuspecting passengers. No one was killed. But imagine that, the image of a young teenage boy on a train, with murder in his eyes, righteousness on his mind.
And in Germany? Again? An 18-year-old German-Iranian shoots up a shopping mall. This time in Berlin. (The other one was in Wurzburg, the name of a city you can barely pronounce.) Another name, another Muslim.
But you know that already, before the shooting even ends: Ali. 10 people die, including the shooter himself, from a “self-inflicted gun wound.” Imagine that, too, screaming out of puberty and into the world, throwing bullets from your hand.
No connection to the Islamic State this time though, unlike the previous names. These Arabic names with those hard Rs and guttural Hs, which constrain your throat, and you, phlegmatically uttering them as you tick off one dead perpetrator after another.
Who are these people, with names kind of like yours, names that you recognise amongst your friends, your family? When these attacks took place in the rest of the world, the sometimes-Muhammad or, as with the 18-year-old Ali, they would have a little in common, but their surnames were different, unfamiliar, their nationalities were of countries you’d visit, their race not white but still mismatched against your brownish skin tone.
And you could make excuses for how out of place they must have felt in a sea of white, of religions that weren’t their own. You could perhaps see them detached from the way you see the poor in the country, the beggars, as you raise the back of your hand to beg in return for forgiveness; you’re not feeling the most generous right now.
But what about now? Even as your best self, you talk like Nibras did, go to the same school Rohan did, have your heart broken like Safi did. You went to the same private university, hung out in the same piazza, made dirty jokes in front of your professors so that it would make the girl you like laugh.
You trimmed your beard so that it stuck to your face like glue, and you lifted your hand in an arch so that you could take a photo of yourself with the entirety of your crew and fam behind you. You took it from just the right angle so it complimented your profile.
You got that haircut where they trim your sides and keep the centre long so that it drapes over the nape of your neck.
Sometimes, you listen to a Zakir Naik sermon or two. What this man says about your faith makes sense. All the time, these so-called Westerners with their agendas, their bombings of Muslims halfway across the world, deeming the followers of your faith terrorists when they kill innocent Muslim lives, it irks you. You’re glad that there’s someone defending it to millions across the globe, giving you the voice you so crave.
Really: Aren’t they the real terrorists?
You listen to that friend of yours, who has suddenly decided that it’s about time that he started praying five times a day. You occasionally miss Fajr because, really, it’s hard when you’re staying up until three in the morning chatting up that cute girl in your economics class you keep trying to make smile, but you’re trying your best.
Sometimes, you listen to a Zakir Naik sermon or two. What this man says about your faith makes sense. All the time, these so-called Westerners with their agendas, their bombings of Muslims halfway across the world, deeming the followers of your faith terrorists when they kill innocent Muslim lives, it irks you
You even go to those occasional weekend parties, with the booze you yourself chip in for, and get drunk enough so that you end up making out with some girl you’ll never see again.
And when you’re hungover the next day, your head bursting with a newfound pain, your regrets tell you: That Zakir Naik guy was right after all.
Your friend too. Your friend keeps inviting you to these things called “dawas.” You’re not sure what that is, so you finally give in one day and it feels kinda, sorta nice, doesn’t it?
Everyone’s your brother, treats you as such as well. You don’t feel as alone, as lonely, especially after that cute girl broke your heart.
So what if they have their beards slightly longer, and occasionally talk sexist about what women should be wearing out in public? You can ignore those, and take the best you can.
One day, the talk gets a bit ... dare you say it, extreme? This is not what you signed up for. Sure, you’re feeling a bit down and lonely, but this isn’t the answer. You slowly start to distance yourself from the crowd. Your friend isn’t quite what he used to be. Doesn’t make the same old dirty jokes, doesn’t really laugh when you tell them either.
One day, he disappears. No one knows where he went. Some day in the future, maybe, you see him on a video congratulating a massacre, or you see that old photo of him on a list RAB put up to ensure safety and security. You thank your lucky stars. You thank God, really, that you’d distanced yourself from them, and not let them brainwash you into a future of violence.
But, what if you had?
