Once a Fisherman

For Mr. Mansoor, there were still matters unfinished on an island just off the coast of mainland Morocco. He tidied himself, putting on his best Sherwani, dressed for the meeting today with Mr. Saleem and one of the leaders of the Iles de Purpuraires community, a chief cleric from the Mosque.
For Ameena, it was business as usual. She laid on the soft purple Berber carpet in her bedroom, reading the Qu’ran. She did not have a care in the world. Of all Mr. Mansoor’s children, Ameena would be the lucky one today, because all of that would change.
“Ameena,” said Mr. Manssor as he stood in the hall outside her room, “would you like to return to the island with me today?”
Ameena nodded eagerly, ready to get out of the house. Her mother came down the hall.
“What about me?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
“You can come along, if you want.”
“I meant ‘who is going to help me around the house?’”
“I thought it would be good if Ameena went to work with me today. She enjoyed it so much last time.”
Mrs. Mansoor heaved a sigh.
“Alright, be gone with the both of you.”
Just then, Yusef came upstairs.
“I need the car. I have an exam today.”
“You can drop us off near the Skala,” replied Mr. Mansoor.
Ameena tucked her Qu’ran back into its place on the bookshelf and washed her hands. She, however, did not put on her veil.
“What is this?” asked Mr. Mansoor.
Ameena looked around.
“We’re meeting one of the Imams today. I think it’s best if you wear the complete hijab.”
Ameena frowned.
“It’s only right,” said her father.
Ameena returned to her bedroom and fastened her veil into place. Again, it was the little girl with the big brown eyes that always said everything. Ameena presented herself to her father for inspection.
“Perfect,” said her father, “Now we can go.”
Ameena climbed into the back seat and watched the road as Yusef drove. Usually when Yusef drove, Ameena would have to worry about Yusef’s wild driving. Today, however, he drove like Jamal, slow and steady. Ameena knew it was just because her father was there.
While Yusef drove, Mr. Mansoor made a call on his cell phone to Mr. Saleem.
“He should be waiting near the Skala.”
Yusef pulled into an alleyway alongside the old citadel. As the hatchback emerged from the narrow roads near the Medina, Ameena picked Mr. Saleem out from the crowd with a pointed finger.
“Here we go,” said Mr. Mansoor, “just drop us off here,”
As soon as they climbed out, Yusef sped off.
“Good morning!” greeted Mr. Saleem, “Are you ready for business?”
“The question is, ‘Are you ready?’” Mr. Mansoor replied.
Mr. Saleem found a boat and paid the captain several dirham to take everyone to the island.
While they rode across the choppy ocean waves, Mr. Mansoor and Mr. Saleem talked. The noise from the boat, however, made it impossible for Ameena to hear.
When they arrived at the island, the captain secured the boat to the pier before helping everyone safely to shore. They climbed the narrow stairway to the island.
As soon as they arrived at the top of the stairs, Ameena saw a tall tower, called a minaret guarding over the mosque at the center of the island.
A familiar sound came over loudspeakers mounted at the top of the minaret. It was the call to prayer.
Everyone stopped what they were doing. Mr. Mansoor quickly borrowed three towels from the a shopkeeper nearby. Everyone kneeled on the towels and prayed.
The sound of the chant-like prayer filled the morning air.
"Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Ash-hadu alla ilaha illaha!”
It meant: “Allah is Greatest! Allah is Greatest! I bear witness that there is no god but Allah!"
After the prayer, Mr. Mansoor picked up the towels, dusted them off, and rolled them up again. He returned them to the shopkeeper and thanked him. To the shopkeeper, it was only right. It was his duty to a fellow Muslim.
Mr. Saleem, Mr. Mansoor, and Ameena walked the rest of the way to the Mosque. To Ameena, it looked like it stood guard over the island. Its minaret was like an old lighthouse. Its walls were like the stone walls of the citadel just across the bay.
“Let’s go inside,” said Mr. Saleem.
Across the courtyard, there stood a small shelter house. Instead of one man, there were three. All three men were dressed very formally. They wore white sherwani robes and white turbans. Ameena bowed her head, looking at her shadow.
Soon, they approached the three men. To Ameena, they were three tall minarets, standing over her.
“Hello, Imam Mustafa, this is Mr. Mansoor and his daughter, Ameena.”
“Hello, Mr. Saleem,” said the Imam. He introduced the two other priests and then everyone went into the shelter house at the Mosque.
Inside, a young woman, dressed in a black hijab, just like Ameena, carried dishes out to a small square table. Everyone else sat around the table.
“Help yourselves,” said Imam Mustafa, “please enjoy what we’ve fixed for you.”
There were plums. There were dates. There were olives. There was cheese. There were also chunks of cooked fish and slices of goat meat. Bread was stacked high upon another plate. On each small plate, there was something different.
“Do you see all that we have to offer?” asked one of the Imams.
“I do,” said Mr. Saleem.
“Everything here is halal. That means it is okay in the eyes of Allah.”
“I understand that,” said Mr. Saleem.
“The things you bring to our island, like French cheeses and Italian wines. These things are not allowed in the eyes of Allah.”
“These are not the old times,” said Mr. Saleem.
“You have forgotten the words of the Qu’ran which state that the body is a temple and you must consider this each time you sit at the dining table. When you put something unpure into your body, whether its food or drink, you make your whole body unpure.”
Mr. Saleem heaved a sigh.
“I know this…”
“Yet you fail to abide by Islamic law. Every day, you must carve the name of God upon your heart,” said one of the Imam.
Ameena stirred to life. These were words she’d heard before. Ameena rubbed her neck, just where the pendant of her necklace lay.
“Mr. Mansoor,” said one of the Imam, “do you follow halal?”
Mr. Mansoor was silent.
“Why not? Weren’t you born Muslim?”
“I was, but I grew up overseas.”
“A Muslim man is not defined by where he stands, but how he stands. Each day you drink wine, you walk away from Allah.”
Mr. Saleem sighed again.
“Do you not believe this, Mr. Saleem?”
“I am no longer a Muslim man.”
“How can this be?” asked the Imam.
“I have seen many things which make me think differently.”
“This island breathes the breath of Islam. When the Ottomans came here over ten centuries ago, they brought Islam. You cannot let it die in one generation.”
“I’m not letting it die,” said Mr. Saleem.
“You most certainly are,” said another Imam.
Mr. Saleem quietly rolled up the blueprint which he had shown Ameena and her father. He got up and walked out of the small room.
“I’m very sorry,” apologized Mr. Mansoor.
The priests nodded, but said nothing.
“Come on, Ameena. Let’s go.”
Ameena hurried after her father, who hurried after Mr. Saleem.
“What are you doing?” asked Mr. Mansoor.
“The Imam are being very closed-minded.”
They continued across the courtyard and out the doors of the Mosque. Mr. Saleem carried on such a fast pace that Ameena was running. She even had to hurry to get into the boat as it started and the captain struggled to wait for her.
“You’re the one being stubbon,” said Mr. Mansoor, “I asked you if you were ready.”
“I was ready.”
“You only seemed ready to say no.”
“How can you say that, Latif?”
Mr. Mansoor paused for a second and looked around him. The boat chopped across the waves, passing by fishing boats of all shapes and sizes. It reminded him of his life when Ameena was not yet born.
“I was once a fisherman in this very bay. Although times have changed, they’ve remained the same. The fishermen still cast nets every morning. They go to market, selling what they’ve caught. You have to respect that history. The same is true with the Imam.”
“What should I do?” asked Mr. Saleem.
“They put the food out on the table not to feed your stomach, but to feed your heart. The Imam were showing you what you could still sell at your restaurant. Just because there are restrictions, it does not mean you are not free.”
Mr. Saleem sighed again.
“Think about it,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“I will,” nodded Mr. Saleem.
“I think that is all the old men ask…is that you think about it.”