Ameena reached into her hijab to uncover her Hand of Fatima necklace. She twisted the piece in her hand, investigating every part of the tiny silver pendant. She traced the eye etched into the silver with her slender brown fingers as she rode home with her father.
“What are you thinking?”
“About people.”
“That’s a very heavy thought.”
“I just wonder why people are so different.”
“They are different by the grace of Allah.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ameena.
“If we were all the same, there would be nothing to do. There would be nothing to say. Imagine if I was just like Mr. Saleem. Nothing would get accomplished, because nothing would be unique.”
“Why does that matter?”
“It matters because everything under the sun has a purpose. The Imams want the Ile de Purpuraires to be a holy place. Mr. Saleem wants to build a restaurant.”
“What do you want?”
“I want for everyone to be happy.”
“But how can they be happy if they want to do different things with the island?”
“Are you happy when you’re around your mother?”
“Of course.”
“How can that be? You and your mother are very different.”
“But you and my mother are very different, too,” replied Ameena.
“Exactly. I love your mother because she is not me. She complements me.”
“What do you mean?”
“She fills in the holes with her differences.”
“I think she is too difficult, just like the Imams. This is a new world, with new views on things.”
“I agree, but the old way is good, too.”
Ameea remained quiet for the remainder of the trip home. She thought hard and long about ‘the old way’. Many times, she did not think it was good at all. When she arrived home, she changed out of her hijab and into jeans and a t-shirt.
“Ameena, why must you dress like a hippie from Marrakech?” asked Mrs. Mansoor.
Ameena frowned.
“Fatima, can you please give her a little space?” pleaded Mr. Mansoor.
Mrs. Mansoor heaved a sigh. “This world is paradise to the non-believers and a prison for the believers.”
Ameena followed her mother into the kitchen. Mrs. Mansoor was busy at the chopping block, cutting vegetables into cubed pieces with the chef’s knife.
“What do you mean it’s a prison?”
Mrs. Mansoor stopped and looked down at Ameena.
“The words of the prophet Mohammad, peace be upon him, speak true. Every day you must carve the name of Allah upon your heart.”
“When I wear these clothes, I do not disgrace Allah. It only makes my sacrifice stronger when I wear hijab.”
“Hijab is an honor,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“Then why do you not wear it all day and all night in all places Allah can see?”
“It is written in the Qu’ran.”
“Wearing hijab is not written in the Qu’ran,” said Ameena.
“Where have you heard such things?”
“From Mr. Saleem.”
“I think he is not a good influence,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“I think he’s a fine influence,” interrupted Ameena’s father, “Ameea may have the opportunity to learn many great things from him.”
Mrs. Mansoor went back to her vegetables, quickly dicing them into tiny pieces. Ameena stood beside her. Mr. Mansoor returned to the living room.
“Mother?” asked Ameena.
“Yes?”
“Why can’t I be both?”
“Be both what?”
“Be both a good Muslim with the hijab and a good Muslim without it? Does my hijab reveal who I am or is it my heart?”
Mrs. Mansoor stopped chopping.
“When I was just a girl, my mother wanted me to go to school. My father said no. He wanted me to be a good wife for a good man.”
“And?”
“So I went to University for one year. All of my girlfriends stayed at home with their families. They tended the fields. They washed the clothes. They made the food.”
“Aren’t both good?”
“Girls nowadays do not follow Islam. That is not good,” said Mrs. Mansoor.
“I follow Islam.”
“That is right,” replied Mrs. Mansoor, “and most of my girlfriends never learned to read or write their own names. This is the old way, too. I guess both ways can be right. I just don’t want you walking away from Islam.”
“I am not walking away from Islam. I am just wearing a pair of jeans.”
Ameena thought hard and long about the things her mother said to her at the chopping block. The next morning, when she rose from bed, she immediately changed into her full hijab, veil and all. When she arrived downstairs, Ameena’s mother gave a look up and down at her daughter.
“What is this?”
“I’d still like to go to the island with my father today.”
“I suppose it is alright,” replied Mrs. Mansoor, “just remember what I said.”
“Thank you very much,” exclaimed Ameena.
She rushed out to her father to give him the good news. He already knew from the smile in Ameena’s eyes that it would be another day with his daughter.
“Let’s get going,” he said.
They went to the island without hesitation. Mr. Saleem and the Imams were already at the Mosque, discussing their ideas, both old and new.
As Ameena and her father entered the small room at the Mosque, they saw Mr. Saleem and the Imams gathered around the table. When they approached the table, Mr. Saleem unrolled a new set of blueprints. A collective gasp came from the Imams.
“How could this be?” asked one of the priests.
“I was sitting on my porch last night, thinking about my restaurant, your mosque, and our island. Just after the last call to prayer, I looked up at the stars that filled the midnight sky. This is when the idea came to me.”
“For a building shaped like an eight-pointed star?” asked the priest.
“Not just any star,” replied Mr. Saleem, “but the Khatim Sulayman, the eight-pointed star of Morocco.”
“I think you are trying to make fools of us.”
“It would be the perfect complement to the Mosque. I will not serve any alcohol, other than wine. I think that is a fair compromise. Also, I will respect and honor the Mosque with my restaurant. We will celebrate the history of Morocco.”
The priest leaned back in his chair. Then, the three priests whispered among themselves.
“Mr. Saleem,” said the priest, “Have you ever heard the saying ‘A man's true wealth here after is the good he does in this world to his fellow man.’?”
“I think I’ve heard it somewhere,” Mr. Saleem replied.
“It is a common saying among the Imam. They are the words of the prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him.”
“I think the restaurant would serve the purposes of all of us,” said Mr. Saleem. “Your visitors would have a place to eat. I understand that, and understand that without the Mosque, there may be no visitors to the island at all.”
“That is true,” said the Imam.
“My restaurant will give your visitors a greater reason to stay. It will also allow you to reach more people.”
The priests conferred with each other again. The main priest nodded.
“We will agree to the terms that you’ve put into the contract,” said the priest.
Ameena’s father presented the contract to both the priests and Mr. Saleem. Everyone signed on his own dotted line. Afterwards, they even shook hands. Now, Mr. Saleem would have his restaurant.
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