Ali Eteraz - Native Believer

A black-haired girl with blond highlights smiled. “Just trying to make sure the average American Muslim is heard,” she said. Her name was Leila and she was an Afghan-American from Texas. “The world has a lot of misconceptions about us and we really want to help clear those up.” She came and sat next to me and asked the waiter for a “virgin something.” She smiled at me and added, “Like me.”

“How do you go about clearing misconceptions?” I asked.

“Well, we have a couple of exchange programs,” she explained. “We go abroad and talk to Muslim communities in other countries and tell them how integrated and assimilated the Muslims in America are. How we don’t suffer Islamophobia here. Well, there is some, but it’s negligible.”

“How do you determine what’s negligible?”

“Well, like, the Japanese got put into camps,” she said. “So compared to that, we are free. We can think and do whatever we want.”

“But you work for the State Department.”

“No,” she laughed. “We work with the State Department. Our minds are our own.”

“Freelance public relations?”

“Exactly. I make contacts. Honestly, if Mahmoud brought you here then he thinks you could mesh well. You should join. And it pays well.”

“How well?”

“Like thousands of dollars just to go on one trip,” she said.

“Well, I’m definitely considering it, Leila.” I pressed her hand with both of mine, looking into her stark green eyes. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Her neck, her breasts, her stomach seemed light and tight, as if the littlest touch would cause her body to thrum like a string. But more arresting was the force field of her character, her presence. I was drawn to it. I wanted to part it with conversation and let it enfold me.

Leila became my temporary handler and led me into a number of conversations, one of which was about the moral emptiness of American foreign policy and how only the involvement of the Muslim mind could tilt it back to righteousness and justice.

In that group I met a young, Mohawked twenty-something with countless piercings and tattoos of crescents in the color of Persian tile. Her name was The Ism. She was accompanied by Saqib, who put an arm around her waist. The Ism was a film director with various documentaries about religious subcultures under her belt, and now she wanted to make a feature-length film that would help Muslims gain some love and respect.

“I am motivated by our common humanity as descendants of dust.”

“Dust?”

“She means God,” Saqib said.

“Why not just say that?”

“She finds God too ineffable to refer to directly so she compares Him to something that is just as pervasive.”

The Ism was in the middle of shooting a superhero chronicle and had come to Mahmoud to help her secure a final round of funding, which he had delivered promptly by connecting her with his friends in Hollywood. The film was called The Last Jinnmaster. It featured a pair of analysts from the Pentagon who are fighting crazed villains in a country called Estan. After the fantastical villains from Estan — who wear beards resembling turbans — destroy a series of all-girls schools, the Pentagon analysts seek the help of a mysterious Estani leader living in the Poconos. This man is The Last Jinnmaster. He is an exile from Estan and has the ability to control the Islamic supernatural. The Pentagon officials convince him to loan his jinns to them, to assist them in the great war on Estani terror. The Jinnmaster is reluctant at first; but after being reminded of all the things America has given him he agrees to loan his minions to the Pentagon. In alliance with American soldiers and drones, the jinns are able to rescue “all those poor little Estani girls that just want to go to school.” In the end the jinns are given congressional medals and the villainous senator who didn’t previously respect anything Estani is put in the position of pinning the medals upon the Jinnmaster and his jinn.

Mahmoud came back to check on me just as I was about to offer The Ism some promotional assistance. He made sure I ordered a couple of entrées and even let me sneak a Long Island iced tea in the coatroom. The act of deception created camaraderie between us. He brought me around to all the other mavens I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to and they reminisced about conferences they’d attended together and future trips they would take, all paid for by companies that did business in Muslim-majority countries, particularly the ones ringing the invaded ones. They all wanted to know when I would start working with them.

I considered my possible future colleagues. They seemed happy and joyous and oblivious, without the resentment that wracked Ali Ansari, without the caution that animated people like Brother Hatim, without the melancholy that preyed on people like Farkhunda. These people were optimists. They had a community that subscribed to the generally accepted definitions of success. They were approved by the Secretary of State. With them I would be considered nothing less than a brand ambassador of America. And this time around, my boss would be someone who actually valued my identity, considered it essential, understood it. Wasn’t this life, promoting international harmony and other feel-good things, preferable to wandering about North Philadelphia with angst-ridden grifters, pornographers, backsliders? That life didn’t seem suited to someone of my age; someone of my cleanliness. This new opportunity could even give Marie-Anne everything she sought. The contacts with the Wazirate. Respect at MimirCo. We might even buy the condo.

I went over and put an arm around Mahmoud’s shoulders. I told him I wanted to help him win the War of Ideas.

* * *

Marie-Anne squealed so loud that one of the maids notified the manager and we received a phone call to make sure everything was all right.

“I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it!” She kept touching the blue folder marked with the gold State Department seal that Mahmoud had given me at the end of the night. She put on the DVD of events that former outreach contractors had done. And she smiled at the all-important direct-deposit form. In her excitement she didn’t even ask if I had gotten a chance to push her and MimirCo.

“So what does all this mean?”

“It means the US taxpayer wants to send your husband as a Messenger of America.”

“To do what?”

“Basically, they need me to tell people to hate us less.”

I read through the details in the folder. My first trip would be to Madrid. I would be part of a six-person team, including Leila, and we would meet with elementary and junior high school students and talk to them about diversity in America. Other events included speaking with members of Muslim communities, most of whom were recent immigrants to Spain and held a contemptuous view of the United States due to our country’s association with war and such.

Marie-Anne was thrilled at the speed with which I’d turned myself into a sort of private, mercenary diplomat.

“I bet there will be tons of eager little Muslim girls at these meet-and-greets,” she said and put her hand on my chest. “Don’t get tempted.”

“I’ve met some of them already,” I replied and let her fondle between my legs.

“Are they pretty?”

“They are,” I said, closing my eyes, sighing. “And very young.”

Marie-Anne’s hand made a fist, like she was squeezing a wet towel. “How young? Skinny? Are they skinny?”

“Almost illegal young. And they are skinny. Anorexic skinny. Like they eat everything and never go to the gym but never gain an ounce of fat.”

We started touching the tips of our tongues together. She tasted of champagne. Her thighs clamped on either side of my leg. She grinded herself and massaged me at the same time. “Is there one you like?”