Random story: Leon and the Ground Zero Mosque

            Having fulfilled his duties as orientation counselor, and safely stowed his unread poster in his lab, Leon made haste to avoid the start-of-term bustle. He boarded his rusty, faded, red truck, bound for his cousins in rural Florida.

            His relatives did not much enjoy Leon’s visits, but small details like this rarely nettled Leon’s carefree soul. Leon begged leave to visit his cousin’s marching band practice; Ahmed fibbed and claimed the band instructors would not allow it. Shortly after the band had congregated for the last practice before school started, as everyone tugged their timpanis and bells through the grassy field, Leon’s rusty red truck appeared, puffing through an excess of smoke and exhaust.

            ‘Who is that?’ Isaiah demanded of Ahmed, as Leon bounded from the steering wheel, slammed the car door, and greeted Ahmed with a massive grin.

            ‘Just my cousin,’ mumbled Ahmed. Likely he realized whatever embarrassment Leon had in store was inevitable. But this did not stop him protesting as Leon laid a carefully decorated box, in lavender and misty green colors, on top of Ahmed’s drum set, as though he were bestowing an undeserving table with a bouquet of choicest flowers.

            ‘What is that?’ asked Ahmed apprehensively.

            ‘Just a little something, my friend,’ Leon assured him.

            On closer inspection, the top of the box was carved into domes and what looked like tall towers. With a sinking feeling, Ahmed recognized them to be minarets, replete with cheap rhinestones Leon must have picked up somewhere, and blaring Arabic script all over.

            ‘What the heck is that supposed to be?’ Ahmed demanded again, now trying to shield the box with his body.

            ‘It’s nothing,’ Leon persisted evasively again.

            ‘Bull. Tell me what it is or else.’

            ‘Okay, just chill out. It’s a Ground Zero donations box.’

            ‘Shhhhhhh!’ Ahmed looked nervously around. Isaiah was looking at them curiously. Leon’s voice was one that carried.

            ‘It’s okay. I’m just trying to raise money.’ Leon poked his hand in his pocket and emerged with a shiny nickel. He pointed at the side of the box; SUPPORT GROUND ZERO MOSQUE was written prominently there, and Ahmed raced to cover it up. ‘Just check out what it does!’ Leon continued happily. He slipped the silver coin into a slot between the minarets and the dome. Immediately, a rousing, drawn-out chorus of ‘Allahuakbar!’ rang out over the grounds.

            Ahmed was near tears. John had frozen in shock and Joanette had dropped her flute. Mr. Bellernie was marching over, and Sax was taking it at a run. Of the three teachers, only Mr. Smith stayed where he was, scratching his head and trying to get wind of everything.

            ‘Dude, you are going to get me killed,’ Ahmed wailed. Before Leon could protest, Mr. Bellernie had arrived, and Sax was dancing around in front of them.

            ‘Let me see that!’ Sax screamed. He yanked the box from Leon’s unguarded hands. ‘What is this? Is this some of that Muslim goings-on? I ain’t about to have it here, I’m ain’t!’

            Ahmed opened his mouth to try to explain. Leon, however, who was smiling and looking relaxed, got there first.

            ‘Sir, have you heard of the Ground Zero Mosque? There’s a group of us Muslims trying to raise money –‘

            ‘No!’ Sax roared. ‘Don’t you ‘sir’ me, sir! Don’t talk! No, don’t open your mouth! You have not earned the right to speak! Do you hear me? Don’t speak. You haven’t earned the right. No, you haven’t earned the right to speak.’

            In the middle of Sax’s harangue, Mrs. Pratgoul came striding out of the front doors, wearing her ‘Principal of the Year’ badge over a flaming purple suit that clashed with her ruddy face. ‘What’s going on here?’ she barked. She picked up the lavender and green box, while Sax yelled on in the background, and examined it.

            ‘There is to be no religious materials brought onto the school grounds!’ she declared. Leon made to rescue his precious box, but the principal raised her hands imperiously. ‘Are you authorized to be on this campus?’ she asked Leon.

            ‘Well, duh,’ said Leon. ‘People here have money, don’t they? Ahmed told me the band charges $350 per student. So I thought I’d see if they were interested in donating – ‘

            ‘Enough!’ Mr. Bellernie stamped his foot. ‘We need that $350, son. How else are we gonna fund the Republicans to a win? If you think we’re giving a cent of that money to your hokey mosque, you got another thought coming. Now you heard what Mrs. Pratgoul said. Scram!’

            ‘I want my box back,’ sniffed Leon huffily, overcome by the hostility. ‘I want the box back, and I’m going to raise a million dollars off of it, see I don’t.’ With that, he snatched the box out of Mrs. Pratgoul’s red fingers and turned on his heel to his rusty truck, but not before he unabashedly inserted a copper penny into the money hole. Another satisfying cry wailed out of the box, echoing all the way to the neighboring farm where the cows looked up, curious.

            A very wonderful thing happened to Leon the next day. Far away across the great waters, the junior Prince of England was having a very drunk night, after which he played around on his computer before passing out on his bed. A few hours later, Leon was checking his bank statements, when he realized that a long-distance deposit of $999,234.00 had been made into his account. This unexpected luck galvanized him to immediately go chugging around with his box, and after many a round of ‘Allahuakbar’s,’ he had an even million dollars. These he hurriedly rushed off into the Ground Zero Mosque donation account. The officials there, after first protesting that it was not a ‘Ground Zero Mosque’ but merely an Islamic community center in lower Manhattan, cheered loudly for the massive and anonymous gift, and hurried to place half the money in irrevocable bonds, using the rest for a down payment on building materials.

            Meanwhile, angry phone calls started coming Leon’s way, with angry voices in haughty British accents. Luckily, Leon’s cell phone was always out of charge, so he remained blissfully unaware for a few days that the henchmen of British royalty were after his neck. Eventually, an entourage of fellows dressed in angry red suits caught up with Leon’s rusty red truck. After a great deal of talk about the Revolutionary War and Napolean, Leon was made to understand his grievous error. He made them to understand that he no longer had the money.

            ‘How did you spend a million dollars in less than a week?’ shouted the bellicose leader of the red-suits.

            ‘Well, of course with such a windfall, I sent it directly to the Ground Zero Mosque fund, oh, I mean, I mean, the community center.’

            ‘We’ll see about that!’ spat the leader. He and his cronies soon showed up in Manhattan. They were sorry to be informed that the money was spent and no longer available, but that the Mosque Foundation would be happy to name the junior Prince as prime patron of their cause. The prince was still drunk, so when he was phoned about the offer, he readily took it up. Leon, always believing that Mrs. Pratgoul had worked a talismanic good charm over his efforts, persuaded the authorities that she, and the Gainesville Band, and Gainesville, Florida in general, should join the Prince, and that all be named Chief Protectors and Backers of the Islamic Community Center in lower Manhattan. 

Book 1 ch 1 Öresundsbron

Hi everyone! 

I wrote this little bit of story about three girls, Koether, Noor, and Selwa. They are all Muslim :) as am I, so I don't really mean the title of the blog. I would love for people to read this and tell me what you think. I will hopefully be adding to this every little while. For this particular piece, I want to know: Is it a very very boring way to start a book?

If you want to feel like a real European, you have just to hop onboard the Öresunds train and ride to Denmark.  

It feels European, I think, that you can do that, just hop on a trustworthy train and end up in a different country. I am sure that there is not a more beautiful body of water than the Öresund (which separates Sweden and Denmark). It is always so blue and quiet and calm.
Just before reaching the water, you will first ride through Malmö Central and Malmö Syd (Malmö South).

When the train stops in Malmö Central, it stays there about 15 minutes and waits for people to get on. Then you're on your way.

The train goes through Sweden and Denmark several times every day, so it must not be so remarkable. But it is remarkable for me to see Danish newspapers on the tables when you're still in Malmö, and to see wastebaskets that say in Danish on them: taenk på miljön (think of the environment). And to hear a Dane behind you, and a Swede sitting in front of you.

Malmö Central station lies right in the middle of Malmö, as the name suggests. You see the canal and lovely buildings and ice cream kiosks and grass, and it feels wonderful.

Then the train rushes on. You are now out in the fields, empty of buildings, out in the countryside, where every little bit of land is a different shade of green.

The train brakes by Malmö Syd station. It is actually not a part of Malmö, and there is but a tiny community with houses within eyesight. A few people get on and off the train here, the last Swedish outpost.

And now there's only the tracks and the open sea before you!

The train rushes further (if you assume, of course, that no cow is hostilely in the way). You see Swedish flags as they wave in the wind, and on the next flagpole flies the Scanic flag with its red and yellow colors.

You see the road for the cars beside you, and if your train seat faces backwards, you see the signs pointing to Stockholm, Göteborg, and Kalmar. It feels so nice to think that, although you're on your way to Denmark, all this is only a stone's throw away. You can come back as easy as applesauce.

Right, and then you see some boulders, you rush through a tunnel, on the other side you see the coast and how it slings its way into the water. The train continues on the land as long as possible. You see how the water creeps closer and closer.

All of a sudden you find yourself on the bridge itself, high up in the air. The water floats below.

It takes about 3 minutes to cross the bridge. Then you're in Denmark. The landscape is always wilder here. The loudspeakers on the train begin speaking in Danish, as they tell us that now we have now reached Tårnby, and now Kastrup Lufthavn airport, and now Orestad, and last (at least for me), Copenhagen’s Huvudbanegård (which my Danish cousins love to pronounce as Who-ban-e-go).  At this point, you are smack in the middle of Copenhagen, that is, right across from Tivoli. 

It takes about 30 minutes to get to Copenhagen's central station from the Öresund bridge. Once you've gotten to the Huvudbanegård you can take a train to Germany, the Netherlands, France, and all possible places. And of course you can always go back to Sweden.

So had Noor written for one of her first reporter assignments. During her last few years of formal schooling before university, she became involved with local reporting. The show she worked on had been geared towards immigrants in Linköping, the city in the very flat plains of Sweden where she grew up, where once long ago a glacier had crushed all hollows and ambitious hillocks from the earth.

When the bridge opened, Noor’s father had announced with a big cheesy smile that they were all going to go. It was during the sweet infancy of the bridge. Its massive frame was complete and erect, but the trains and cars had not yet embarked upon their maiden voyages. It was the biggest outdoor event Noor could ever remember. They had climbed out of the car at the Öresund, surrounded by bicyclists, and skateboarders, and cartwheelers, and other adventurers, all with their own specialty and inclination for crossing the eleven miles out from Sweden into Denmark.

Noor’s family opted for a sluggish walk. Noor was still young at the time, and her little sister had just graduated from toddlerhood. She cried to be carried every little bit, so much so that in later years, their dad would tear up when the Öresund bridge was mentioned, and say, ah, how little Hadeel was then and how I broke my back getting her across!

           After three miles, Noor was also tired; they never made it all the way across by foot. They had looked fondly across the water and bade farewell to the many trips by ferry the family had taken to see Danish kinfolk. Alas, the ferry was no more! There was merely the highway side by side with the train tracks.