Two Wednesdays ago I traveled to Lowell to attend a one day workshop. I arrived at North Station 40 minutes before a boarding time. With a fresh brewed cup of Dunkin Donut coffee in my hand, I sat on a wide wooden bench in a waiting area and continued to read Standing Alone by Asra Q. Nomani. As I turned to the next page, a smell of stale cigarettes and man cologne shot up into my nostrils. It was so strong the smell didn't stop in my nostrils, but it traveled all the way up to my head. For a short nano second I thought the smell could crushed my skull.
I peek at a pair of red Nike Jordan sneakers a foot away from the bench. My eyes traveled up to the owner of the Jordan sneakers. A man in brown worn out leather jacket, curly black hair and a pair of tired eyes shot back at me.
He nodded at me and sat on my left. I scoot a bit to give him more space. I went back to my book.
"You're wasting your time reading that trash."
I turned to my left, a young Hispanic woman was feeding her toddler a yogurt. She made a funny face, she meowed and she mooed him to take another spoonful. I turned to my right.
I thought I didn't hear him correctly. I asked him to repeat what he had just said.
"You waste your time reading that book." His eyes fell on the book in my hand.
"Is that right?" I continued reading. I hate making small talk when I was reading.
Reading is an intimate act. I run, I walk, I stroll up and down the paths along with the characters. I fly across the horizons, roam the sky looking down at the faces in the pages. I swim in their heads trying to understand their actions and their feelings, their hatred,their miseries, their pains and their joys.I smile, I laugh, I cry, my heart twitches, jumps and beats. I like to be left alone when I read.
"She is a bad Muslim, she really is, you know that? She and that Manji woman and all that types of people who work with infidels will go straight to hell. A sense of satisfaction shoot out from every pore of his face. "They will be in hell for a long, long time." With a sneer he slammed down his judge hammer after he read his verdict.
"Wow..." I emptied my cup and put away the book in my backpack. I wanted to ask him the same questions I've always asked the individuals that I've met all these years who share the same mentality as this man.
What kind of satisfaction do you get when you make an accusation to strangers you hardly know?
Do you get an extra points or sort of bonus that credited to your pahala account when you call names, predict their after life events?
Really, did I miss some clues or hints during those years when I was in Ugama Islam classes, or during Quran classes (including tajwid, fiqh and such).
Did your teacher pulled you aside and told you a secret? "Listen, this is what you should do when you see people who are not like you, when you meet people who do not share the same ideas with you.
But I didn't.
I'm a learner myself. What do I know?
I excused myself when the boarding time was announced. He looked disappointed.
"Where are you going?"
"Work.""
I picked up my backpack and adjusted my scarf.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Yes, anything."
"How long have you been in hell?"
"What?"
"I'm sorry, I got to go."
"Hey, hey, wait, wait."
I kept walking, but I raised my left hand as a good bye.
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