Chivalry, p.2
Chivalry, page 2
Chapter 2
New York
Uncle Caleb was a fifty-five-year-old philosophy professor at New York University. He had arrived in the United States twenty-five years prior, in 1955, when he was thirty years old.
Ahmed looked up and down the street as they exited the cab. There was no sand and no dirt, just streets, sidewalks, and buildings. He carried his bag up the thirteen stairs to Uncle Caleb’s apartment, not wanting or expecting assistance. Jafaar followed closely behind Ahmed but stood on the concrete landing staring at the new world until Uncle Caleb tapped him on his shoulder.
The house was brown, filled with leather, woodwork, tables, and chairs.
Uncle Caleb spoke perfect Oromo, perfect Arabic, Amharic (the official language of Ethiopia), Farsi (Persian spoken in most of Iran), Dari (spoken in Afghanistan), French, English, and Italian.
At 3:24 in the afternoon, Uncle Caleb rolled out a rug and he and Jafaar said Asr, their afternoon prayer. Ahmed, who had witnessed prayers thousands of times, sat on the large, ripped leather chair until they finished.
The following day, Uncle Caleb showed the boys a bit of New York. Everything that Ahmed saw fascinated him. Each new experience made him think of Abbaa Gudaa.
Ahmed sometimes saw his grandfather’s gentle face in the trees, in the sky, in the bar of soap, and always as he lay in his bed. He stared into the dark and watched as Abbaa Gudaa walked with Hessna, Fatima, and Muhammed. Ahmed hoped to someday be reunited with them. He often wondered if things would have turned out better had he not missed the vacation with his family.
After three days, Uncle Caleb, Jafaar, and Ahmed took a cab to the airport. Ahmed knew that Jafaar was leaving for home. He missed his cousin before Jafaar was even gone. Ahmed cried on the way to the airport, but didn’t let anyone see.
Uncle Caleb was a quiet man, and when he did speak, he only spoke in English, a strange language, which Ahmed had difficulty understanding.
Ahmed did not want to disappoint. He studied every detail: eyes, lips, facial expression, arm and hand movement, and the tone of his uncle’s voice.
Of course, they connected instantly. Uncle Caleb was also the son of Abbaa Gudaa. The blood that flowed through their veins was the same. The love that they shared surged from the same fountain.
On the fifth day, Teru, a light-skinned Ethiopian woman, came to stay at the house. Each morning, Uncle Caleb loaded a small leather case with books and left. Teru spoke Amharic and English. Uncle Caleb instructed her to teach Ahmed both languages, but to concentrate on English as Ahmed would soon begin school.
From the moment that Uncle Caleb left in the morning until he returned, ten to twelve hours later, Ahmed sat at the kitchen table surrounded by books. He gradually began writing the English alphabet and pronouncing English and Amharic words.
During breaks, Teru turned on the television. Ahmed watched Big Bird, Elmo, Ernie, Oscar the Grouch, Count von Count, the Cookie Monster, Bert, and Bruno the Trashman—all characters of Sesame Street.
Each evening, just before Uncle Caleb appeared, Teru cleared the table and assisted Ahmed to do ghusl, a full body wash.
Uncle Caleb would gently place his satchel on the table, nod at Ahmed, and sit for dinner. If it was prayer time, they waited and ate after.
This went on from the spring through the summer. One morning, Uncle gave Teru money and instructions. Ahmed and Teru went to stores and bought Ahmed clothes. It was good timing. None of the clothes Ahmed had brought from Ethiopia fit him any longer.
Teru explained to Ahmed in gentle Amharic that Monday he would go to PS 41 Greenwich Village School at 116 West 11th Street. She insisted that he memorize the house and school addresses.
Ahmed entered first grade. Thanks to Teru, Uncle Caleb, Big Bird, Count von Count, and some of the other Sesame Street characters, he excelled.
In the evening, Uncle Caleb read the Koran to Ahmed. Ahmed believed that it was the most that his Uncle Caleb ever spoke to anyone. Abbaa Gudaa was much different than his son Caleb, but Ahmed quickly also learned to love the soft, quiet ways of his Uncle Caleb.
Being a teacher of philosophy, Uncle’s home was full of books, newspapers, and magazines. Ahmed delved through them whenever he had free time and read the New York Times each day when he arrived home from school.
It was October 23rd, 1983. Ahmed was in the third grade. He read about the Marine barracks bombing in the Beirut Airport:
It was the single deadliest day for US marines since the Battle of Iwo Jima. 241 US marines, 58 French troops, six civilians and two suicide drivers were killed. Over 120 people were wounded. The assailants used 21,000 pounds of TNT.
The story was painful to read, reminding Ahmed of the loss of his own family.
When Uncle Caleb arrived, he spoke quietly in Amharic to Teru about the bombing. Ahmed by now understood the language, but just as much, if not more, was communicated to him by the desolation in his uncle’s voice.
Uncle, at the time, was instructing a Middle Eastern philosophy course, and several days after the Marine barracks bombing he was attacked by one of his students. Uncle Caleb limped, soberly entering the house. At dinner Ahmed focused on the pain in Uncle’s face. Of course, Ahmed knew nothing of the fall down the stairs Uncle had suffered, pushed by an enraged student.
“Uncle, why did terrorists blow up the marine barracks?”
Uncle stared into the bookshelf and spoke after ten seconds. “Do you know the meaning of terrorists?”
“No, Uncle.”
“My son, the Israeli army invaded Lebanon with our help.” (Uncle most always spoke of himself as an American.) “Thousands have been killed, and many more lost their homes. No one called Israel and the US ‘terrorists.’”
Ahmed stared at his uncle. “But why?”
“Because we have planes, bombs, soldiers with uniforms, and control of the media. Today, if you don’t have a plane to kill people with, you are a terrorist.”
“But Uncle, the people who bombed the barracks blew themselves up to murder innocent people.”
Uncle Caleb grasped Ahmed with his painful eyes. “Yes, and six civilians were killed.” He paused, “Ahmed, you lost your family two years ago.”
Ahmed painfully reflected.
Uncle Caleb continued. “If your family was murdered by invaders and you retaliated, would you be a terrorist?”
Uncle dabbed his mouth with a napkin. The injera and vegetables on his plate were barely touched. Quiet took hold of the room.
Ahmed stared at his uncle’s food. After almost a minute of silence, Ahmed slowly began eating his brown beans.
Uncle Caleb spoke. “Some call them terrorists, others patriots, and still others, martyrs.”
Ahmed gazed, never remembering the presence of so much gray in his uncle’s beard. Ahmed gently moved on his chair and glanced at Teru before again turning and focusing on his uncle Caleb.
“And Uncle, what do you think?”
His uncle nodded slightly, as if the world was going to notice his next words. “I think that men who are harmed become unjust.”
Uncle noted Ahmed’s intrigued facial expression, believing that he would someday be a fine man. “Eat, my son, there is enough sadness in the world.”
Now, in fourth grade, many of Ahmed’s schoolmates were Italians from the South Village. One afternoon, the math teacher, Mr. Thomas, asked Ahmed in front of the class who had stolen the calculator off of his desk. The closing bell rang, and the teacher warned Ahmed that he’d pick up the discussion on the following day.
The day before, on his way out of class, Ahmed saw Bobby “Bones” Calabrese snatch the calculator. Mr. Thomas was just as sure that Bobby stole the calculator as he was sure that Ahmed witnessed the theft. Ahmed went home and told Uncle Caleb about the situation.
Uncle listened intently and then measured his words before speaking.
“Certain leaders want to change society, but Islam, instead of turning us into a nation of snitches, rats, and informants, denigrating us to a low level of humanity, raises us to a heaven-high level of being, the ones who bless everyone and everything—in sight and out of sight.”
Uncle Caleb eyed Ahmed firmly. “Islam raises us, not lowers us.” Uncle paused, smiled, and lightly nodded his head. “No nephew of mine is a snitcher.”
The following day, Ahmed was called by Mr. Thomas. The young man stood. The room was still as a rabbit not wanting to be spotted by a hunter.
“Mr. Ahmed Selassie, you are always the last person to leave the room. Now who stole the calculator off my desk Tuesday afternoon?”
Ahmed remained silent. Bobby Bones and his friends stared anxiously.
“Well, Mr. Selassie?”
Ahmed stared into Mr. Thomas’s face. He had Uncle Caleb’s support and even without it would probably still not be intimidated.
“Don’t be afraid, Mr. Selassie. The school will protect you from these thugs.”
Ahmed’s soundless, calm, cool stare stunned the whole class. Mr. Thomas never felt such a loud go fuck yourself in his life—and he had gone through two divorces.
Abby, the skinny, redheaded girl of Dutch heritage, stared more than the others. She never paid much attention to the small, light-skinned, large-nosed boy from Ethiopia, but suddenly he seemed incredibly interesting.
“Mr. Selassie, if you do not tell me, you will be in grave trouble.”
Thomas glanced over the riffraff before continuing. “Come now, don’t be afraid,” he said in an almost British accent. (Thomas was not English and had never even been in a United Kingdom country except for Canada, and that was when he was an infant.)
The swelling silence thickened like a bowl of forgotten oatmeal.
Tony Baroni whispered something inaudible to Ahmed.
“Anthony Baroni! What did you say?”
“Nuttin’, I din’t say nuttin’.”
Thomas knew that Baroni would only be a waste of his time, and quickly darted his beads back to Ahmed, scrutinizing him as a hopeful law student would the first question on the law school exam.
“Selassie, I am losing my patience. I told you.” Thomas cleared his throat. His voice dropped a few octaves before continuing. “You have nothing to be afraid of,” the teacher said in a Darth Vader–like voice.
“I fear only Allah,” Ahmed said quickly and firmly.
The battle line was drawn. The audience was at the edge of their seats.
Mr. Thomas heard clearly, but was hoping to bully Ahmed into changing his mind. “Speak up, boy! What did you say?” (Darth Vader had left his voice).
Ahmed replied calmly. “I said, I fear only Allah.”
The room buzzed like a hundred hornets’nests.
“Silence!” Mr. Thomas screamed. At the same time, he slammed his fist on his desk and glared at Ahmed.
Ahmed’s facial expression remained serenely constant.
Thomas had his fill of this boy’s insolence. The angered teacher rushed toward Ahmed. Ahmed stood motionless, his face free of any emotion.
Thomas grabbed Ahmed’s collar. “Get your books! You’re going to the principal’s office. He will make you talk!”
“He will not,” Ahmed said steadily. “Allah raises. He does not lower us to be snitchers.”
Thomas slapped Ahmed’s face. Ahmed remained unmoved and gazed boldly. Thomas struck him again, took his hair, and banged his head on the desk.
“Hey!” Bones yelled, “Leave the kid alone! He didn’t do nuttin’.”
Thomas let go of Ahmed’s hair. Ahmed slowly raised his head. His nose was bleeding. His bottom lip was torn by one of his teeth when his face was rammed into the wooden desk.
Thomas gazed. Damned Ay-rabs, he thought; he meant no harm and only mismeasured his actions because the boy had such a big nose. . . .
It was only then that he became frightened. He reached to touch Ahmed’s lip. Blood was falling in drops, and stitches meant a police report.
Ahmed moved away, folding his lip into his mouth, sucking the blood down his throat. He liked the taste of his first wound for Allah; it would not be his last.
Mr. Thomas removed a handkerchief from his pocket and escorted Ahmed to the bathroom.
“I did not mean to do that to you, Ahmed,” Mr. Thomas said smoothly. “That is the third calculator stolen this year. I know who did it. It was Bobby Bones and his band of Italian hoods.”
Ahmed wasn’t quite sure what Uncle Caleb would think about the incident. When Ahmed arrived home, Teru cleaned his cut lip.
Uncle Caleb walked in at seven, looked at his nephew, and without speaking a word, went into the bathroom. Ahmed could hear the running water from his uncle washing. After a few minutes, Caleb walked out and set the rug on the floor facing Mecca.
His uncle kneeled. “Ahmed,” he called.
Ahmed stood next to his uncle. “Kneel with me, my son. It is time for you, a man of Allah, to enjoy Salah” (pronounced Salat).
Teru began weeping tears of joy.
Ahmed never felt such a pleasurable rush of energy. He kneeled and kissed the floor with Uncle Caleb.
After prayers, Teru set dinner for the men. Uncle smiled tightly across the table at Ahmed. “Honor is Allah’s.”
“Should we take him to the hospital for stitches after dinner?” Teru asked.
Uncle Caleb grinned and gently shook his head. “Keep the wound clean.” He then looked at Ahmed. “Son, if anyone asks you how you hurt yourself, you fell on the way home from school. Being a teacher is not always easy.” Uncle smiled. “I have some experience. We would not like to ruin a man’s career for a transient moment of anger.”
Ahmed was astonished. Uncle had not been in class with Ahmed, yet he saw more clearly than anyone who was.
“Yes, Uncle,” he replied.
Abbaa Gudaa had begun, and now Uncle was continuing to make Ahmed a nama goota, a chivalrous man. Ahmed felt blessed to know, at such a young age, the meaning of chivalry.
After the event, life changed dramatically; Bones and his friends took Ahmed in as one of their own. They called him Amadeo, then just Deo. Ahmed looked up the meaning of the name Amadeo, “lover of God.” This greatly satisfied him and for a while he became “Deo Selassie.”
Bones quoted Jesus, who also disapproved of snitchers. He wanted us to take care of one another; “He who has not sinned, throw the first stone,” and, “We are our brothers’ keepers.”
Jesus, or Isa, is the second most important prophet in Islam. Both prophets, Muhammad and Jesus, taught that we are all brothers. Ahmed, or to his Italian friends, Deo, liked being brothers with Bobby Bones and his gang.
Uncle woke Ahmed in the early morning and waited for him in the late evening for prayers.
Abby focused as much attention as she could on Ahmed from that day forward. They often walked each other home from school.
In the eighties, a fair-skinned girl walking with a darker-skinned boy drew attention. Convincing themselves that Ahmed was Italian, Spaniard, or Portuguese helped some sleep better. At that point in time, in the United States, Italians, Spaniards, and Portuguese weren’t yet considered white, but were certainly preferred over any of the Arab populations.
One evening Ahmed read the front page of the Times:
December 21st 1983: Pan Am Flight 103 from London to New York exploded over the small town of Lockerbie, Scotland. All 259 people on board were killed, along with 11 on the ground.
“Uncle, what will come of our world?”
“My son, Gandhi said that there is enough for man’s need but not enough for man’s greed.”
Uncle stared at Ahmed, realizing that he had not satisfied his nephew’s thirst for resolve. “Son, the Middle East is the chessboard where great powers wage battles, for land, oil, glory and power. The people who live there are helpless pawns, and the soldiers who die there are mostly idealistic, unwitting hostages.”
Ahmed contemplated his uncle’s words. “But uncle, the flight was going from London to New York.”
“While the suffering remains in the Middle East, the West will continue playing the game. Their populations do not complain, because they’re unaffected and their companies are selling weapons, so they’re actually rewarded for terrorism.”
“Uncle, what does this occurrence mean for us?”
Uncle Caleb was satisfied with Ahmed’s reflection and smiled at his young nephew before continuing, “It means that it will become more problematic to be a Muslim in our country.”
“Our country, Uncle?”
“Yes, my son, this is also our country.”
“What can we do for our country, Uncle?”
“As true Americans we can start by remembering that lying disparages honor.”
Ahmed stared at his uncle.
“Ahmed, if a rose smelled like feces, would we still call it a flower?”
Ahmed smiled, fighting the urge to laugh out loud and not knowing if it would be correct to do so.
His uncle’s expression answered. “Ahmed, many fellow Americans lie and call it protecting honor.” His uncle paused and smiled tightly. “Now Ahmed, don’t you have some studying to do?”
Ethiopia was often a dinner topic. According to Uncle, because of two decades of insurgency and civil war, Ethiopia fell into the grasp of a famine from 1983 to 1985. The government and their supporters claimed that it was caused by a drought. The situation worsened as the government used the disaster as an arm against the insurgents.
Uncle felt that the tragedy was political in nature, a tug-of-war between the resistance and the government. In the middle were the people. Ahmed witnessed his uncle cry while reading some of the horrific stories about Ethiopia in the New York Times.
Once, Uncle Caleb angered and described Mengistu Haile Mariam, the Ethiopian chairman, as “a fool who would take burning coals in his hand to gauge their heat, or use his head as a hammer to break a boulder.”
For sixth grade, Ahmed switched to the Greenwich Middle School at 490 Hudson Street. Uncle examined Ahmed’s books, nodding, smiling, grunting, and frowning as he traipsed through each one. Uncle added a selection of his own books for Ahmed to study. Most dealt in philosophy and history. Ahmed was soon a fan of Espinoza, Thoreau, and Voltaire.
