What's a Fatwa Darling, Does It Make You Fat?

I would love to have dinner with Salman Rushdie, or at least coffee, and get to pick at his brain. I was just thinking this while having a cigarette.

I want to be published and catch his attention. He would write me a glowing review, and they would quote him on the back of my novel, “the voice of a new generation!” Quite the flights of fantasy I have, eh?

I remember being ten and entering into this kids short story contest the Toronto Star was running. The story was horrible, way too long, and riddled with grammar and spelling mistakes. Around this time, The Satanic Verses, was published and it’s controversy ensued.

My father, family, community, all were, aghast, appalled, outraged, over this book. This book they hadn’t read. They would ask, “How could he defame the prophet?” At the mere mention of the subject matter they would shudder, and curse Rushdie’s name. They were happy at hearing that people had taken to mass-burning his book. My uncle called my father and gave him this number, where Muslims were leaving messages en mass asking for a boycott of the book. My father called me over, and I was told to leave a message of my own.

I remember coming over to the phone shyly, with a bit of a smile, because I found the situation to be humourous and bizzare at the same time. I echoed some complaint that I heard my father make.

I of course finished the story in submission format the day before the contest was over. I asked my father, if he would go and deliver the story to the Toronto Star. He said he would.

Maybe a few weeks later, we were driving down the highway, passing the Toronto Star, and I construct this complex scenario. I imagine that I go to the Toronto Star building, to deliver my story. The lovely receptionist lady would point me down some hall. So, this ten-year old boy meanders through the Toronto Star building. I happen to take a wrong turn, and end up walking into a room I was not intended too.

In the room would be Salman Rushdie. As I recollect the memory, I recall the room to be spartan and blue. There would be a sole table and two chairs, constructed of steel maybe? Salman Rushdie would look at me shocked and surprised. He was of course in hiding, because the Ayatollah Khomeini had placed a fatwa on his head, he had only come here to give an interview in secret. And me this little Pakistani Muslim boy happened to find him.

I wasn't sure how, but I end up capturing Mr. Rushdie. I surrender him to some imagined Muslim Authorities. My deeds would fall on everyone lips and it would be related with such astonishment and zeal.

I construct this fantasy, while driving in the car down the highway, with my father, in silence as we never talk, past the Toronto Star building. As I write this, I wonder, did he ever submit that story?

Later that year, as I move from grade school to Junior High, I end up conducting a strange debate. Me and the librarian develop a repertoire, as I am a nerd, and always end up in the library searching for books. Somehow we end up discussing Salman Rushdie and the idea of censorship. I defend the fatwa, and say that Mr. Rushdie had no right to publish defamations against the prophet. The librarian engages me, and talks about "freedom of speech", telling truth in writing, and allowing for difference of opinion. I consider these arguments, but never change position while talking with him, but would go up to my grandfather's room, and start the debate with him instead. I take the liberal stance with my Nana, and learn counter arguments and then the next day argue again with the librarian. I must continue this debate for about a month.

Of course, now, I think Salman Rushdie is prolific writer, whose writing I so enjoy reading. His command of language and storytelling abilities leave me simply amazed. I remember practically getting wet at this one point when I was reading The Satanic Verses. He constructs this scene, where the protagonist is turning into a devil creature, while he is at the infamous afternoon parties held by South Asian teens in London, and starts discussing Franz Fanon's theory of liberation. WTF!?! That’s just sheer brilliance to me.

I remember reading somewhere in an interview that Rushdie did, that what made him sad about the whole affair, was that he had felt that he had written a book, for the Muslim community. That the story was for them. And that they blindly turned away from this narrative. I agree. That is sad, that the community would silence, one of it's own voices.