Hina Ahmed

Unblinking Eyes

Zareena and her childhood friend Sydney sat in a Mexican restaurant at a bar beneath dim lights, waiting for Sydney’s friend Katie to arrive. It would be Zareena’s first time meeting Katie. Sydney had told Zareena that Katie had recently broken up with a boyfriend.

Katie walked in, her black mascara smudged from uncontrollable crying. She sat down next to Sydney, who was now in the middle of them. They ordered glasses of wine and Zareena ordered her usual diet coke. After this encounter, 

Katie and Zareena’s relationship grew when Katie started dating a Muslim man. “What do you think he means by this Zareena? What should I say?”She would ask after showing Zareena his text messages.

Katie had been a cheerleader in high school, the star of the volleyball team and a long distance runner. She was a varsity athlete who was designed to fit in perfectly within the school systems of the white, upper-middle class suburbs.

Zareena did not have the same sense of belonging in her school, where she was one of the few students of color, and one of the fewer Muslims. Although she was involved in many school activities, she always felt like the outsider. Yet, despite their differences, both Zareena and Katie were inclined toward one another. Katie had the free-spirited warmth that Zareena found appealing in a white friend, and Zareena offered her the safe space to be exactly who she was, free of the judgment that came from her otherwise waspy community.

Katie was both excited and overwhelmed about her upcoming thirtieth birthday. She didn’t think she would still be living here, in her hometown, in a big house, alone. But she reminded herself that she had a lot to be thankful for. She did own her house after all. She also had her family, her friends, and a job she loved. She deserved to celebrate. “I hope you can make it!” She said to Zareena in an online invitation. Katie’s birthday fell in the middle of Ramadan, but Zareena knew she would most likely not be fasting—how could she with her chronic migraine and digestive issues. The guilt of which had slowly faded over the years, as she came to accept herself more for the kind of Muslim she was, as opposed to the one she ought to be.

The birthday party would be held at a bar called, The Colonial, the name of which was enough of a reason for Zareena to reject the invitation. But then again, it did serve the best falafel burgers in town and her attendance would be to make Katie happy after all.

Zareena met Sydney in the parking lot. There was always something about walking into a party full of people she did not know that unnerved her. Sydney’s blonde hair was shining brightly beneath the sun, her sky blue dress was long and accentuating, a long slit running through left side, baring her leg. She stood tall in her high wedged sandals. When Zareena inched closer to give her a hug, she was mesmerized by her pink glossed lips, her shimmering gold eye shadow, her long black eyelashes and the dabs of bronzer highlighting her cheekbones.

Sydney and Zareena walked down the streets of a downtown that had been gentrified through expensive University housing and bougie, culturally appropriated restaurants that had replaced the once affordable housing and the corner dollar store. The restaurants blared music as sorority girls wearing Chanel and Louis Vuitton bags stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to take an endless amount of selfies.

They entered the restaurant. A dark room, with over-crammed tables and an interior made of wooden logs made Zareena feel like she was in a man cave. The stench of alcohol made her face scrunch. At the bar, over-sized white men sat with pitchers of beer, staring at large, flashing, television screens. The images on the screen were of men tackling each other, or lifting heavy weights, silencing the reports that day of a Guatemalan woman who had been tortured to death at the hands of ICE.

Katie’s mother Rebecca, her aunt, and her best friend, Stacy were there by the time they arrived. The back of the bar was dedicated to the party, where they hung black and red balloons and decorated wooden tables with red, glass vases filled with artificial, red carnations.

Zareena had met Katie’s mother before when Katie was sick in the hospital. She remembered walking into the room alongside Sydney, but never being looked at. To avoid feeling invisible again, Zareena decided to demand attention.

“Hi!” Zareena said. Rebecca turned around. Her lips glossed in red. 

“Hello!”

“Sydney! Your drink is on me, it will be my way of thanking you for everything you did for this party,” Rebecca said, while Zareena looked at them. Rebecca glanced at Zareena. “And you too…both of you, the drink is on me!”

“Oh, I don’t…” Zareena started to say, but Rebecca had already started walking away.

Sydney had started talking to Stacy. Zareena went to sit in the corner of the bar.

She looked at Stacy: the all-American beauty, with her long brown hair, petite physique, and face full of make-up. She was probably the most popular girl in high school—most certainly, the Prom Queen. Sydney morphed into another being when she talked to Stacy, her head tilting to one side, her fingers stroking her long hair. Later, when Stacey came to sit next to Zareena, she found herself interacting with her in a similar way to Sydney, feeling like she had to reduce a part of herself for the sake of ‘being social.’

Zareena watched as the guests arrived. Many of them brought bottles of wine. Some were dressed up in sophisticated rompers and dresses, while others represented markers of summer in their cut off shorts and t-shirts. Most of the guests were white. There was a South Asian woman who walked in wearing a tiny, white dress. Zareena always found it interesting to run into people of her kind. They seemed to respond in one of two ways, either they wanted to strike up a conversation right away, or they completely ignored her. This woman fell into the latter category, as she went to sit next to a white man at the bar.

The platters of decadent food arrived. Trays of sliders, an enormous salad, spiced tofu, gourmet shrimp, cheese and crackers, and meat platters filled the table. Katie’s family helped themselves first. The guests watched. “Are we allowed to eat too?” One of the guests asked jokingly. Zareena thought back to the parties her mother had hosted. She only ate after all her guests had left and would go up to each one of them and say, “go eat!” Which was always followed by, “you hardly ate anything! Go have more!”

While Zareena stood amidst a group of people making small talk, a girl with long, brown hair, wearing a bright red sleeveless dress, came frolicking up to them. “Oh my God. Did you guys try the truffle fries? They are to diiiiie for!”

“What is truffle?” Zareena asked.

“Oh, my God, you don’t know?”

A few minutes later, a tall, white man walked toward them. “Oh my God, Dad! Can you believe this girl has never heard of truffle?” The girl’s father looked at Zareena with eyes of wanting. His face was wrinkled like a sun-dried tomato, his hair, gray and slickly combed back like the actors in The GodFather.

“Ok, you have to try the fries, just try them!” The girl demanded. Although Zareena wasn’t quick to believe her truffle narrative, she was curious.

“Ok, ok, I will try the truffle fries!” she said.

“I need to watch you have this experience,” the girl said, as she and her father stood together, watching her.

Zareena took the first bite. “Oh, I’ve had this before,” she said, resisting the urge to sound more excited than she actually was.

“So where are you from?” The father asked.

“I’m American.”

“Oh, well, where is your family from?”

“From Pakistan.”

“Oh, do they speak Farsi?”

“No. They speak English and Urdu.”

“I know a lot of Pakistanis. I go to New York City all the time and I love to talk to everybody.”

“So what kind of work do you do?” He asked.

“I’m an artist…among other things.”

“Oh, what is your art about?”

“It’s usually related to all the social justice issues in this country.”

“Well, how do you pay your bills?”

“I try and save everything I make and avoid unnecessary spending. It’s just a different kind of relationship to capitalism.”

“You millennials have the wrooong mindset. This is a capitalist economy! It reminds me of the man that I saw on the news who is thirty years old and still living at home. His parents are suing him because he is refusing to leave. I mean…I would do the same thing!”

“Well, the economy is hard for millennials these days. I don’t think there is anything wrong with families staying together and supporting each other. Isn’t that what families are there for?”

“Wow, you sound like you could be Bernie Sanders supporter!”

“Actually I was…and I am.”

“Well, you millennials need to realize that Bernie is a socialist and socialism just doesn’t work. I mean think about it. How would you feel if you got an A in a class for working hard and another student got the same exact grade for doing next to nothing?”

“Well…sometimes grades have less to do with ‘working hard’ and more to do with a student’s life circumstances which are you know…linked to things like race and class, so I would probably help that student.”

“No you wouldn’t!” The father’s daughter screamed.

Zareena moved back to stand next to Sydney.

Later that night, the father came up to Zareena again. “You know all this stuff happening at the border now…”

“You mean the break-up of countless families and the kidnappings of innocent children?” Zareena thought without saying, because there was no space for her to actually speak.

“Of course we need to have borders! I mean it’s so ridiculous that people think they are just entitled to this country. It isn’t our responsibility to house illegal immigrants! Detaining their children should teach them a lesson. We need ICE, just like we need police officers. But of course, they get a bad reputation too!”

“Police officers have that reputation for a reason…”

“Yeah, you probably think they are killing black people, but that is all propaganda!”

With her face stone-cold, Zareena stared at him.

“I just hate how these black people think that they are always the victims…! Same with women…women with this whole MeToo movement, always acting like victims…everyone blames the men, women need to take accountability for their own actions!”

His wife came to stand beside him.

Sydney noticed Zareena’s horrified expression from across the room.

“Hey! How’s it going?” Sydney asked, coming up to them. 

“Oh! Hey! Great! I reaaally have to go to the bathroom!” 

Zareena said, while the father checked Sydney out from head to toe.

Zareena went toward the bathroom doors. One door said ‘George’ and the other said ‘Martha.’

What was she doing here?

“I actually am going to get going,” Zareena whispered to Sydney. She hugged Katie good-bye. The father had moved to the other end of the bar, where he stood in a dark corner, watching Zareena with unblinking eyes.