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  To my children, Maysa, Inaya, Rashad, and Zayn, who needed proof that I wasn’t online shopping for eight years.

  OK, maybe I was, but I still finished the book.

  Author’s Note

  To write a satire about Muslims, terrorism, and ISIS was not easy or necessarily advisable. When ISIS first appeared in the news in 1994, I wanted to understand the political context in which that group emerged. The big political movements that influenced this book were the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 during the Cold War, and the two Gulf Wars that devastated Iraq.

  During the Cold War, paranoia severely impacted American foreign policy. Americans were so worried about the Soviet Union spreading Communism, they either directly fought it (by supporting and funding South Vietnam’s military in the Vietnam War) or supported proxy armies in various countries. A key moment that influenced American policy was the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979. Americans were petrified that Communism would spread to the Muslim world as it had in Southeast Asia. Mahmood Mamdani, author of Good Muslim, Bad Muslim: America, the Cold War, and the Roots of Terror, explains in his book how the CIA recruited, trained, and radicalized hundreds of Muslims from around the world, including Osama bin Laden, in order to defeat the Soviets; I owe a debt of thanks to him. He also mentions Arundhati Roy’s famous quote, “bin Laden has the distinction of being created by the CIA and wanted by the FBI.”

  The CIA spent over fifty million dollars on a “jihad literacy” project to encourage young Afghan children to resist the occupation through violence. Malala Yousafzai discusses this project in her memoir, My Name Is Malala. These books were filled with pictures of guns, bullets, and headless soldiers, and were published by the University of Nebraska Omaha and funded by the US Agency for International Development. Four million of them were shipped to madrassas in Afghanistan, where they became part of the Afghan school system’s core curriculum and were used by the Taliban. They have been criticized for indoctrinating a generation of children in brutality.

  But American involvement that resulted in increased regional violence wasn’t just limited to Afghanistan. Saddam Hussein, like Osama bin Laden before him, was a CIA asset. However, he was transformed into America’s foe when Iraqi forces invaded Kuwait in 1991. Iraq needed Kuwait’s money; it had been an oil-rich country, but after a crippling eight-year war with Iran, was billions of dollars in debt to Kuwait, which had loaned them money for the war. Saddam wanted Kuwait to forgive the loan since the war had ultimately prevented Shia influence into other Arab states, but Kuwait refused. Edward Mortimer wrote in the New York Review of Books that Saddam’s meeting with April Glaspie, the US Ambassador to Iraq, seemed to give Saddam the impression that the United States wouldn’t react with anything more than a verbal condemnation. Nonetheless, President Bush Sr. launched the first Gulf War, known as Operation Desert Storm. This began a decade of crippling economic sanctions against Iraq, but they failed to remove Saddam.

  Then, in 2003, President Bush Jr., under the pretense of destroying weapons of mass destruction, attacked Iraq again, removing Saddam and setting up a provisional government. In The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir Who Got Trapped in an IKEA Wardrobe by Romain Puértolas, there is a reference to Paul Bremer, the chief administrator of the US Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) in Iraq, and the disastrous decisions he made. Responsible for overseeing Iraq’s transformation from an authoritarian state to a democracy, he decided that anyone associated with Saddam’s Baath party would lose their pensions and couldn’t help rebuild the country. But because belonging to the Baath party was one of the only ways to show loyalty to Saddam, and not joining was frowned upon, the ruling affected huge numbers of men. Some 250,000 of them joined the insurgency in the aftermath of Bremer’s decisions, which ultimately destabilized, and, some say, created the conditions for the formation of ISIS.

  The book Guest House for Young Widows by Azadeh Moaveni helped me understand how the world became transfixed by ISIS. Moaveni explains how “less attention was given to the group’s origins in ‘American policies and wars.’ ” Instead, “ISIS became, in the Western imagination, a satanic force unlike anything civilization had encountered since it began recording histories of combat with the Trojan Wars,” requiring a new class of “demonologists” to study them.

  It’s been almost a decade since I began writing Jameela Green Ruins Everything. When I started, the news was filled with stories about ISIS, but when Donald Trump came into power in 2017, those articles disappeared and were replaced with headlines about the growing threat of white nationalist extremist groups. I never thought I’d live to see the day when headlines about Muslim terror would be replaced by white terror. The obsession over the surveillance of Muslims came at a cost as white nationalist groups went undeterred, and now we are in the age of Capitol riots and global far-right movements that threaten our democratic structures.

  But I’m an optimistic person and believe in the goodness of humanity. And writing through the prism of faith helped a lot. It takes huge amounts to finish writing a novel. But not as much as to read one. Thank you.

  Lee Lee, Fajr Prayer, 6:07 a.m., Oct. 6

  Dear Allah,

  Mom’s disappeared. The CIA says she’s killed people. And that she’s a terrorist. She is. But the kind who will fight you at a Kate Spade flash sale. Religion’s never been her thing.

  I know she’s been acting weird lately, but people don’t get radicalized and run off to the Middle East to fight in a holy war that quickly. Unless terrorists sit around watching comedy specials on Netflix while online shopping, their lifestyle wouldn’t appeal to her.

  I’m really scared. She could be a better person and mom, but I love her. Dad says her life has been complicated. And the complications have caught up to her.

  I’m doing what the imam at the mosque, Brother Ibrahim, taught me: be patient and ask You for help. So please help.

  But Brother Ibrahim is missing, too. Something is very, very wrong.

  NINE DAYS EARLIER

  1

  MAYBE THE PRAYERS HAD FINALLY worked. jameela scanned the growing crowd in the New York Public Library’s sixth floor. She was impressed. Her publicist, Arlene Baker, waved. She had on her uniform: a powder blue pantsuit last seen on Hillary Clinton or Chairman Mao. Jameela waved back.

  “Great crowd,” gushed Arlene as she tottered up to Jameela in matching heels, windmilling her arms to maintain her balance. She air-kissed Jameela with her perfect raspberry pout. Jameela wondered how her lipstick never came off. Maybe it was tattooed on.

  “I haven’t seen a book launch this big in a while,” Arlene said. “And I’ve been to two others already this week.”

  “I know why they’re here,” said Jameela. “I’ve been trying something new.”

  “What?”

  “Praying.”

  Jameela hadn’t prayed since Jamal. But now there was something she needed badly. After decades of work, Jameela had finished her memoir. She looked up, trying to find God in the tin-stamped ceiling.

  Remember what we talked about, she thought. You will make my book go right to the top of the New York Times bestseller list like You do for all the white people You love so much: J. K. Rowling, George R. R. Martin, or even better, Margaret Atwood. That woman doesn’t need any more nu
mber one books. And she has enough hair on her head to stuff a whole pillow. Do any of those people even believe in You? Probably not. In the Qur’an, Prophet Solomon asked for a kingdom greater than anyone’s before or after, plus to talk to animals, and You gave it to him. So now it’s my turn. I want a literary career greater than anyone else’s. I don’t want to talk to ants or anything. Unless they know how to order a book from Amazon. So that’s it. IMMORTAL LITERARY SUCCESS. If You need to send me a sign, use a grilled cheese sandwich. That’s what You do for Christians, right?

  Arlene touched Jameela’s arm and brought her back to earth. “That’s so funny, sweetie, I thought you said ‘praying.’ So much press here. So fantastic. And your mom and her friends came, too. How sweet.”

  Jameela turned to see her mother, Nusrat, arriving with five of her Pakistani friends, all wearing bright, jewel-toned shalwar chemises. She acknowledged them with a curt nod, her right hand in her jacket pocket, rubbing the blue marble prayer beads her brother, Jamal, had given her as a child. People streamed in by the dozens. She should have tried praying long ago. Who knew God could be so responsive?

  But then Courtney Leland entered. Jameela froze. The familiar chill of dread ran up her spine, even after all these years. Why was that woman here?

  Oh no. Suddenly it made sense why people were rushing to get front row seats. Jameela clutched her prayer beads so tightly her fingers hurt. Fear and anxiety sparked through her body. She was instantly transported back to high school, a time when she and her mother had constantly fought over her clothing choices. She was forced to wear pants under her dresses, and any hairstyle besides pigtails was deemed too alluring. If Anne of Green Gables had been brown, with a unibrow and a mustache, Jameela would have been her doppelgänger.

  During that tumultuous period, her brother had convinced her to join the yearbook staff to gain experience as a writer and develop confidence. By her senior year, she had become editor of the school yearbook and eked out a niche for herself—until Courtney joined the team and, like a black hole, absorbed all whose eyes gazed upon her. In that year’s yearbook, their group photograph featured a smiling Courtney standing in the front of everyone, hands on hips, partly blocking Jameela’s face. The caption editor was typed under her photo.

  She looked exactly the same now as she had back then, maybe a bit thinner and blonder. Her clothing choices perhaps had become more cutting edge. She wore knee-high black suede boots with stiletto heels over black leggings, a miniskirt, and an orange jacket with metal zippers everywhere. It looked like she’d just thrown the outfit together, but Jameela could tell that it was all high-end designer. I am not in high school anymore. I am an accomplished woman. Please, everyone look at me, she thought. The cameras swung toward Courtney. Arlene came and sat beside a devastated Jameela.

  “How did she know about this event?” Jameela whispered through clenched teeth. Reporters mobbed Courtney, who was turning her head at an angle perfected by a thousand Instagram photos. Her lips were parted just so, and her eyes looked off into an unknown distance. She even took out a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and posed with one of the ends lightly touching her lip. Was that even sanitary? Courtney put them on while tossing her hair, which also seemed to know exactly where to land. She screamed “sexy librarian,” while Jameela suddenly felt matronly in her sensible brown walking shoes.

  Arlene picked a piece of fluff off her lapel.

  The truth finally hit Jameela. “You didn’t!”

  “Jameela, listen to me. You’re a first-time author of a good book, yes, but you don’t have name recognition yet. We have a hard time getting people to Margaret Atwood anymore. It was the only way.”

  “What do you mean, ‘the only way’? It’s my book launch! Why does she get top billing?”

  “I may have suggested to her that it was going to be an interview-style launch with—”

  “Courtney’s going to interview me?”

  “You were best friends in high school, so it makes perfect sense.”

  “We were not best—”

  Arlene stepped on Jameela’s toe as Courtney approached the women, a cloud of perfume following her like low-lying cumulus clouds.

  “Arlene, thanks for asking me to be part of your event. It was so kind of you.”

  “Thanks for fitting us in,” replied Arlene.

  Jameela could sense Arlene was trying hard not to gush. If they hadn’t been surrounded by people, Jameela would have throttled Arlene for picking the one person on earth who had betrayed her during her most vulnerable time. She had to appear gracious, or people would suspect the truth: she was jealous of Courtney’s career success.

  “Yeah, thanks,” she added.

  “Oh, you’re so welcome,” said Courtney, turning her attention to Jameela. “We were besties in high school,” she told Arlene. “Jameela let me take over the yearbook so I could use it on my résumé. And it worked! I became the editor in chief of Dazzle. Launched my literary career. Under my leadership, we now have more subscribers than Cosmo.”

  “That’s so kind of Jameela,” exclaimed Arlene. “Always thinking of others before herself.”

  “Yes, so how could I keep away when I heard about Jameela’s book? I wanted to be part of the excitement.”

  Jameela’s fingers dug deeply into Arlene’s arm.

  “Ouch!” she yelped, pulling her arm away.

  Thank God guns aren’t allowed in public libraries. “You shouldn’t have. Really, you must be so busy with your own book promotion.” Jameela tried to slow down her breathing.

  “Think nothing of it. My own parties are getting exhausting. But enough about me. Nothing like the first book. Almost like having a baby, isn’t it? Except that it doesn’t ruin your body. Oh, but you look great, considering. Did you only have one?” Courtney looked critically at Jameela’s stomach.

  “Thanks,” said Jameela, pulling her cardigan protectively around her. “Is that gray hair?”

  Arlene yanked Jameela toward her and whispered fiercely, “Behave. She brings more publicity to your event. Look, she’s already onstage. Follow her.” Arlene went up to the mic and took some papers out of her powder blue purse. Jameela wondered if she’d had each piece of her outfit dyed together in the same vat.

  “I’d like to welcome everyone to the official launch of Jameela Green’s Mainly Muslim, a tour de force memoir about a woman born in suburbia to conservative Pakistani parents. To help us celebrate, we have a special guest, Courtney Leland, the author of Will Anyone Save Me?—a book about her harrowing year in captivity in Iraq before her dramatic rescue by Navy SEALs. It’s been on the New York Times bestseller list for more than thirty weeks with no sign of slowing down.”

  Courtney sat in a plush burgundy velvet chair opposite Jameela, who saw her short skirt get shorter. She reeked of sophistication and glamour, while Jameela felt like a frumpy, middled-aged mother. After the applause died down, Courtney took off her orange jacket to reveal a transparent black blouse with a racy red bra underneath. Every eye turned to her. Even Jameela had a hard time looking away. Courtney took the mic, which was sitting on a small table between them.

  “So, Jameela, I’ve read your book. It was very funny.”

  “Thank you. I thought I could read from the first chapter?”

  Courtney looked like she’d just realized the event was about Jameela and not her.

  “Is it a short chapter?”

  Jameela ignored her and opened her book to the section she’d marked, and began reading.

  I picked up a bottle of soda from the grocery shelf, but my mother snatched it and eyed the label suspiciously. “It says root beer.” She put it back.

  “But, Ummi, it’s not real alcohol, it’s just a name, and it tastes good,” I whined.

  My mother stared at me. “Where did you drink it?”

  It was a rare fatal error.

  “My friend Emily shared her can with me at school.”

  My mother was furious. “What kind of princi
pal runs your high school? They ban peanuts but allow pretend alcohol? No wonder this society is so dangerous, full of alcoholics and drug users. I’ll be speaking to him about indoctrination on Monday.”

  I silently returned the root beer to the soft drink—

  “Was your mother always so strict?” interrupted Courtney.

  Not always, thought Jameela. She remembered trips to the West Coast when she and Jamal were young. Those were the days when her mother didn’t care about the scantily clad men and women lying on the beach or what anyone was drinking. She was another person. Jameela had been fourteen and had just started high school where Jamal was a senior. He died a week before his graduation. “She became strict when I started high school.”

  “Speaking of high school, didn’t your mother have an issue with the shorts that were mandatory in gym class? You rebelled by wearing them at school behind her back, even though you didn’t know how to shave your legs. You describe yourself as looking like a hairy tarantula in boxers, but I thought you looked adorable.”

  Jameela bristled at Courtney for trivializing her personal stories of assimilation. “My mother wasn’t exposed to hair removal. Boys and girls both wore cotton shalwar chemises at school. That’s a long shirt with baggy trousers, so their legs were always covered and not judged the way they are here.”

  Jamal had been the one to tell her to be patient with their parents. Shorts and gym class were foreign to her mother, who had grown up in Pakistan and needed time to adjust. He came up with the idea of Jameela wearing track pants, and even went to talk to the principal about changing the dress code, which allowed Jameela to participate in sports at her mother’s comfort level. But after Jamal died, there was no one to mediate, and a wall went up between Jameela and her parents. They wanted her to become a doctor, but she wanted to study creative writing and become a writer. She might as well have told them she wanted to become a ferret. If Jamal had lived, she would have had an ally. But after he died, she had no one until she met Murray in college, where Jameela secretly took writing classes and started chronicling her experiences growing up in an eccentric American-Muslim-Pakistani household. It had taken her a decade and half to finish her memoir and find a publisher, but here she was.