Ismail recognizes the surah: Al-An’am. The Cattle. Say: Travel through the earth and see what was the end of those who rejected truth. He lifts Amina into his arms and beckons Arshad closer. This is Ismail’s favorite—everything essential to Islam, he feels, is captured in this one surah. Don’t conjoin anyone as equal with Allah. Establish regular prayers. Be good to your parents and take care of your children. Don’t be tempted by illegitimate intimacy and promiscuity. Don’t take life, except by way of justice and law. Measure and weigh your actions with fairness. Speak justly, even if a near relative is involved.

Also, doesn’t the surah say, Don’t revile those that call upon others besides Allah, lest they, out of spite, revile Allah in their ignorance? For Allah has made their actions seem fair to them, and when they return to Him, He will show them what they have done.

Allah knows best who strays from His path. He knows best who is open to His guidance.

How appropriate that Imam Zia has chosen this surah for this evening. Ismail’s anger, bottled within him since morning, dissipates, vaporized by Imam Zia’s cleansing voice. Even the burden of his guilt—at precipitating the vandalism—is lightened by the recognition that Allah has not set him as keeper over those who stray. Ismail is not responsible for their actions. And as for his supposed vanity—wasn’t it merely misguided exuberance? As the surah says, Allah is most merciful, and oft-forgiving.

The surah could easily take an hour to recite, and they’re twenty minutes in. Ismail worries that the congregation may lose patience. Thankfully, Imam Zia stops as soon as there are growing signs of restlessness.

Released, the entire congregation erupts in a cacophony of suppressed noises and deferred movements, men clearing throats, cracking necks and knuckles, shifting noisily in their seats. Amina stirs in Ismail’s arms—bored, she’d fallen asleep, turning her body sideways and resting her head on his shoulder. She now opens her eyes, wondering where she is that the lights are so bright and the noises so loud, but her father is here, his comforting smell—the cucumber soap he uses, tinged with something that is peculiarly him—engulfs her, and she smiles up at him through sleep-heavy eyelids, then settles back and shuts her eyes again.

Looking around the crowd, Imam Zia prepares to address the assembled. Arshad has waited eagerly for this moment. He’d managed to remain patient through the recitation—which he would have at other times enjoyed—afraid that were he to fidget or complain, his father would regret bringing him. There are few children here tonight.

Imam Zia first speaks about the vandalism. But emotionlessly, with very few details, without quoting anything scrawled on the walls. He then describes meeting with the police, who he declares have promised to investigate the matter and apprehend the vandals. Meanwhile, he will contact the pastors and ministers from the surrounding churches to release a joint statement condemning the act. The community must remain calm. Arshad is disappointed. Isn’t Imam Zia going to rebut the accusations and call down the wrath of Allah for the blasphemy against the Prophet?