The congregation appears dissatisfied too. At first the questions are hesitant, logistical. Should they deploy security cameras? And what about the expansion? Should the fundraising continue? Will they still be applying for approval from the city planning commission by the end of the month?

A contingent advocates restraint. Maybe they should wait until the furor around the country dies down, as it’s bound to once the midterm elections are over and the hostility subsides. But what starts with only a faint whiff of finger-pointing—perhaps this wasn’t the most well-advised time to initiate the expansion project?—soon becomes heated: Why court so much trouble simply over soccer practice? Hadn’t the mosque functioned so many years without any problems until these newfangled schemes were instituted? What else could lie behind the decision to publish interviews in the Sentinel, if not publicity-seeking and self-aggrandizing?

Arshad squirms, his fists clenched: Why are they squabbling among themselves when the enemies are outside? He senses his father tense up. He looks around the room for signs of support from his father’s friends. Won’t someone respond? Won’t Imam Zia say something? And why won’t Abba defend himself? He fantasizes leaping to his feet and shouting down the men attacking his father and Imam Zia. He’s puzzled by their passivity. His father continues stroking Amina’s hair as though it were the most important task in the world.

An anger mixed with pity illuminates Arshad. He’s always cherished that his father is named after the forefather of all Muslims, Prophet Ismail, who’d submitted without demur to being sacrificed on Allah’s behest, awaiting patiently his father’s knife until Allah intervened. But how powerless Abba must feel if the only person he’s willing to show any anger toward is his own son.

Fortunately, the tide begins to change. At first one voice protests: They’re doing nothing wrong, why should they be the ones to restrain themselves? Doesn’t the Constitution give them the right to practice their religion? Then another voice joins, and then a third. There are dissenting voices too, but in agreement: What has the Constitution got to do with it, when Allah has already granted them rights?

Someone makes an impassioned speech, in Arabic, and Arshad can’t fully understand it, and neither can half the assembled, yet the room responds with a standing ovation when the man finishes, along with chants of “Allahu Akbar.” These grow louder, despite Imam Zia’s admonitions to keep their enthusiasm in check. The chant soon moves to a call-and-response format: three calls of the takbir to which the congregation responds once, in one thundering voice.

Arshad joins in. At first softly, imitating his father, who murmurs the takbir while covering Amina’s ears. But the pent-up grievances of the day aren’t contained so easily. He feels the words outside him, their crash and ebb rocking everything in the room like a frenzied sea, and they stir up a storm inside. The takbir fills his lungs to overflowing. A feeling of elation courses through him, and the room and the congregation merge in a handful of joyously roared syllables.