The Terrorist’s Son by Zak Ebrahim Page A

around me. I try to be brave. I put an arm around my brother.
    â€œYa Allah!” my mother says. “This is making me insane.”
    I nod like I understand.
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    Here is what my mother is not saying: Meir Kahane, a militant rabbi and the founder of the Jewish DefenseLeague, has been shot by an Arab gunman after a speech in a ballroom at a Marriott hotel in New York City. The gunman fled the scene, shooting an elderly man in the leg in the process. He rushed into a cab that was waiting in front of the hotel, but then bolted out again and began running down the street, gun in hand. A law enforcement officer from the U.S. Postal Service, who happened to be passing by, exchanged fire with him. The gunman collapsed on the street. The newscasters couldn’t help noting a gruesome detail: both Rabbi Kahane and the assassin had been shot in the neck. Neither was expected to live.
    Now, the TV stations are updating the story constantly. An hour ago, while my sister, brother, and I slept away the last seconds we had of anything remotely resembling a childhood, my mother overheard the name Meir Kahane and looked up at the screen. The first thing she saw was footage of the Arab gunman, and her heart nearly stopped: it was my father.
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    It’s one in the morning by the time Uncle Ibrahim pulls up in front of our apartment. He has taken so long because he waited for his wife and children to get ready. He insisted they accompany him because, as a devout Muslim, he couldn’t risk being alone in a car with a woman who was not his wife—my mother, in other words. There are five people in the car already. And there are four more of us trying to wedge in somehow. I feel mymother’s anger rise: She’s just as devout as my uncle, but her children were going to be in the car with the two of them anyway, so what was the point of wasting all that time?
    Soon, we are driving through a tunnel, the sickly fluorescent lights rushing over our heads. The car is crazily cramped. We’re a giant knot of legs and arms. My mother needs to use the bathroom. Uncle Ibrahim asks if she wants to stop somewhere. She shakes her head. She says, “Let’s just get the kids to Brooklyn and then let’s go to the hospital. Okay? Quick as we can. Yulla .”
    It’s the first time anyone has used the word hospital . My father is in the hospital. Because he’s had an accident . That means he is hurt, but it also means he is not dead. The pieces of the puzzle start clicking together in my head.
    When we get to Brooklyn—Ammu Ibrahim lives in a vast brick apartment building near Prospect Park—all nine of us fall out of the car in a tangled lump. Once we’re in the lobby, the elevator takes forever to come, so my mother, desperate for the bathroom, takes my hand and whisks me toward the staircase.
    She takes the steps two at a time. I struggle to keep up. I see the second floor blur by, then the third. Ammu’s apartment is on the fourth. We’re panting as we round the corner to his hallway. We’re ecstatic that we’ve made it—we’ve beaten the elevator! And then we see three men in front of my uncle’s door. Two are wearing dark suitsand walking toward us slowly, their badges held high. The other man is a police officer, and he’s gripping his gun in its holster. My mother walks toward them. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she says, “and I will talk to you when I’m done.”
    The men look confused, but they let her go. It’s only when she tries to bring me into the bathroom too that one of the dark suits puts his palm in the air, like a traffic cop.
    â€œThe boy has to stay with us,” he says.
    â€œHe’s my son,” she tells them. “He’s coming with me.”
    â€œWe can’t allow it,” says the other dark suit.
    My mother is puzzled, but only for a moment: