Post-9/11, discrimination of Muslims and anyone that "appeared to be Arabic/Muslim".
Originally a kink-meme fill.
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His name was Ibrahim Tehrani Muhammad and he ran a small diner in a nice corner, in a nice neighborhood in New York City. He served strong coffee with rich creams and cubed sugar. Next to his cashier was always lines pull of enticing pastries of sweet fruits in flaky shells.
He was born in New York, dreamed of becoming a doctor and found his passion through culinary. He studied in France where he fell in love with their buttery treats. Butter cream became blasphemy, and he always used homemade whipped cream. Light and soft; a subtle sweetness that made his cheeks swell.
He had a classic handsomeness about him, and always looked good with a clean beard. Chivalry was his game, he never took advantage of a woman. He often flirted with the girls with pretty, genuine smiles, gave them an extra cup of coffee. And, as a joke, did the same to their boyfriends.
He barely remembered Arabic, even though his mother pushed him to go to Arabic school every weekend.
He was Christian.
Alfred used to go to the little cafe and have his morning coffee (because no one could beat Tehrani's special blend), eat one of his special pastries and always got an extra cup of freshly brewed joe (because he was Ibrahim's best customer). He called Ibrahim Ibie, because the name is so damn long, and Ibrahim would always laugh heartily.
And then one day on September 11th, 2001; Alfred looked up and felt a part of him die. And disappear.
The news blasted fear and hope, all blended into a strange mix.
And Ibrahim's business would falter and dwindle, as people began to suspect. Fear. People who were too vulnerable, too close to the blasts and too close to the dying people who fell so far from what seemed to be a beautiful sky.
Ibrahim began to smoke (even though he promised himself) and saw Alfred walk by briskly (who still couldn't forget and his heart would strike some sort of convoluted hatred and fear and all around...disconnect).
"Alfred...Alfred!" Ibie would cry out, a dark skinned hand reaching for the white nation who did not even so much as glance. His cigarette dropped and he quit that day.
And a while after his store closed without any violence. No, he was lucky to not have anyone rally up on his doors, on his lawn, shout in his face, ask him why ihe/i killed their son, daughter, wife, husband, child, loved one.
He had something so cold. A stare, a glance, whispers and general fear. He felt it radiate and twist about him as he bowed his head and held back tears (men do cry, men can cry, but how can he cry when there's nothing to cry about when he had done nothing). Waiting on the subway until policemen pulled him back and asked him to come to their station to be checked, released, repeat.
He had to take a taxi where he had a friend who shared his distress (but not all the same because his friend was much lighter, almost white, he could just about get away if people did not look at the way his face matched with the people on the screen).
And it would be just Alfred's luck to share a taxi with a man he had chosen to ignore.
"Alfr--Mr. Jones. It's nice seeing you again." Ibrahim sits tall in his seat and looks straight ahead. He smiles to his friend who looks back nervously.
Alfred leans on his car seat and he imagines the taxi exploding in outrageous flames and thunder, the two men in the car with Cheshire Cat smiles and shouting words he could never understand. "I'm well." He looks out his window and finds that there is traffic. "How...how is the cafe?"
"Closed. Gone. I...I couldn't make the next payment." Ibie drew in a shaky breath and looked out with glassy eyes. "People stopped coming. So many people stopped."
"That's a shame. You...had such good coffee."
"And now I can have it all to myself." He jokes, hopes, laughing to himself and dying out in the silence.
Alfred waits a moment before he turns and looks at Ibrahim, looks at his slender features. His large eyes, long eyelashes, thick eyebrows, downturned nose, pursed lips (that looked all so--), long neck and broad shoulders. His hands large and boned, the knuckles poking up through his skin. His long legs, slender and defined with muscle (so he assumes). And his dark skin that shimmers under the sun like some messed up diamond or something stupid like that.
"Alfred--Mr. Jones."
"You can still call me Alfred."
"Alfred...why are people so afraid of me? What have I done? I...am not those people all the way over there. I don't believe in jihad or hurting my fellow neighbors. I am not Muslim, I'm Christian. I pray everyday after each meal and each night before I go to bed. I wake up with my knees on the floor and my hands holding on my sheets, so why, why, why?" Ibie looks at Alfred with distress and confusion. "What makes me so different now than before?"
Alfred does not respond. "I'll be getting off here."
"Alfred. Alfred!"
Alfred quickly pays whatever sum that's probably too much and weaves his way through still cars and runs his way back to his New York apartment.
And he does not change, could not change until too much later. And even then he still felt convoluted fear, unnecessary. He still pointed fingers, made looks and pushed away people he used to love.
I know who you truly are now, terrorist.
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Have you ever felt alienated? Have you ever heard someone indirectly call you a terrorist in class? Have you noticed certain glares and uncomfortable stares? Has anyone ever told you their twisted thoughts? Have you trusted and lost it all under a sea of trouble?