Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) Read Online Free

was his fault that Roxy didn't come home so often, having been at college in Madison when he "got lost." She blamed Adem for nearly killing her father with his stunt. She had followed her mother's path, a modern Somali woman, not bound by the old ways. Now she stayed in Madison, only calling home once a month, if that. Living with a sociology professor, he'd heard.
    Adem had waited a while for the atmosphere to calm down before telling them his plans, since things were heated with his dad getting fired. There were shouting matches and frayed nerves. Maybe he should have found his own place after graduation, but he had been saving every dime for this trip.
    Mustafa covered his mouth and chin, stroked his goatee. "We don't even know if they'll let you out of the country."
    "Yeah, I mean, I've thought about it a lot. I can check first, right? I can give them the whole schedule. Really, it's cool."
    Another glance at Mom. She said, "Alone?"
    "It's okay. I can join a tour group. I don't mind."
    "Have you thought, maybe, about Florida? New York?"
    "Dad—"
    "Canada? England?"
    "Dad!" No, he couldn't lose his cool. This wasn't about permission . He was twenty years old. He was an adult. This wasn't even about approval . Really, it was about acceptance. The beard, the hair, the clothing, the daily prayers, the mosque and the discussion group he'd joined. None of it radical, no. He steered far from those cats, damned hypocrites one and all. With each new step forward, his parents had reacted with silence, then offered alternatives, then some hurt words when he brushed off their suggestions, and finally the quiet understanding that he'd found another path, not theirs. One day he would show them how to follow his lead. Telling them did no good. He had to live by the Prophet's words first.
    "Dad, millions of people do it. It's safe. I'm going to Mecca. I need to..." He balled his fists tight, thumped his heart. " Feel it . Didn't you ever feel it? Come on, Mom? Dad?"
    It had been difficult to get used to Mom without her hijab, wearing make-up and jewelry, her hair relaxed and straightened. One day he was home from college, and she was Mom. The next weekend she was just another American woman.
    She sat on the couch, hand propping the side of her face, lines around her eyes and mouth he'd only noticed within the past six months. Funny how age sneaked up on your family that way.
    He had dropped the bomb. Quietly, respectfully, but still: "As much as I love you both, you can't stop me."
    This had caused his mother to erupt. Off the couch, shaking her head, out of the room, on and on in her native tongue about the ungrateful little bastard acting all superior to his own parents who'd given him so much, all those opportunities. Mustafa remained on the couch, steely-eyed. Like hypnosis. Adem was afraid to look away.
    His father exhaled through his nose, long, slow. Then blinked.
    "You'll write us. Emails. One a day."
    Nodding. "Yes sir. Yes. Absolutely."
    Mustafa didn't say anything else. Another terminal bout of staring, Adem's mother's voice pinballing off the walls of the apartment. Adem was a "bad son" and "ungrateful cow" until Mustafa finally stood without another word and left the room, a quick pat on Adem's shoulder as he passed. A few minutes later, his mother quieted down. Adem left the apartment, went out with friends, discussed the famine in Somalia, had a bite to eat, all the while with a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. Getting away with it hadn't made him feel as triumphant as he'd hoped.
    The other thing nagging at him as he had prepared for the trip was his father losing his job at the Target warehouse. He'd been a man of action, suddenly gone limp. He moped around their apartment, a new quietness about him that felt as hard as his belt had felt on Adem's backside when he was a boy. Arguments between his mother and father mostly came to a halt when he pushed through the door, but he'd begun to stop outside and press his