text: On the tenth day of September, Shorouv walked along the cream-coloured cloisters towards the drama room. As the afternoon heat beared down on Shorouv, he took off his black blazer. His crescent moon badge, awarded to him at the Diversity Assembly, fell off the lapel. He picked it up, and started putting it back on, but his friends began waving to him from the asphalt basketball courts below. He returned their wave, and his best mate, Eddy, began to yell at him, “Oi, Shorouv! Come down! We need one more!” “I have to pray first! I’ll be down once I’m done!” Shorouv stuffed the badge into the front pocket of his bag. He turned right into the Arts Wing corridor, and Shubash, one of Shorouv’s peer tutees who was always at the Jumma’h prayer, was exiting the Wing. Shubash smiled, and Shorouv greeted him with a high five. “How’s it going little man?” “Math is still hard, but otherwise I’m good.” “Ah, you’ll learn to love it. We’ll work on it. See you at Jumma’h on Friday.” “Ok, see ya then.” *** On the twelfth day of September, Shorouv stood at the open window near his math class, watching his friends down at the grassy cricket pitch as they kicked a soccer ball around. The wind assaulted him, despite Shorouv wearing his heavy black blazer of which the lapels were empty. Eddy looked up at Shorouv, raising his arm. But he lowered it without giving a wave, and he turned his back. Shorouv’s eyes shifted up to the skyline. He looked at the Sydney Tower, surrounded by titanic skyscrapers. Skyscrapers which had taken years to build, but could be destroyed in mere seconds. The orange glow of the afternoon sun burned as it reflected off the opaque windows, and it resembled the footage of flames exploding from the towers. The footage which had been on repeat in each and every classroom. Shorouv ran his fingers along his jawline, feeling for cuts. Most people already knew though. A rough shave wasn’t enough to hide his faith. They’d seen the darkness of his skin. The previously well-kept beard. His commitment to the Zuhr prostrations in the drama room. They’d seen his involvement in organising the inaugural Iftaar party; the communal event for breaking the fast during Ramadan. Through the windows, they’d seen him give a Khutbah; standing up and lecturing the younger students, during the Friday Jumma’h prayers. They were aware that a message was being spread, but they didn’t know what was being said. The message was often about perseverance, and brotherhood. But they didn’t know that. All they knew was of his allegiance to Islam. And they knew of the attackers’ allegiances to Islam. They couldn’t tell the difference. The Islamic Society at the school had evolved well thanks to Shorouv’s efforts, and he had been recognised at the Diversity Assembly for it. But today, as they shuffled past, they averted their eyes. They walked faster as he walked by. The moon crescent badge he had been awarded meant nothing. “Death toll: ‘horrendous’”, “Hundred’s Dead”, “An Act of War.”. Students would look at Shorouv as the captions of news reports played over and over on the boxed televisions in the classrooms. The footage of men and women plummeting, as the buildings they jumped from were showered in ash and flames. Supposedly to spread the message of Islam. A message to which Shorouv had devoted much of his life. ‘That’s not what Islam is.’ He thought. In his maths class, most seats were empty, but the few who were inside looked his way. Not a word was said. Shorouv sat on his own. In the back row. The teacher began talking about iterative methods and something about Newton. Shorouv copied the explanations and examples into his book, but he didn’t really understand it. He stared at what he had written down. He tried to make sense of the equations, but he couldn’t. He read through the textbook’s explanation, but the words were blank. They meant nothing. *** The ringing of the bell respited Shorouv’s empty gaze from the textbook. He closed the book and placed it into his bag. And while the teacher and students left, Shorouv slouched over in his seat. Shorouv felt a tug on his shirt. It was Shubash, though he held a wet tissue which he continued dabbing onto his bloodshot eyes. “Shorouv? Shorouv...? Can you help me with algebra?” He remained silent. “Please?” “Not right now Shubash.” “...That picture of the man jumping. I can’t stop seeing it...Why did they attack? Allah never asked for it.” He sniffled. “Please don’t give up Shorouv. We need you to guide us.” Shorouv lifted his head, as he remembered his place. If he were to abandon Islam, then so would they. But Shorouv had to spread the truth about Islam. The message of perseverance. Or else people would never accept Islam. What he had spent a great deal of time and effort on would be in ruins. “I’m sorry Shubash...Stay strong brother. I’m here for you.” Shorouv opened his arms, and Shubash embraced him. He reached into his bag and pinned his moon crescent badge onto the lapel of his blazer. “Let’s work on your Al-Jabr.