Chapter Text
Ms. Marvel, to the Desi community of Jersey City, is an enigma.
Usually with superheroes, there are some signs they will show. There are old records of Steve Rodgers being heroic even before he became Captain America. Bruce Banner was already making waves before the Hulk. The Black Widow had rumors circling her about her working from someone more dangerous than SHIELD. There are breadcrumbs people follow before finally a hero rises up.
Ms. Marvel isn’t like that. She appeared like a flash of lightning, moving quickly to save people. Her first ever public appearance was saving that boy from falling off the building. Then, she was suddenly everywhere flashing bright lights of violet-blue with trouble not too far away.
It was astonishing. Stuff like this only happens in New York, not in Jersey City. It did bring a harsh spotlight from government officials, who suddenly scrutinized this community with suspicion and unease. Nothing new. Most of them couldn’t even be upset about the fact they were being targeted because of Ms. Marvel.
Maybe it was because she had done nothing malicious. Maybe because, if you caught a closer look at her face, you would see it still had baby fat. Maybe because this superhero looked very, very familiar.
She wasn’t goofing off as much-there was a desperation in this new hero, as she moved forward and forward everyday. Like she was racing against time. Like she had something to prove.
No one thinks much of the familiarity Ms. Marvel brings them. They chalk it up to the fact that she is also Desi and Muslim, that any young girl reminds them of their own child.
Until the night the Department of Damage Control began to target the local high school.
It had started with an elderly couple on a walk who noticed the black, official vans speeding off. One Whatsapp notification was sent, and the news spread like wildfire. Nevermind the faulty lie the DODC officials tried to say-they were targeting a school, shooting bullets at it and waving threatening weapons. Most of the parents were panicking, trying to remember if there were any after-school club activities happening. Friends counted one another, double checking if any staff was still inside. Phone calls were made to the custodial and kitchen staff; some often work night shifts and would be trapped in that school.
(A mother and father realized two of their children were not in their rooms. Their hearts dropped to their stomachs).
The DODC is targeting a school they send their children to. All to capture a woman-a young girl-who has committed no crime except for existing. Who had been doing more work than those government people ever could. And when they arrived at their children’s school and saw it turned into a war-zone, fear gripped their very souls. A school shouldn't look like this. People in the government shouldn’t be acting like this. This could have been avoided.
So, the Pakistani community watches in nothing short of horror. How they recognize the children and older man-Muneeba’s and Yusuf’s eldest. How pure terror bleeds into their hearts as the government officials attack Ms. Marvel and another boy, glowing just like her. The way they, as one, lurch forward as a crowd and scream don’t shoot, don’t shoot, don’t shoot-
Even almost getting caught in the crossfire doesn’t deter them. Ms. Marvel looks so tiny, so young standing only a couple of feet away. She looks devastated at the chaos erupting around her. Something is very, very wrong with the picture in front of them. If Muneeba’s boy is there and those children are in the truck-where is Kamala?
And then the weapon from the DOCD charges up-a high pitched warning sound that screams at you to run.
And then the nearest people, amidst the shrieks and yells and pleas, hears Yusuf Khan yell “Beta, get out of there!”
The minute Yusuf had screamed out, everyone knew who he was talking about. The man had many nicknames to give to the young girls around him but only his daughter was called beta. Only a father screamed like that-voice cracking and ebbing, a pain and fear so deep it came from the soul. Only a mother wailed like she had been struck, unable to reach out and hold her child.
And they knew that the hero before them was one of their own children.
Nevermind their old ways and thinking, and their nitpicking-Kamala Khan was everyone’s child just like every single child growing up in their group, their community, their home.
It’s natural that you stand between the danger your child is facing.
(Some people closest to the Khan’s instantly knew who the hero before them was. Others did not. That did not matter.
The people in this community grew up being handfed by friends and family, turning the street corner to familiar faces, and sought one another out. These parents could list off their friend’s family members down to the great-great-great grandparents. Despite the issues and judgments, none of them would trade this life for the word. The knowledge that you are surrounded by people who naturally reach for one another. Like a warm quilted blanket, each square from individual people.
They left one home to build another, and found kinship amongst people with faces and accents like them. These people comforted their own when racism made them weep, and pulled them out of the jobs that made their bodies ache. Neighbors turned to friends to families as the years went by, and the country they resided in still spat in their faces. Oh, how Uncle Sam howled at them for their hijabs and mosques, their accents and traditions, their refusal to conform or just die. These people mourned the violence and attacks as the sun rose and fell, as they were made victims in the land of the free. These people will form bitter rivalries but one thing is certain: everything is for their children.
Every slur and punch thrown at them. Every second spent in the legal line for green cards and citizenship. Every foot taken to flee the country where they punish you for being a woman and speaking your mind. Every single decision made so that their own families grew out of the violence they faced.
The lost time staying up to help your child finish a project. The sacrifices to ensure your son never has calloused hands from hard labor or that your daughter is heard. Being brave enough to send them out into the world, hoping it is kinder for them. Every step they took so that their child could walk on a smoother road. Everything is for their children. That is what the Pakistani community of Jersey City have believed in for generations. They simply give.)
What they did not expect was for Ms. Marvel to give back-again and again.