by N. H. Senzai
“But … b-but how can you s-say that, Ms. Bethune?” stammered Fadi. “I was responsible for her. I was the one holding her hand. If I had put that stupid Barbie in my backpack, Mariam would be here.”
“Look, honey,” said Ms. Bethune, leaning across the desk, “bad things happen to good people. And you were in a bad, bad situation. What if you had stopped to put that darn Barbie in your bag and both of you had been left behind?”
“Oh,” said Fadi. I hadn’t thought of it that way.
“You can’t second-guess yourself. It was fate that determined how things turned out.”
Fadi nodded, his mind a jumble of disjointed thoughts. Maybe it wasn’t fully his fault. The situation had been out of his control … fate, as Ms. Bethune had said.
“Now I know why those plane tickets were so important to you.”
Fadi nodded. An overwhelming sense of relief flooded through his body, and he felt disjointed, like a bowl of overturned Jell-O—jiggly and without structure. Although he still felt partially responsible for Mariam’s loss, he was glad he had finally told someone the truth of what had happened. As Fadi shakily got up to leave, Ms. Bethune gave him a hug.
“Now, Fadi, I have a thought,” said Mrs. Bethune, tapping a burgundy fingernail on her chin. “Why don’t we have a fund-raiser for you?”
At Fadi’s confused look, she continued. “We can collect money for a plane ticket to Peshawar.”
“Can we really do that?” asked Fadi, a hope flaring in his chest.
“I don’t see why not. We have collection jars, car washes, bingo nights, all sorts of fund-raisers at the school for different causes. I think the students and faculty would love to pitch in and help find Mariam.”
With a dazed smile Fadi thanked Ms. Bethune and headed home, a new spring in his step.
Fadi later shared the idea with Anh, and she thought it was brilliant. Her new project was to take on the Bring Mariam Home campaign. It might take months of bake sales and car washes, but maybe, just maybe, they could raise the money. One ticket for Habib. Fadi knew that it should be his father who brought Mariam home. Fadi would do his part to raise the money, but his father had to be the one who found her. Then both would have their honor restored. As he walked home after school, there was an ease to his step that had been missing for months, but guilt still ate at his conscience. He had to tell his family—tell them it wasn’t their fault Mariam was lost.
A series of loud beeps interrupted his thoughts, announcing an oncoming train, along with the flashing electronic destination sign announcing OAKLAND–SAN FRANCISCO. Fadi stepped back as the silver train pulled into the station, sending a burst of wind whipping through his hair. Anh’s patent leather shoes shone in the sun as she practically skipped through the doorway. Fadi trudged behind, and they grabbed seats next to the window. With a resigned sigh Fadi watched Fremont zip by.
“This’ll be fun. You’ll see,” said Anh. She passed Fadi a piece of licorice from the stock of candy she’d packed for the trip.
Fadi took it and stuck it into his mouth. “If you say so,” he mumbled between chews. He hadn’t wanted to go, but Anh had nagged him every day till he’d gotten his father to sign his consent form. He’d realized that if he acted like a sore loser, he wouldn’t be able to celebrate Anh’s victory. As the spicy flavor of anise spread over his taste buds, his mind floated back to his conversation with his father earlier in the week.
With dinner over, Zafoona and Noor had gone to visit Khala Nilufer, but Fadi had stayed, using the excuse that he had too much math homework. As raindrops beat against the window, Fadi and his father put together a snack for themselves in the warm comfort of the kitchen. For Fadi it was his usual, a sliced Twinkie spread with peanut butter and layered with a sliced banana. Habib took a handful of sugared almonds and made a pot of green tea. As Fadi pulled a carton of milk from the fridge, he contemplated the best way to break the news to his father. He watched the pearly froth reach the rim of his glass, and took a deep breath.
Just do it, he ordered. So he opened his mouth. “Dad … ,” he began. “I found out that … that I didn’t win the photography competition.”
“Oh,” said Habib. He glanced over with a commiserating frown. “Well, you tried your best.”
But my best wasn’t good enough, thought Fadi with a dull ache in his chest. “But, Dad,” said Fadi, “you don’t understand. I wasted fifty dollars and didn’t win the tickets to India.”
Habib chewed thoughtfully on an almond and pulled a volume of Rumi’s poetry from a row of books next to the microwave. “Tell me one thing,” he said. “Did you enjoy taking those pictures—did you learn anything?”
Fadi looked at his father’s untroubled expression and paused in confusion. He recalled the thrill that had coursed through him when he’d spent the day in San Francisco with Habib, walking up and down Fillmore Street. It had been a blast working with Anh, Abay, and Dada on his second group of pictures. He’d also finally gotten the hang of taking pictures at dusk, which was really tricky. “Sure, I enjoyed it—and I learned something new.”
“Well, that’s the most important thing,” said Habib. “Winning isn’t everything, Fadi jaan. As Rumi says, ‘When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.’ So, Fadi, you must do things that you love. You never know what rewards may come of it.”
Fadi sighed at his father’s philosophizing. But, Dad, in this case winning was everything, he thought. He gathered the nerve to tell his father something else … tell him about his role in Mariam’s loss, but the teakettle whistled, and as Habib turned away, Fadi lost his nerve.
Even Noor hadn’t batted an eyelash when he’d told her, earlier in the day, that he’d wasted her money. “Hey, kid, you tried,” she’d said. With a toss of her hair, she’d run out to work before he could bring up Mariam.
Why do they have to be so understanding? They should have gotten pissed off at me, told me I was a loser. It’s because they don’t know it was me who lost Mariam. And now I’ve lost yet another chance to find her.
Fadi looked out the train window, and something stiffened inside him. I have to come clean. He’d been hiding the truth for too long, and it was rusting away his insides. Telling Ms. Bethune had been good, but he had to tell his family. Resolve crystallized within him. Where is my sense of honor? He sat up taller and straightened his spine. I’m going to tell Father, Mother, and Noor it was my fault—it was me who lost Mariam. When the family sat down around the table that night, he was going to tell them what had really happened, and finally take responsibility for Mariam’s loss.
WITH THOUGHTS OF FINALLY REVEALING the truth to his family whirling through his mind, Fadi felt the train slow as it entered West Oakland station, the last stop in the East Bay before entering the city. After picking up additional passengers, the train slipped into a tunnel that angled downward. For a moment the lights flickered and the passengers were plunged into darkness. Fadi gripped his seat, feeling a little claustrophobic. The lights flickered back on and the train shot forward.
Oooh, I think I’m going to be sick, thought Fadi, glancing upward. There were a gazillion tons of water sloshing overhead.
“It’s okay, Fadi,” whispered Anh. She patted his hand. “Think about it. It’s like our art project—Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. We’re on the submarine, the Nautilus.”
Fadi gave a dry chuckle, the tension in his body easing a bit. Within minutes the train popped up on dry land and slowed into Embarcadero Station. From there Ms. Bethune guided her charges to the Muni stop, where they caught the number four tram to the Marina District.
“I just love the city,” breathed Anh. With her nose pressed against the window, she soaked up the action outside.
The city was beautiful, decked out for the holidays. Bright colored lights sparkled from the trees, while storefronts competed with one another to be the most festive with their decorations.
“It’s too crowded for me,” said Fadi. H
e eyed the throngs of shoppers marching down the sidewalk, arms overflowing with packages. “I need green open spaces.”
“But there’s so much happening,” said Anh. “So many things to see, to do, and to eat.”
“The weather’s too wacky,” said Fadi. He eyed the fog, which still sat in a thick layer atop the Bank of America building, blocking out the sun. Back in Oakland the sun had been shining.
They bickered amicably about the merits of living in the city until the tram stopped and Ms. Bethune herded them off.
“See,” said Anh. “Green spaces.”
“Wow,” breathed Fadi. He stepped down from the bottom step and blinked in surprise. Across the street stood a majestic domed Greek temple, situated on the banks of a winding shallow lagoon. Swans moved gracefully through the reeds, past rosy stone columns.
“Ta-da,” said Anh. “The Palace of Fine Arts.”
“It’s awesome,” said Fadi. He retied his scarf against the chill and followed the group along Palace Drive. The entrance to the museum was at the rear of the Palace of Fine Arts, on Lyons Street, two blocks up.
The colorful sign announcing the Exploratorium hung over a series of tall oval doors. Ms. Bethune collected the group at the entrance and handed them their tickets and name tags.
Fadi stuck his tag on his chest as Anh pointed to a plaque on the ground. It read FOUNDED IN 1969 BY THE PHYSICIST DR. FRANK OPPENHEIMER.
“Totally brilliant man,” said Anh. “He and his brother worked on a top secret project to make the atom bomb during World War II.”
Man, she is so Claudia, thought Fadi with a grin.
“Come along, gang,” said Ms. Bethune with a wide smile. They skipped through a set of glass doors and headed past the information booth to the vast foyer inside.
Wow, thought Fadi. It was the largest room he’d ever been in—well, besides the arrival hall at the San Francisco airport. Arrows directed guests to hundreds of hands-on scientific exhibits. A large sign stood at the center announcing the photography competition and exhibit. Fadi followed Ms. Bethune and the others through the cavernous space until they reached the exhibition hall. He stepped inside and eyed dozens of huge photographs set up on easels. Other pictures hung from the ceiling or were mounted on boards. Hundreds of kids milled around, talking, laughing, and inspecting the winning entries.
“Okay, guys, we’ll meet in half an hour, at that column over there,” said Ms. Bethune, pointing to the right corner. ”We’ll go to the awards ceremony together in the next room. After refreshments we’ll head home at two o’clock. So scoot—go and have fun. Now, Anh, I believe you have to report to the judges.”
“Okay,” said Anh. She turned to Fadi. “I’ll find out what they want and come look for you.”
“No problem,” said Fadi. He watched as she rushed over to the reception table. San Francisco City Councilman Henry Watson shook her hand as she fidgeted in excitement. Though Fadi was happy for her, he couldn’t help but feel a little bit envious. He loosened his scarf and pulled off his mittens, which he stuffed into his coat pocket. Alone, he wandered over to the winners’ circle. He checked out Anh’s shot. It was huge, nearly four feet by six. Her name and school were written at the bottom.
You could see every detail of the dancers in motion. He was struck again by the emotion radiating off the paper. He circled left to the third-place winner. Emily Johnston had taken a picture of a tiny kitten sitting on top of a Saint Bernard’s head. The shot was cropped well—the Saint Bernard’s eyes looked up while the kitten looked down, drawing the viewer’s eyes to the expressions on their faces. Cute, but predictable.
He crossed back to see the first-place photo by Marcus Salle. He’d taken a picture of an ancient redwood tree standing solemnly against the backdrop of the Pacific Ocean. Cool. Fadi peered closely at the tree’s winding roots pushing up from the rich soil. You could almost smell the salty air coming off the waves. Very cool. But a first-place winner? I don’t know. But heck, I’m not the judge.
The grand prize winner, Filbert Dewbury from Calvert High School, stood as proud as a peacock next to his winning shot. Every so often he straightened his bow tie and grinned with perfect pearl white teeth.
“Congratulations,” said Fadi.
“Thanks,” said Filbert, puffing out his chest.
Fadi moved away as a group of girls approached them. He stood next to the winning picture and whistled in appreciation. He could see why it had been chosen. A creative action shot, it showed a skydiver falling backward into a wide expanse of crystalline sky. You could see the plane’s door, which created a really cool 3-D effect. The expression on the skydiver’s face was really funny. All elements were there—simplicity, composition, and lighting.
Don’t be a sore loser, he reminded himself, and moved on, toward a line of photographs on the side wall. The sign above the board read top fifty shots. Nice, he thought, starting at the top. There were amazing pictures, some silly, some serious, some sad and intense. At the bottom left-hand corner he spotted Dada handing Abay a rose, and his pulse quickened. He bent closer to see the soft shadows created by the hazy light at dusk.
At least I made it into the top fifty.
“That was one of my favorites,” said a deep voice behind him.
Fadi jumped in surprise and turned around.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” said the gray-mustached man. He wore a faded tweed jacket and jeans.
Fadi recognized him from his picture. It was Clive Murray.
“Uh … hello,” said Fadi with a gulp. “Mr. Murray.”
“Call me Clive,” he said with a smile. He looked at Fadi’s badge. “So you’re Fadi, huh?”
“Uh … yes,” said Fadi.
“Well, I really like the way you’ve framed the shot. You can see that the subjects don’t even know they’re being photographed.”
“Thanks,” said Fadi, his insides warming.
“Personally, I love portrait shots. Wherever I am, even in the turbulent war zones or battlefields, I always stop to take pictures of people. People’s faces reveal the real story to me.”
“It wasn’t easy,” said Fadi. “The lighting was a challenge.”
“Lighting can be your friend or foe.” Clive chuckled.
Fadi nodded. “Especially dusk.”
“You should keep practicing and take some risks,” said Clive. “Making mistakes will help you learn. I still make mistakes to this day.”
“Really?” said Fadi. He couldn’t imagine Clive making mistakes.
“C’mon. I’ll show you. I put together some stuff for you kids to look at—to learn from.”
Fadi followed Clive to a table in the back. A Société Géographique banner stretched along the front.
“Those are some of my latest pictures from my last trip to Africa and Asia,” said Clive, pointing to a large album. “Now let me look for that humdinger of a shot where I cut someone’s head off!”
Fadi smiled and flipped open the album. The first picture showed a group of women wading through a rice paddy as bombs went off in the distant mountains. You have to eat, even during war, thought Fadi sadly. The next picture revealed a militia group carrying machetes, marching down the road in some dusty African country. Fadi blinked in surprise at the next shot: a young man wearing a black turban standing with a rifle. The photo next to it was of a group of women in stained blue burkas, walking along a dirt road. “Where were these taken?” asked Fadi, his voice soft.
“Along the Pakistan-Afghan border,” said Clive. “I was covering the recent outbreak of fighting there.”
“Oh,” said Fadi, his voice subdued. He turned the page. His eyes widened, and his breath froze in his lungs. The picture showed a refugee camp. Transfixed, he stared down at the group of children playing, framed by a group of tents. One of the girls clutched a doll wearing a stained and torn hot pink burka.
NO ONE HAD TO FLY to Peshawar to get Mariam. With Clive Murray’s help she was tracked down to the refuge
e camp where he’d taken the picture. That night Habib called the American consulate and Khala Nargis and told them where to find Mariam. Within twenty-four hours she was picked up and was on board a flight to San Francisco, courtesy of the American Consulate General. Two days later, the entire family—minus Abay and Dada—huddled together at San Francisco International Airport, waiting outside customs. Habib carried flowers, while helium-filled balloons bobbed above Uncle Amin’s head. Zalmay and all the cousins held welcome signs as Noor kept them in line. Khala Nilufer and Zafoona hovered closest to the doors, clasping each other’s hands. Fadi stood off to the side, his backpack slung over his shoulder. Inside rested the rusty old honey tin, three new Barbies, and a box of extra fancy chocolates. His eyes were glued to the doorway, his breath catching in his throat whenever a passenger came through. Then, there it was—a flash of pink. Mariam bounced through the doors, accompanied by a customs official. As if tracking Fadi with her inner radar, she paused. Within seconds her hazel eyes discovered his and she ran, intercepted by Habib’s bear hug and their mother’s happy sobs.
That night, at the boisterous celebratory dinner at Uncle Amin’s house, Fadi ate an entire plateful of mantu, savoring every bite. Gulmina, a little battered from her recent experiences, sat in a place of honor, between him and Mariam. Fadi glanced at his sister’s profile, animated by the tale of how she’d made it across the border into Peshawar. She’d lost weight and her face was thinner, but it was her. His fingers crept across the soft carpeted floor, behind Gulmina’s back. He folded Mariam’s hand into his and squeezed. Mariam glanced back at him and grinned, then launched back into her story. As her small fingers rested in his palm, a warm, satisfied fullness settled through Fadi’s body.
Alhamdulillah—Arabic phrase meaning “Praise to God” or “All praise belongs to God.” In everyday speech it simply means “Thank God!” It is used by Muslims and also by Arabic-speaking Jews and Christians.
ameen—Means “amen” in Arabic.
