by Farhana Zia
Zayd and his friends sat in front of us. If Baba had been there, Zayd would have had to sit up front with the other men and boys, but our dad was in Detroit for business.
The strange events of the morning had left me feeling uneasy and jittery. But as I waited for the midday prayer to begin, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I relaxed all my muscles and tried to let my mind calm down.
At the stroke of one, the call to prayer sounded. The entire congregation stood up and waited for the Imam to lead us in worship. “Allahu Akbar!” Imam Malik declared. God is great! We bowed, kneeled, and prostrated together according to our tradition, placing our foreheads on the prayer mats in submission to God. We all recited the same words together.
I closed my eyes and added a little extra. O merciful Allah, I prayed. Help me be less of a fraidy cat, please?
Amma and Badi Amma
Zayd hadn’t forgotten the angry woman’s words. The next morning, he looked up from his cereal. “Hey Amma, did you sit on top of a camel when you were a little girl?”
“Watch it, Zayd!” I covered up my bowl with both my hands. “Don’t talk with your mouth full! Sheesh!”
Badi Amma looked up from her morning tea. “What is this camel wamel? Camel rides are only for peasants.” Then my great-grandmother turned to me. “And what is this sheesh weesh?”
“But Amma,” Zayd persisted. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, Zayd,” my grandmother replied. “I am sure I have not sat on a camel, but I made many paper boats when I was a child, and I jumped rope too.” She gave me a quizzical look, so I told her about the rude woman who yelled at us at the intersection.
Amma shook her head. “People need to take the time to learn about each other,” she said.
“It was our scarves that made her say that,” I told her.
“People say and do offensive things, Aliya,” Amma said. “The thing is, how much of it do we allow to get under our skin?”
“Uh-huh … right.” I rolled my eyes.
“No, really. Let’s look at the elephant, for example. A dog barks at him, and what does the elephant do? He merely sways his tail, swish swish, and moves on. He doesn’t bother with the barking dog.”
So now I’m an elephant?
“Camel rides! Hunh!” my great-grandmother muttered. “Such a silly notion!”
“You two better hurry up and finish your breakfast or you’ll miss the school bus,” Amma warned.
“It’s okay, Amma.” Zayd grinned at her. “You can drive us.”
“Oh no I won’t, mister!” Amma growled in mock anger.
“By the way,” I said. “Did you know Thanksgiving’s in Ramadan this year?”
“Hmm, so it is.” My grandmother didn’t sound the least bit worried.
Zayd’s spoon froze midway to his mouth. “What are we going to do?” he asked. Even he could see this was going to be problematic. After all, Ramadan was about fasting and Thanksgiving was about eating.
“We’ll fast during the day, and then we’ll enjoy our turkey after sunset, that’s what we’ll do.” Amma made it all sound so simple.
“How will you tell if there’s enough salt in the mashed potatoes if you can’t taste them while you’re cooking?” I asked.
“Famous cooks don’t have to taste,” Amma smiled. “They can sniff and tell the food is just right!”
I ate the last of my cereal. “Is Choti Dahdi coming this year?”
Choti Dahdi was Badi Amma’s first cousin—my great-grandaunt. She lived in Minnesota but often arrived unexpectedly during holidays, staying for days and days and screeching at me and Zayd when we displeased her in any way.
“We won’t know until she pops in, will we?” Amma replied.
Badi Amma hunched so low over her tea, her nose almost dipped into her cup. A coughing fit wracked her withered frame and she almost keeled over.
“Aap theek hain?” I asked in alarm. “Are you okay, Badi Amma?”
“Oonh! Oonh!” she moaned. “My chest is going khrrr-khrrr! Can you hear?”
I rubbed her back. Her bones felt fragile under my palms. My great-grandmother was very old; I worried about her every time she got sick.
Amma hurried over. “You must be catching a cold, Ma.”
“You’re a very good catcher, Badi Amma.” Zayd laughed at his lame joke. “You never drop the cold. You’re always catching it!”
“Kya bole?” My great-grandmother cupped her hand to her ear. “What did you say?” Sometimes it was a good thing she couldn’t hear very well.
Amma’s eyes went to the clock. “Juldi!” she reminded us. “Hurry up!”
“You worry too much, Amma,” Zayd said.
“Come, Zayd,” I said, pushing my chair back. “Get a move on!”
“Okay, Aliya!” Zayd shouted.
“Kya bole?” My great-grandmother eyed him with disapproval.
“He called me Aliya, Badi Amma,” I said.
My great-grandmother turned to my brother. “Aliya Apa!” She put the emphasis on Apa. “She is your older sister, you budmash little boy! Do not forget to show respect!”
“I am not naughty,” Zayd growled. “Am I, Amma?”
“Go, Zayd!” ordered Amma.
“Khuda Hafiz!” Badi Amma called as we ran out the door.
“Yes, Khuda Hafiz,” said Amma. “May Allah watch over you!”
The door shut behind us with a loud thud, making our Bismillah plaque swing on its nail. In the name of Allah, it said. That’s what Badi Amma always said too—every good step must be taken in the name of Allah.
Winnie had beaten us to the bus stop again. As the bus turned the corner, she waved, urging me to run faster. “Rapido!” she yelled.
“I’m running as fast as I can, Winnie,” I panted. “But what’s with the Spanish all of a sudden?”
“I’m practicing. Señora Bell says we’ll learn faster if we use it every day.”
After we settled in our seats, I told Winnie about the woman who’d yelled at us. “She thought we were from Saudi Arabia or some other Middle Eastern country. It must have been our scarves. Isn’t that stupid?”
“Yeah,” said Winnie. “Did you yell back at her?”
“No,” I admitted. “I was kind of scared by the whole thing. It was totally unexpected.”
“I can’t believe your mother turned in front of her, though,” Winnie said. “She could’ve gotten you killed, right?”
“She didn’t mean to. It was an accident.” Winnie obviously didn’t get it. This wasn’t about Mom.
“Maybe the loco mujer didn’t mean it either. Maybe she was scared. Your mom could have killed her too.”
“Whose side are you on anyway?” I grumbled. “She could have stopped at ‘moron’.”
“You’d be okay with being called a moron?”
“Oh, let’s forget the whole thing.” I turned to stare out the window.
“I’ve never seen you in a scarf. Why were you wearing them anyway?” Winnie asked.
“We always wear them when we go to the Center.”
“Weird. Why not at other times?”
“Because Mom feels Muslim women can be modest without covering themselves up all the time and I agree with her completely, that’s why,” I said. “Why are you asking anyway?”
“You’re the one who brought it up,” Winnie said.
We rode in silence for a while. Kids got on at every stop and filled the rows in front of us. Leah plopped into the seat across the aisle. “Have you heard?” She popped her gum loudly. “We’re getting a new student in fifth grade. A girl.”
“It’s the middle of October,” I remarked. “She’s going to have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Her teacher’s not going to be happy to have an extra kid, I bet,” Winnie said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Our classes are already pretty crowded.”
The bus made a left turn and I saw Austin kicking a soda can down the sidewalk. I scrunched down in m
y seat. Austin was the biggest bully in our grade and I hoped every day that he’d be sick and have to stay home. “I wonder what he’s going to say to me today.”
“Don’t worry,” Winnie said. “I’ll stand up for you.”
“Thanks, Win,” I sighed. “I just wish I wasn’t always so nervous around him.”
Austin lumbered down the aisle. I sank down further as he approached, but he passed us and sat in the back.
The kid next to him slipped out and stood in the aisle, looking for another place to sit.
“You, back there!” barked the bus driver. “Return to your seat and buckle up immediately!”
The boy sat back down in a hurry and pressed his nose against the window as though he wanted to disappear through it.
“See? It’s not just you who’s scared of Austin!” Winnie said.
The bus turned into Carly’s neighborhood, the last stop before school. “Carly’s not there again,” I observed.
“She’s been out sick for a while,” Winnie said. “I hope it’s not too serious. We should call her.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Or make her a get-well card.”
“Hey,” Winnie said, changing the subject. “I forgot to tell you. I heard Juliana’s moving.”
“What?” It was so loud on the bus that I couldn’t be sure I’d heard her right.
“She’s going to another school.”
“Are you sure?” I couldn’t believe it. “How do you know? Are you 100 percent positive?”
“Yeah. She’s going someplace called Sky Vale. Must be a private school,” Winnie mused. “Her family can afford it. And guess who’s going to be pretty sad?”
“Josh?”
“Bingo!” She grinned. “And with Juliana out of the picture, you can finally say hello to him! Comprendes?”
The bus pulled into the school driveway and Winnie was halfway down the aisle before I could ask her any more questions.
The Girl in Hijab
Mrs. Holmes met us at the door and signaled me to follow her. Winnie gave me an uh-oh look. Being called into the principal’s office usually meant trouble. I wondered what I’d done. But Mrs. Holmes was smiling and that gave me hope.
I trailed behind her through the front room, past the secretary’s desk, and into her office. Her desk was cluttered with papers, file folders, and all sorts of pens and highlighters. Both of the visitor’s chairs were occupied.
“Aliya, say hello to Marwa Rajab,” Mrs. Holmes said. “She’ll be joining our Glen Meadow community.”
The new girl turned to face me and smiled.
My eyes went straight to her head. In all my years at Glen Meadow, I had never seen anyone in a hijab. There had been other Muslim kids, but none as obvious as this.
The girl’s mother got up from her chair. “Assalam alaikum!” she said.
She was a pretty lady, slightly plump. Her round face was framed by a scarf, and her flowing gown reached down to her ankles.
“Um … hi …,” I mumbled.
“Very nice meeting you.” Mrs. Rajab had a distinct accent, but it didn’t sound like Amma’s. “You Muslim?”
I nodded, wondering how she knew and why it mattered anyway.
“Ma’sha Allah! Marwa Muslim too.” She smiled. “Her dad has new job in this town now.”
Dumbly, I nodded again. I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“I love the sound of your language.” Mrs. Holmes turned to me. “Isn’t ‘assalam alaikum’ Arabic for ‘Peace be upon you’?”
“Uh-huh.” Although Arabic was not my language, I knew some phrases and verses from the Quran by heart. “And Ma’sha Allah means ‘Praise be to God.’“
“How nice!” Mrs. Holmes said. “Perhaps we could use this lovely greeting in our morning announcement some time. What do you think of that idea?”
I shrugged. Why would our principal want to use the Islamic greeting at Glen Meadow? “Good morning” worked just fine.
While Mrs. Holmes asked Mrs. Rajab some questions, I sneaked a look at Marwa. She was dressed in dark pants and a flowered shirt. Her skin was very fair. Not a single wisp of hair peeked through the blue scarf framing her face, so I couldn’t tell what color it was. She wore round glasses just like Winnie’s. Behind the lenses, her hazel eyes followed mine, observing me checking her out. Unlike her mother, she was tall and thin. She held her head high, the way Mom always told me to.
Apparently finished with her questions, Mrs. Holmes looked over at me. “Marwa and her family moved here from Detroit,” she said. Then she turned to Marwa. “I’m sure they were sorry to see you go.”
“Marwa live Morocco before Michigan,” Mrs. Rajab offered. “But soon she be American girl … Insha’ Allah!”
Insha’ Allah! God willing. I could tell that Mrs. Rajab really meant it.
“You be Marwa friend?” she asked me. “You help her feels welcome?”
“Aliya’s an old hand here,” Mrs. Holmes assured her. “She’ll certainly help Marwa settle in.”
“Old hand?”
“That means I’ve been here a pretty long time,” I explained.
“Very good,” Mrs. Rajab said. “Marwa be old hand soon with you helping her, Insha’ Allah?”
I turned to Mrs. Holmes. “Is she going to be in my homeroom?”
The principal shook her head. “She’s in Mr. Gallagher’s class.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Rajab sounded disappointed. “They not in same room?”
“Well, no, but they’ll have plenty of opportunities to interact. I asked Aliya here because I … well, because I thought she’d be a good friend to Marwa.”
I wished Mrs. Holmes had picked Maggie or Sarah or Tracy. They were in Mr. Gallagher’s homeroom. Marwa and I would probably be on entirely different schedules except for lunch and recess.
The principal stood up. “We’d better head on now. It’s getting a bit late.”
“Okay, good.” Mrs. Rajab turned to me as we left the office. “Where you coming from, Aliya?”
Why did people always ask me that? I knew what Mrs. Rajab wanted to know, but I didn’t want to answer her. “I’m from here. I’m American.”
“I means, where you mother and father coming from, original?”
I couldn’t hold back a sigh. I hated having to explain about my family. “They’re from here too,” I said, hoping I hadn’t seemed rude. “At least my dad is. My mom was born in India, but she came here when she was a little girl. My grandmother came from India a very long time ago. My great-grandmother came later and now we all live together.”
Mrs. Rajab smiled. “Big, big family living together in Morocco too.”
Our principal draped her arm over Marwa’s shoulders and walked her down the hallway. I followed like a robot. Kids turned to stare as we passed. My face felt hot. Was I going to be the other Muslim girl at Glen Meadow now? Mrs. Holmes’s heels clicked on the polished floor and Mrs. Rajab’s abbayah fluttered and swished around her heels. Marwa walked silently beside me. Up close, she wasn’t that much taller but she held herself upright like an exclamation point. I straightened my back, pulling out of my usual slouch. I saw Marwa’s eyes flicker, but I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
Just before she entered Mr. Gallagher’s room, Marwa waved. “Bye,” she said softly. “See you at lunch.”
“I’m counting on you to be an excellent host, Aliya,” Mrs. Holmes reminded me. “Don’t let me down!”
“Assalam alaikum,” Mrs. Rajab said. “You very good girl to help in this. Thanks you.”
I mumbled the Arabic greeting and ducked down the hall quickly, glad to get away.
Juliana’s chair was upturned on her desk. I slid into my seat next to Winnie. “I guess she’s really moving, huh?” I asked, nodding toward the empty desk.
“That’s what I heard,” she said.
I held up both fists and gave a silent cheer.
Winnie was my partner on the social studies report, and she had it spread out in front of her. We h
ad a lot of unfinished work ahead of us; if she weren’t quite so meticulous, we’d be done by now. “So what happened in Mrs. Holmes’s office?” she asked.
I told her all about Marwa. “I don’t know why she picked me,” I added. “Don’t you think Maggie or Sarah would have been a lot better? They’re in her homeroom.”
“It’s probably because you’re Muslim like her,” Winnie said.
“We’re not the same!” I insisted. “She’s from Morocco, she speaks Arabic at home, and she wears a hijab.”
“You mean the scarf thingamajiggy? You know who’d look super cute in one? Your great-grandmother!”
“No way. No hijabs in my family.”
“I know. I know. But if your Buddy Ma wore a hijab thingy, she’d look precioso. Tell me I’m not lying.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
I didn’t eat lunch with Marwa. Mr. Gallagher was hovering around her, and I figured he’d make sure she settled in. As I walked by her table, she waved tentatively, but then Mr. Gallagher asked her a question. When she turned to answer him, I walked away quickly. And then I got very busy and I tried not to think about her for the rest of the afternoon.
Besides, Juliana occupied a big part of my mind. She was leaving Glen Meadow! I could hardly believe it. There are some people who don’t like you and you don’t like them back. It was pretty much that way with me and Juliana. I especially didn’t like the way she sized me up every time she looked at me.
One day last year I’d asked Winnie about it. “What’s Juliana looking at?”
“What do you mean?”
“She keeps staring at me in a weird way. Like there was something wrong with how I look.”
“I don’t know. Let’s see.” Winnie had checked me out from head to toe. “Well, it could be your outfit. Maybe you shouldn’t wear those colors together.”
“What’s wrong with these colors? And why does she even care what I wear anyway?”
Winnie had shrugged. “I’m just telling you because you asked me. It’s her problem, not yours. If you want to wear purple with orange, you go right ahead. This is a free country.”
