by N. H. Senzai
Before I had the chance to copy the next quote, Nick’s cartoon landed on my desk. It showed a boy ripping off Noura’s headscarf, and underneath, she was bald. Horrified, I stared at it, realizing I had three choices:
Pass it on. (Definitely not an option.)
Give it to Mr. Fowler and be labeled a snitch.
Slip it in my notebook and throw it away later.
I opted for number three and went back to copying quotes. If men were angels, no government would be necessary. James Madison, Federalist Paper No. 51 (1788).
Mr. Fowler finished writing and whistled to get our attention. “I’m going to give you a free period to work on your group projects. It’s okay to rearrange desks, but I expect you to put them back at the end of class. And one last thing. Your homework is to research the history behind the quotes I wrote on the board.”
I copied the last quote: If I keep silent, nothing will change. Muzoon Almellehan, The Globe and Mail, December 5, 2016. I’d never heard of Muzoon before, but her quote applied to my job as a student ambassador. Noura and Ammar were gonna have to talk to me, whether they liked it or not. I pulled my desk around so that we were sitting in a circle. Both of them looked away. Finally, I was ticked off. “If you don’t want to be in my group, we can ask Mr. Fowler to reassign us.”
Noura lifted her head, clutching the folds of her hijab. Her lips weren’t turned down in a mad pout, but trembling. “It is not you,” she whispered. “Ammar and I are ashamed of how we behaved during your visit. You were a guest and we made you feel uncomfortable.”
Ammar cleared his throat and nodded.
“Really?” I shook my head, totally puzzled by her explanation.
“There were things I didn’t want to talk about,” Noura said, “things you do not understand. Terrible things that happened during the war.”
I remembered the documentary from church again and felt sick to my stomach. It was hard for an American kid to imagine living in a city where bombs dropped nearly every day. “I’m sorry about what happened too. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“We know,” Noura said, “but sometimes it is difficult to make people understand that, though we escaped the war, we are still suffering from it.”
Ammar fiddled with his pencil. “Noura said you wish to use one of my models.”
I nodded. “Your mosque is beautiful. I bet we’d get an A.”
“It is probably not good enough for such a high grade,” he mumbled.
“It totally is.”
A tiny smile snuck across his face.
I pushed ahead, hoping to convince him. “I could start with the poem that’s in the Statue of Liberty Museum. That would satisfy the historical part. Then Noura could share the screening process for Syrian refugees. For the grand finale, you could talk about all the destruction in Syria and share your model.”
Ammar’s smile disappeared and his gray eyes darkened. “I don’t know …”
Noura rubbed her fingers across her peacock brooch. “Ammar, you need to be one of the presenters. I know … I know it won’t be easy. We could show pictures of how the mosque looked before and after the war, and tell them someday you want to help rebuild it.”
Ammar’s eyes narrowed into slits, and I knew it was time to stop pushing. “You totally don’t have to. I mean, it’s too personal, right?”
He frowned at me.
Noura tapped her index finger against the Muzoon quote she’d copied in bright red. “Don’t let what happened in Syria take away your voice. You need to share your experiences and your talent.”
Ammar’s shoulders stiffened, and he spoke in Arabic. Noura glared at him. They argued back and forth.
“Hey, you guys need a referee,” I said.
Ammar snorted, giving his sister one last angry glare. “Yes, we could surely use one.”
I watched them, wondering again how Ammar had gotten his scar, and what he’d been like before the war. Had he been more outspoken? More easygoing?
The minute hand on the classroom clock moved. I silently counted to sixty, and it moved again. At this pace, we’d never get our project finished. “Uh … guys,” I said. “We really need to figure this out.”
Finally, Noura raised her chin and gave her brother a stern look. “You challenged me and I accept. Now you have to keep your end of the bargain.”
Ammar’s mouth flew open. I looked from one to the other, wondering what the challenge was.
“He told me he’d share his model,” Noura said, “if I learned how to swim.”
My mouth flew open to match Ammar’s. After that day in Noura’s kitchen, I’d never imagined she’d let me teach her to swim. I still wanted to, but first, I needed to understand why she was so afraid. “Sure, that would be great,” I said. “But … Noura, before we start, I need to talk to you in private. Could we have lunch together in the library?”
I bought a turkey sandwich in the cafeteria and met Noura in the library. We were all alone, except for our media specialist, Mrs. Warner. Noura had packed her lunch. A pita sandwich with thin-sliced lamb that she called a shawarma.
For the first few minutes, we ate our sandwiches without speaking, then Noura offered me some pastry. “I always thought baklava was Greek,” I said.
Noura shrugged. “Syrians make baklava too.”
She stared at me as I chewed, and I felt like a bug under a microscope—like she could see right through my skin and examine my bones.
In a serious voice, she asked, “Jordyn, why is your leg jumping?”
I pressed my hand against it to hold it still. “Because I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, like on Saturday.”
Noura shook her head. “That is not what I meant. When we were taking the exam, I saw that you were not doing too well … you were very anxious.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know how it feels when it is hard to breathe, how your mind freezes and you want the earth to open up so you can disappear and hide.”
I stared at her in disbelief. She knew! I buried my face in my hands. I didn’t know what to say.
“I would like to exchange secrets,” Noura proposed. “You tell me what is troubling you, and I will tell you why I am so frightened of swimming.”
I slipped Jordyn a napkin that Mama had tucked inside my lunch box. Without a word, she wiped her eyes, spent from sharing her secrets. From what she’d said, I could picture that terrible day at the swimming pool. A day that had been her best, and then her worst. She had lost her anchor—her feeling of safety and security. I sat beside her, trying to come up with the right words in English that would convey my sympathy.
I knew what it was to be unmoored, to feel like you had no control over your body and mind. I had seen horrible things during the war. Buildings blown up, cars demolished, entire city blocks reduced to rubble. And I’d seen people in despair, hungry, wounded … and worse. Never would I forget that hot summer, a few months after our apartment had been destroyed by mortar blasts. We’d been living in an abandoned grocery store when Baba got a text message. He’d grabbed his hard hat, prepared to join the other members of his White Helmet brigade. Since the city no longer had a functioning fire or police department, regular people like Baba—bakers, plumbers, engineers, and housewives—had formed the White Helmets to help those devastated by war.
When Baba realized I’d be left alone, he’d been forced to take me with him. Mama, who had been pregnant with Ismail, had gone with Ammar in search of bread, and there was no time to try to find them. We’d run through the winding streets until we reached what had once been a three-story apartment building. Baba and the other White Helmets had carefully combed through the rubble, gently extracting survivors who were covered in dust and blood. I’d been sitting in the safety of a broken-down car when Baba pulled a girl, a few years younger than me, from a deep hole. She hung limply in his arms, her face still, as if she were asleep. But when one of the rescued women gathered the girl to her chest
and began to scream, I knew the worst had happened.
“Noura?”
Jordyn’s voice pulled me away from Syria and back to the library. I shook my head to clear it of memories and said, “The loss of a baby is one of the most terrible things a family can suffer.” I thought of Mama, pregnant with Ismail during the war. It had been a terrible time, but we had looked forward to welcoming a little brother or sister—a baby to bring joy and a spark of life. “It must be especially difficult for your mother.”
“She’s been really depressed,” Jordyn said.
Then it dawned on me. Meeting Ismail had probably made it worse for Jordyn and her mother. They would never see their baby’s first smile, or hear his or her first word. I felt anger simmer in my belly. “Have you ever questioned why it happened to you? Have you ever been angry at Allah … at God? How could he allow such a thing?”
Jordyn stared at me with eyes as blue as the sea. Slowly, she nodded.
I slumped in my chair, feeling the energy drain from me. “Me too,” I muttered. “But I’ve learned that the world is not a fair place. Awful things can happen—like being caught in a war, or seeing everything you own vanish, or worst of all, watching those you love die.”
“Are you okay?” Jordyn asked, squeezing my hand.
“Yes, but now I need to tell you my secret.”
Jordyn gave me an encouraging smile.
“When we fled Aleppo, we left with another family—my best friend Maryam’s. Our mothers had grown up together and were like sisters. We crossed the border into Turkey and ended up in the Kilis refugee camp. Then Baba and Maryam’s father had an argument. Baba wanted to stay in the camp and apply to be a refugee. But Maryam’s father was impatient. He wanted to get to Germany, like his older brother and Mama’s family. To do that they would have to cross the Mediterranean Sea. Thousands of people were taking boats to islands in Greece, then making their way to mainland Europe.”
I paused, remembering the night Maryam had come to our container, her emerald eyes shiny with excitement. She couldn’t wait to get out of the boring refugee camp.
“What happened?” whispered Jordyn.
“They left the camp and made it across Turkey to Bodrum, a city on the coast.” I swallowed, my throat dry. “Maryam’s father called and said they’d paid a boat captain three thousand dollars to take them to Greece. He said they’d call as soon as they arrived. But we never got a call. A few months later, we found out their boat had capsized, drowning everyone on board.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jordyn said, her face pale under its tan. After a long pause, she whispered, “Is that why you’re so afraid of swimming?”
I nodded. “Whenever I’m near water, I see Maryam disappearing into its depths.” As the words left my mouth, I remembered my deal with Ammar. Before I could chicken out, I said, “I have decided to learn to swim.”
Jordyn was quiet, considering my words. Then her eyes crinkled as she gave me a wide smile. “You’re really brave.”
I looked at her, feeling drained from reliving Maryam’s death. “I don’t feel brave at all.”
“You survived a war, fled to a refugee camp, and made it all the way to America,” Jordyn said. “That’s pretty brave in my book.”
I dredged up a smile. When she put it that way, it felt true. “But to get to here, I had a lot of help,” I said. “When I first heard about what happened to Maryam, just looking at the small pond at the camp made me nearly faint. So, my parents took me to Dr. Barakat. She and a few other doctors had come from London to open a clinic. She was a psychiatrist—helping people whose minds were troubled from the war.”
Jordyn nodded, encouraging me to go on.
“Dr. Barakat taught me how to manage my fear by using special breathing exercises. So now, when I see water, I’m still a little scared, but I don’t panic like I used to. If I learn how to swim, maybe I can completely conquer my fear.”
“I’m honored to help you,” Jordyn said. “I promise to be a good teacher and to keep you safe.”
I stared into Jordyn’s dark blue eyes, weighing the truth of her words. I had heard many such promises in Syria. Another person cannot ever truly keep us safe, as much as they might wish to. Yet I could hear the sincerity in Jordyn’s voice. This American girl had trusted me with her secrets, and I had trusted her with mine.
I smiled and nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Teach me how to swim.”
“It’s a deal,” Jordyn said. “Want to come to my next meet? It’s Tuesday after school, and my parents could give you a ride.”
“That sounds good,” I said.
Jordyn stuck out her hand, and as we shook on it, I felt our bond strengthen. It is always good to face your troubles with a friend.
I dreamed about Maryam, a girl I didn’t even know. I dove deep underneath the waves searching for her. It felt as if my lungs would explode, so I turned and swam toward the surface. As soon as my head rose above the murky water, I woke up with a shudder. The dream had been terrifying. I took more deep breaths, catching a whiff of pancakes. I hurried toward the kitchen, trying to put what had happened to Maryam out of my mind.
It was a relief to see Mom standing behind the griddle. She’d even poured the batter for my pancakes into cookie cutters shaped like fish—the way she used to do when I was little. A warm feeling washed over me. Safe. Unlike Maryam, I was safe.
“Happy weekend!” Dad said, with a big smile on his face.
I forced myself to smile back. Mom always used to make pancakes as a kickoff to the weekend, but hadn’t in a while. She’d had a couple sessions with a therapist, and her medication seemed to be working. From his seat at the kitchen table, Dad eyed the pancakes, looking as hopeful as a little kid.
“Busy day?” Mom asked me.
“Just the usual. School and swim practice.”
“My last appointment is at three thirty,” Dad said. “I should be home by five.” He winked at me. “And I’d love to take my two favorite girls out to dinner.”
“How about Cuban?” I asked. “I could go for shrimp salteado and key lime pie.”
Mom flipped a couple of pancakes on a plate for Dad, and said, “Cuban’s fine by me.”
“I’ll make a reservation at the Columbia Restaurant in Ybor,” Dad said. “It’s been a long time since we watched the flamenco dancers.”
While I was digging into my pancakes, Dad grabbed the remote to catch the morning news.
A newscaster reminded boaters to report injured manatees on their marine radios. “And now we have an update on a breaking news story,” he said. “Hillsborough County Fire and Rescue has ruled an overnight fire at a Tampa mosque as arson.”
Mom gasped.
I stopped eating.
“Unbelievable,” Dad said. “That’s the second mosque fire in six months.”
I hadn’t paid much attention to the first fire, but because of Noura and Ammar, this one had my full attention. I remembered the beauty and symmetry of Ammar’s model, and how the Great Mosque of Aleppo had been damaged too.
I listened as the newscaster talked about water damage from the sprinklers. The people who attended the mosque wouldn’t have a place to pray for a while.
“Thank goodness the mosque was empty and nobody was hurt,” Mom said. “That’s one blessing.”
“Yeah, you’re right, but Mom, the Alwan family is probably afraid. They won’t feel welcome in Tampa anymore. I wouldn’t. Would you?”
“No, probably not,” Mom said. She sighed and took a sip of her coffee. “But it’s up to us to make them feel welcome. I’ll call and set up another tutoring session with Muna.”
“And I’ll reach out to Mr. Alwan,” Dad said. “I’ve been meaning to have my receptionist schedule appointments to get everyone’s teeth cleaned, but it would probably mean more if I called myself.”
I remembered having lunch with Noura in the library. I’d told her things I hadn’t told anybody else, and she’d understood. But the worst part was thinking
about Noura losing her best friend, only to move to the US and face prejudice here.
“Unbelievable,” Dad repeated. “I thought we’d made more progress since the civil rights era, but I guess not.”
We’d learned about the civil rights era at school—colored water fountains, signs that said, WHITES ONLY, angry mobs shouting at Ruby Bridges. I thought about Nick muttering Immigrants are terrorists on Noura and Ammar’s first day at school.
“Normal people don’t go around committing arson,” Mom said. “Whoever set the fire must be mentally ill.”
“Or maybe they’ve been radicalized,” Dad said. “I recently read an article in the Tampa Bay Times that said the number of hate groups is on the rise.”
“Hate groups?” I asked. “You mean like the Ku Klux Klan?”
Dad nodded.
I wasn’t hungry anymore and pushed away my pancakes. I wondered what breakfast was like at the Alwans’ apartment. They had to be angry and afraid too.
Wearing my shimmering green hijab, I slipped my homework into my backpack and hurried to the kitchen. Ammar and I wanted to leave early so that we could do some research in the library before school started. From the hallway, I could hear Mama singing. It stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t heard her sing … well, since forever. I recognized the words. It was one of her favorite songs from the famous Lebanese singer Fairuz.
“Tell me, tell me about my country tell me,
O breeze passing by the tree facing me,
tell me a story about my family, a story about my house,
tell me a long story about my childhood neighbor …”
The song filled the small kitchen with warmth and happiness. I paused in the hallway and took it in: Mama frying eggs, using her spatula like a conductor used a baton. Ammar feeding Ismail bits of bread spread with soft cheese, while Ismail laughed and played peekaboo in his high chair. For a moment, I thought of Jordyn and of her little brother or sister that would never be … I shrugged off the uneasy feeling and caught sight of Baba. He stood at the kitchen counter, waggling his eyebrows, trying to catch my attention.
