Flying Over Water

by N. H. Senzai

  “Habibti, it’s Friday,” he said. “What should we do this fine evening to celebrate your marvelous exam results? Go out for ice cream?”

  “Baba, it was just a quiz,” I said, exasperated. “But of course I’d love to go for ice cream. Is that even a question?”

  Baba laughed, knowing my love of anything sweet and frozen. “There is a little place by the hotel, run by a lovely Vietnamese family, the Trans. I see it whenever I ride my bike to work. I poked my head in the other day and saw that they have regular flavors but also mango, pineapple, and others I’ve never heard of—purple yam and green tea.”

  I hid a smile. Baba had already introduced himself and made friends with the Trans. It was so like him. I was just happy he was having breakfast with us. Usually he came home late, exhausted from lugging heavy bags for the hotel guests.

  As I sat at the dining table, a sense of peace settled over me. For the first time since the war, it seemed everyone was happy, going about life as a normal family would—even Mama. Last night, she had reconnected with her favorite instructor, Professor Kahf, on social media. Mama had just begun her master’s degree in Arabic poetry when the war started.

  “Come,” Mama called. “The bread is warm and the eggs are done.”

  As Ammar and I headed over, Baba’s phone rang. He put his plate down and grabbed it. “Hello,” he said. “Salaam Alaikum, Brother Jamal. How are you?” After a second, his smile disappeared.

  Ammar and I paused, catching our father’s stricken expression. Something was wrong. The warm mood of the morning cooled.

  “No, of course, of course,” said Baba. “Thank you for calling me. Now I know why you won’t be picking me up from work.” After another minute of nods and deep sighs, he hung up.

  “What happened?” asked Mama, with a hot frying pan in her hand.

  Baba’s shoulders slumped. “Friday prayers have been canceled.”

  “Why?” asked Ammar, gripping his empty plate.

  Baba rubbed his temples, a sign that he was getting a headache.

  “Yes, why, Baba?” I chimed in.

  “Someone set fire to the mosque,” he said. “And painted on the outside wall … Go Home.”

  “What?” cried Mama. “When? How?”

  “Early this morning, before fajr prayers,” said Baba. “Imam Ibrahim was notified and he rushed over to see what happened. Turns out the fire caused some exterior damage, but then the sprinkler system went off, damaging the interior of the mosque as well.”

  A memory of the sun shining from the mosque’s copper dome returned to me. Of its tall pillars and prayer hall, filled with people praying in peace. My heart sank as the happiness of the room faded like a snowflake landing on warm skin.

  Mama slumped down in a chair, looking distraught. “I thought we had left such things behind us. The violence and destruction … Who would do such a thing?”

  “People who hate Muslims,” said Ammar, his scar pinched from frowning. “People who hate us.”

  The smell of the frying eggs made me feel like I was going to be sick. But it wasn’t the eggs, I knew; it was much more than that. Go Home … But this was home now. In one instant, the beautiful picture of what that morning had been was ripped into a thousand pieces.

  Noura and Ammar were already in social studies class when I got there. They were both staring straight ahead and didn’t acknowledge me when I sat down. Noura was wearing jeans and a pretty green hijab—a mix of an American girl and a Syrian one. I didn’t know whether it was best to mention the mosque fire or pretend it hadn’t happened. I wished I knew what would make it easier for them.

  I sank down at my desk and checked the whiteboard. The Muzoon Almellehan quote was still there, along with some new ones. I’d done my homework and knew Muzoon was a Syrian teenager who’d lived in a refugee camp.

  One of the new quotes was by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I copied it in my notebook: The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.

  Mr. Fowler’s eyebrows drooped as he perched on the edge of his desk. “Last night an arsonist set fire to one of our Tampa mosques. To my Muslim students, I’d like to say I’m sorry, and that despite what happened, most Floridians respect your right to worship as you choose.”

  Joel raised his hand, which surprised me. He had barely participated in class since his mom got sick.

  “Yes, Joel?” Mr. Fowler asked.

  “I wanted to add that a couple days ago, somebody knocked over more than a hundred tombstones in a historic Jewish cemetery.”

  Mr. Fowler nodded. “It happened in St. Louis. I’m sorry about that as well.”

  Joel blinked his watery eyes. “You have to be a really awful person to tear up a graveyard.” He glanced back at Noura and Ammar, then added, “Or set fire to a place of worship.”

  Mr. Fowler rose from his desk and walked over to the whiteboard. He tapped his index finger on one of the quotes and read it out loud. “ ‘When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ Fred Rogers.”

  As a restless silence settled over the room, Noura blurted out, “In Syria, my father was a helper. He was a White Helmet.”

  Everyone stared at Noura, and she slunk down in her seat as if she wanted to take the words back.

  “Wow! That’s impressive,” Mr. Fowler said as his bushy eyebrows shot up. “I’ll bet most of your classmates don’t know about the White Helmet brigades. Would you like to tell them?”

  Noura clutched her hijab, the way she often did when she was nervous. “Ammar, would that be okay with you?”

  About a minute later, he spoke up instead. “After the war started and much of the city had been destroyed, no one collected the garbage; there was no electricity or running water. The police and firefighters had lost all authority, so ordinary citizens banded together. They wore white helmets and did whatever they could to help people.

  “One day, I was with my father and uncle at our hotel. We were inside and didn’t hear the helicopters at first. And when we did, it was too late.”

  I stared at Ammar as his words cast a spell over our classmates.

  “The bombs fell, two or three, I think. The explosions tore through the building, but I don’t remember a single thing. When I woke up the next day, I learned the White Helmets had pulled me from the wreckage. I’d cracked my jaw and was left with this,” he said, pointing to the scar along his face. He looked around, as if daring anyone to speak.

  Noura gazed at her brother with pride shining in her eyes. “Our father was so grateful to the White Helmets that he joined them. Once, I saw him dig among the ruins of a bombed building searching for survivors, just as other White Helmets had once searched for Ammar.”

  “You must be very proud of your dad,” Mr. Fowler said, and then he stretched out his arms as if to hug the entire class. “Kids, be one of the helpers.”

  “I’m a member of the Save the Manatee Club,” Penny said. “That’s how I help.”

  I noticed Bailey’s eyes were squeezed shut. I slipped her a note. Bryan was a helper-a real hero.

  “In addition to looking for helpers,” Mr. Fowler said, “in times of trouble, people look to great leaders. Whether it was FDR during the Great Depression, or Nelson Mandela during apartheid, a great leader sets the tone.”

  “A bad leader sets the tone too,” Ammar said. “Assad is proof of that.”

  “Indeed, he is,” Mr. Fowler said, and turned to switch on the classroom TV. “Let’s see what our mayor, Bob Buckhorn, has to say about the mosque fire.”

  Mayor Bob was wearing a dark suit and a green tie. He stood behind several microphones from different news stations, flanked by Muslim men and women. He said a lot of important things, and Mr. Fowler scribbled one of them on the whiteboard. Not on my watch, not in my city, we will not tolerate this. When Noura and Ammar sat up straighter, I knew Mayor Buckhorn had set the right tone.

&n
bsp; After the press conference, Mr. Fowler said, “There will be a solidarity gathering at the mosque tonight. I’m planning to be there. Mention it to your parents. Maybe some of you would like to attend too.”

  My parents and I had an early dinner at the Columbia Restaurant, then skipped the flamenco dancers and drove to the solidarity gathering. The sun was setting as we walked toward the mosque. Its dome and minarets reminded me of a building I’d always admired at the University of Tampa. The damage to the outside of the mosque was minimal, but Dad reminded me how the inside had water damage from the sprinkler system. Again I wondered who would do such a thing.

  Mom covered her hair with a scarf and handed one to me. I slipped it on, but silently questioned if it was the right thing to do. I knew Mom was trying to be respectful, but I didn’t want Noura to think I was pretending to be something I wasn’t.

  “A lot of people here,” Dad whispered. “Probably a couple hundred.”

  I looked around at the news crews and reporters. Mom adjusted her scarf. “I heard there’ll be a rabbi, a reverend, and an imam speaking.”

  Nearby, little kids were laughing on the mosque playground. I spotted Noura there, holding Ismail’s hand. During lunch, I had told Noura and Ammar we had to talk, that it felt like there was an elephant in the room.

  Noura had squinted at me with a confused look on her face. “Jordyn, why would you bring an elephant to school?”

  I explained that having an elephant in the room is an expression my parents use. It means there’s a subject everybody is thinking about, but afraid to mention.

  “Oh,” Noura said, and confessed the mosque fire had made her feel strange too. She’d said, “There is no right answer, Jordyn. I would have felt bad if you had ignored it. I feel bad discussing it—I just feel bad.”

  I looked around the large property for Mr. Fowler and saw him standing with Joel and his father. I followed Mom and Dad to say hello to them, and then Mom pointed out Mr. and Mrs. Alwan. “Excuse me,” Dad said. “It’s high time I introduced myself.”

  Penny tapped me on the shoulder. “Should I have worn a headscarf?” she whispered, patting down her unruly hair.

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. My mom handed me this one and I put it on, but don’t worry about it. I bet it’s more important to Noura and Ammar that you’re here than what you’re wearing.”

  Penny looked down at her green SAVE THE EARTH T-shirt. “I barely have any clean clothes. Mom’s behind on the laundry.”

  My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out of my back pocket. Lea wasn’t coming because her mom hadn’t gotten home from work in time. I didn’t ask about Bailey. I didn’t think she would be comfortable attending.

  As the service started, Noura walked over and stood between Penny and me. “Thank you for coming,” she whispered.

  The imam in a flowing white cloak spoke in Arabic, and then he translated the words into English. “I am thanking God for giving us this beautiful community who have come to us, reached out to us in solidarity and unity …”

  A radiant smile lit up Noura’s face, and she stretched out her hands, one toward Penny and the other toward me. It would have been much better if the fire had never happened, but since it had, at least we were all together, holding hands.

  My nose wrinkled from the heavy smell of chlorine that lay over the indoor swimming arena like a thick blanket.

  Jordyn’s mom saw my expression and laughed as we took a seat on the bleachers overlooking the pool. “I’ve been inhaling that stink so long I can’t even tell it’s there anymore.”

  I looked away from the pool and returned her smile. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked, her eyes soft and gentle.

  I knew Jordyn had told her about Maryam. Of my fear of water. “I’m okay,” I answered.

  “I think you’re a brave girl to let Jordyn teach you to swim,” she said. “I’m proud of both of you.” She glanced over at Jordyn’s dad, who was checking messages on his phone, and added in a quieter voice, “I’m so glad you came today. I know last week was incredibly difficult for you and your family. It’s awful what happened to the mosque, but it’s also wonderful to see the way the interfaith community have come together.”

  “Thank you for attending,” I said, the memories of that evening flooding back. “My parents appreciated it very much.”

  “There’s no need to thank me,” she said, softly patting my shoulder.

  I turned my attention to a group of girls, probably around eight years old, finishing their last lap. Jordyn’s event was next, and she was still in the locker room. My eyes cautiously examined the cool aquamarine pool. It’s only water, I thought. I drink it every day and take a shower in it. But the thought of being immersed in it sent a tendril of fear through me. I took a deep breath to steady my pulse.

  I was reminded of how water had damaged the mosque even more than fire. It would be at least a month before it would reopen for services. My mind drifted to the thoughts that had been swirling inside me all weekend … of how strange it was that some people could be hateful toward Muslims, of how others could be compassionate, and that most fell somewhere in between. I wondered about the person who had been so full of hate that he or she had destroyed a place of worship.

  I’d sat at Baba’s laptop, donated by one of the families from the mosque, and looked up the Jewish cemetery in St. Louis that Joel had mentioned in class. Someone had vandalized 154 grave markers at historic Chesed Shel Emeth. Pictures revealed the terrible destruction—a line of knocked-over stones inscribed with the names of those buried there.

  But it wasn’t just our mosque or Chesed Shel Emeth. The news was full of similar stories. An African American church had been set on fire in Greenville, Mississippi. And there was more. A man with a gun had gone into a gurdwara, a Sikh temple, in Oak Creek, Wisconsin, a few years back. He’d taken six lives, destroying families and traumatizing an entire community. And perhaps even worse, he was so stupid he thought Sikhs, a religious community from India where the men wore turbans, were Muslims.

  As I remembered the hundreds of people who’d gathered at the mosque to show their support, I realized that both hatred and compassion could reside in the same heart. In the end, it was what you chose to do with them that mattered.

  “Here they come,” said Jordyn’s mom excitedly, jarring me from my heavy thoughts.

  I watched the girls jog out of the locker room, flexing their arms, full of energy. They wore caps, goggles, and sleek one-piece bathing suits. I recognized Jordyn right away. She was the tallest. As the others eagerly approached the starting block, she slowed, hanging back. She waved her arms like she was trying to shake something off. The girls climbed aboard what was called a starting block—a square ledge where they would dive into the water when their race started.

  Leaning forward, Mrs. Johnson muttered, “What is she doing?”

  Jordyn stood for a moment, gazing out over the water, until one of the other girls, Lea, I think, pulled her toward her starting position. Jordyn shook her head, as if to clear it, then stepped onto her block. As the girls bent down into position, Jordyn remained standing. Her body began to tremble.

  Something is not right, I thought, a hint of concern weaving its way from my brain into my heart. I remembered when Jordyn had an attack of the nerves during our social studies exam.

  Without warning, Jordyn crumpled, gasping for air.

  Lea screamed and jumped off her block. “Coach B, Coach B!”

  “My baby,” cried Mrs. Johnson, scrambling from the bleachers. In her haste, she left her purse as she ran toward Jordyn.

  Mr. Johnson grabbed the purse and hurried behind her. Unsure of what to do, I followed, my thoughts swirling like a kaleidoscope.

  By the time we got there, Lea had helped Jordyn to the ground.

  Coach B was bending over her, holding her hand. “Jordyn, Jordyn, listen to me. You’re going to be just fine, but I need you to breathe. Breathe, Jordyn, just breathe.”

  Mrs.
Johnson sank to her knees. “What’s wrong with her?” she sobbed.

  “Try to stay calm,” said Coach B, fumbling for her cell phone. “I’ll call 9-1-1!”

  Jordyn’s dad knelt and hugged her mom. “Please hurry,” he begged, his face as pale as fresh cream.

  While Coach B described Jordyn’s symptoms to the operator, Jordyn lay on the cold tile floor, gasping for breath. Instinctively, I sat near her head and took her chin in my hand. I spoke calmly, like Baba always did for me. “Jordyn, look at me.”

  She blinked, trying to focus. Her eyes met mine. “My heart,” she gasped. “It’s beating like a jackhammer.”

  I took her right hand and placed it on her chest, then her left on her stomach. “You are going to be okay,” I said, keeping my gaze steady. “Now take a deep breath and fill your chest.”

  Jordyn shook her head, gulping, trying to drag in a breath.

  “What is Noura doing?” muttered Bailey, crowding in behind me.

  “Noura …” cried Jordyn’s mom, but I ignored them all.

  “I know you can do it,” I said. “Pretend you are a bird, flying high in the air, looking down. There is a cold, fresh breeze rushing over you. Now take a deep breath of that cold, refreshing air.”

  Jordyn grasped my hand and pressed down on her stomach as she dragged in a deep, ragged breath.

  “Good,” I said, so focused on Jordyn, it almost seemed as if I could breathe for her.

  “The ambulance is on its way,” said Coach B, running a hand through her short, spiky hair.

  “Now breathe out,” I instructed Jordyn.

  As she kept breathing, in and out, I thanked Allah for the high-pitched wail of an approaching siren.

  I was terrified.

  An oxygen mask,

  IV,

  ambulance ride,

  EKG,