Flying Over Water

by N. H. Senzai

  When he put it that way, I didn’t feel quite so glum, but still, two weeks was a long time to wait for an answer. “Any more doughnuts?” I asked.

  “Help yourself,” Mr. Fowler said with a grin. “I brought plenty.”

  Raindrops beat against the windowpanes like a melodious drum as Mama hummed a Fairuz tune at the dining table, trying to figure out how the shiny new multiuse pressure cooker Baba had gotten for her worked. I sat on the sofa, hugging a soft cushion, appreciating the tantalizing smell of walnut maamoul, scented with cinnamon and rosewater, baking in the oven. I gazed out onto the balcony, searching for some feathered friends, hoping their antics would distract me for a while. But sadly, the wet weather had chased them away. With a sigh, I glanced at the clock on the wall for the hundredth time. The school board was voting today and Jordyn had access to the cable channel that would broadcast the proceedings. She had promised to call as soon as she found out the results. Filled with a nervous energy, I jumped off the sofa and began to pace.

  “You know that won’t make things go any faster,” said Ammar, frowning as he flipped through channels on the television, not really watching much of anything.

  The volume was turned down low since both Baba and Ismail were asleep down the hall. Baba had started the night shift and usually came home around the time we were leaving for school.

  “No, but it is better than sitting around,” I said in a tight voice.

  Ammar was irritated and cagey too. He’d finished his homework but hadn’t been able to take the boys out for their usual soccer practice because of the rain.

  “She’ll call as soon as she finds out,” said Ammar. “She promised.”

  “Children, come here,” Mama said, giving us a knowing look. “I need help figuring out these instructions.”

  Ammar paused on a news channel and lumbered over to the table.

  “The best way to keep your minds busy is to decipher a long and boring appliance manual,” Mama said, and I couldn’t help grinning. Her English was getting better with Mrs. Johnson’s help, but the manual, with its minuscule print, was too much.

  As Ammar examined the dozens of buttons on the pressure cooker and compared it to the manual, we heard the click of a door opening, followed by soft footsteps. Baba headed toward us in striped sleeping pants and a T-shirt, his hair sticking up along the sides.

  “Salaam Alaikum, Baba, that’s a cool new hairstyle,” I teased.

  Baba looked in the hall mirror and posed like he was a famous old-school Syrian singer. Hooded eyes, puffed-out chest, and pouty lips. We all laughed, the tension in the room easing.

  “I’m famished,” said Baba, taking a seat on the sofa.

  “The stew is simmering,” Mama said. “It won’t be ready for another hour.”

  “How about a cheese sandwich?” I asked, wondering how many heavy suitcases he had carried last night. “I can make you one.”

  “That would be delicious,” said Baba. “A cup of tea too, please.”

  I put on the kettle and opened the fridge to get the soft creamy cheese Baba loved. As I sliced the bread, Baba stretched out his legs and picked up the remote. He turned the volume up, and we heard an angry young man shouting. My eyes were riveted to a large group marching around a statue. They carried burning torches while chanting “White lives matter!” followed by “Build the wall!” Horrified, I couldn’t look away.

  The camera cut back to a newscaster sitting in a studio, her voice somber. “That was the scene a few nights ago from Lee Park in Charlottesville, Virginia. A group of white nationalists gathered to protest the city council’s vote to remove the statue of Confederate general Robert E. Lee. General Lee is considered by many to be a symbol of the South’s racist past, a man who fought to keep slavery during the Civil War. In the current political climate …”

  “What are they saying?” Mama asked.

  “It’s nothing,” said Baba, quickly switching off the television.

  “Yusuf, tell me the truth,” said Mama, placing her hands on her hips.

  Ammar and I shared an anxious look. Mama had probably picked up enough to get an idea. But before she could say anything else, the sharp ring of the telephone echoed from the counter. Without thinking, I lunged for it before Ammar could. It had to be her …

  “Hello,” I said hopefully, forgetting about the news.

  “Noura, is that you?” came a breathy voice. It was Jordyn. In the background, I could hear people talking, but it sounded like they were in a tunnel.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I said, whirling back to face Mama, Baba, and Ammar. They looked at me expectantly.

  “Noura, you won’t believe it,” Jordyn said.

  “Believe what?” I switched over to the speakerphone and placed it on the dining room table. “What happened?”

  “It was unbelievable,” she practically shouted. “It was a unanimous vote.”

  My heart sank. “Everyone voted the same way?”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Jordyn.

  “Which way did they vote?” Ammar barked into the phone.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Jordyn. “They voted YES! We can keep the prayer room!”

  I looked at Ammar, then at our parents, our expressions identical. Shock, then happiness, coupled with a hint of doubt.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Totally,” said Jordyn. “I’ve texted practically everyone. We’re all going to meet in the supply room tomorrow at lunch to fix it up. Lea’s mom is getting the carpet dry-cleaned to get the glitter out. Daksha is making another COEXIST banner, and Penny promised to put up her trees again.”

  Strong emotions surged through me and for a moment I couldn’t speak. Ammar gently took the phone from in front of me.

  “Thank you, Jordyn,” he said. “This is really, really great news. We’re looking forward to fixing up the room with everyone.”

  “Okay,” Jordyn said. “I’ve got to go, I just got a text from Lea. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  After Ammar hung up, we all stood, looking at one another as Baba came to sit at the dining room table. “This is unbelievable,” he said. “You two, along with your friends, made such an impressive case to the school board. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Baba,” I said with a grin. Though Ammar hadn’t spoken, he’d helped me write my speech.

  “And your teacher, that Mr. Fowler, should be commended on how he taught you to fight for your rights.”

  Mama had pulled the cookies out of the oven and was pouring tea. As we chatted, she came over with a tray and sat down with us. Her eyes solemn, she glanced at the television, then back at us. “Noura, Ammar,” she said, her voice soft but serious. It was a tone that told us to pay attention.

  “Yes, Mama,” we replied practically in unison.

  Baba reached for a maamoul and took a bite, his eyes somber.

  “Like your father, I am extremely proud of you,” she said, passing us hot glasses of tea. “You’ve come to a new country and worked hard to be good students, good citizens. And I wish more than anything that your baba and I could protect you. Create a sanctuary for you like the one for the beautiful roseate spoonbills you saw on the boat ride.”

  Mama’s words washed over me and the euphoria of our victory began to fade. I took a sip of my tea, burning my tongue.

  Mama continued. “Outside the protection of our home, a lot of terrible things are happening. We still don’t know who set fire to the mosque. Or who vandalized the prayer room at school. Yet we have been blessed with many of these good wolves, as you call them—the Johnsons and their church, your teacher, Mr. Fowler, and all those who came to our mosque for the interfaith service. This is all wonderful and you should enjoy the blessings of each day.”

  Baba looked at Mama with admiration. “Of course, your mama is right. We have won the battle to save your prayer room, but there will be bigger challenges ahead.”

  Mama sighed in agreement and passed around the cookies. “But for now, enjoy you
r victory. Eat.” She got up and went to the kitchen to stir the pot of stew. Baba headed to the bathroom to take a shower, and Ammar wandered off to his room.

  I sat at the dining table, the warm maamoul resting on my palm as Mama began to sing. It was a song from one of the greatest Egyptian singers of all time, Umm Kulthum.

  “Rise with faith, spirit, and conscience;

  Step on all difficulties and move on.

  Your country needs you;

  It needs much effort.

  Step on all difficulties and move on …”

  I felt the warmth and love of my family settle into my bones, but the lyrics of the song dug into my heart. Tomorrow, Ammar and I would rise with faith, spirit, and conscience to fix the prayer room with our friends. But the day after … the day after, we would have to deal with hate. Hate that had led to the fire at our mosque and the vandalizing of our prayer room.

  As Mama’s beautiful voice settled over me, I could hear Baba in the shower, and knew that Ammar was hard at work on one of his models, while Ismail slept, awash in playful dreams. I took a bite of the still warm maamoul and swallowed the love Mama had poured into her cookies. As long as I had my friends and family around me, I knew I could deal with practically anything.

  Tomorrow we would repair the prayer room. It seemed everyone had a unique contribution to make, except for me—Penny and her trees, Lea with the rug, Daksha and her COEXIST banner. I rubbed the flying fish on my necklace, remembering the peaceful look on Noura’s face at Shell Key Preserve. I thought about how swimming and flying both represent freedom. I was inspired to write a poem for Noura and hang it on the prayer room wall.

  Writing this book was a lot like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. I discovered the first piece by connecting with a high school friend on Facebook. Beth’s daughter, Cheyenne, had recently converted to Islam, and I was intrigued. I decided to research Islam, but I wasn’t entirely sure where the journey would take me.

  As I corresponded with Beth and Cheyenne, they expressed frustration with how Christians view Islam. Though I prided myself on being open-minded, I held some of the same misconceptions. Cheyenne asked, “Have you ever met a refugee?” That question stayed with me as I researched, watched the news, and conducted interviews.

  My minister, Vicki Walker, provided the next puzzle piece. While vacationing in Turkey, Vicki had met a Syrian woman and her young son. The boy had held a handwritten sign that read: WE ARE FROM SYRIA. CAN YOU HELP US? THANK YOU. Vicki had snapped their picture and displayed it in her office. It tugged at her heart—and mine.

  Vicki introduced me to Janet Blair, the Community Liaison for Refugee Services, Suncoast Region. Janet arranged for me to meet several Syrian girls. They told me of their favorite desserts, the music of Nancy Ajram, and shared the prejudice they face from wearing hijabs.

  I discovered much of my plot through research. I was especially drawn to the resilience of Syrian teens Yusra Mardini, Mohammed Qutaish, and Muzoon Almellehan. I included them in this book to draw attention to their remarkable stories.

  As I watched the documentary 8 Borders, 8 Days and stared at the photo of Alan Kurdi lying on the beach, I knew water would play an important part in my story. I decided to make Jordyn a competitive swimmer, and Noura a girl whose best friend had drowned.

  From Missy Franklin’s autobiography, I learned how panic attacks affected her swimming and got the idea for Jordyn’s anxiety disorder.

  The mosque fire, Mayor Bob Buckhorn’s response, the interfaith service, and Jewish people giving chai to repair the mosque were all inspired by actual events that occurred in Tampa in 2017.

  When I turned a draft of this novel in to my editor, Andrea Pinkney, she thought it was missing something, but offered to read it again. While contemplating revisions, I discovered Escape from Aleppo by N. H. Senzai, and wondered if I was missing the most critical puzzle piece of all—a Muslim voice. I asked Ms. Senzai if she would be interested in telling Noura’s half of the story. Not only was she interested, but Naheed fleshed out the Alwan family in a more authentic way than I could have accomplished on my own, and suggested adding the prayer room, which turned out to be a pivotal part of the plot. This story wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying without the diverse details and characters that Naheed brought to it.

  The final puzzle pieces fell into place as I read true accounts of fleeing Syria. For educators interested in learning more, I highly recommend A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea: One Refugee’s Incredible Story of Love, Loss, and Survival by Melissa Fleming and We Crossed a Bridge and It Trembled: Voices from Syria by Wendy Pearlman.

  After writing Escape from Aleppo, a story about a girl fleeing the horrors of the Syrian civil war, I thought I was done covering this emotional and challenging topic. But then I received an intriguing offer from Shannon Hitchcock: Did I want to cowrite a novel about two girls, one American, and the other a Syrian refugee? As I read Shannon’s initial draft, it struck a chord within me, so I said yes.

  Shannon was gracious as I brought my ideas to the table. I proposed writing in alternating chapters, with each girl telling her own story, and incorporating important current events. As a Muslim American married to a professor of Middle East politics, I’d been watching the seismic shift in the American political and social landscape with growing concern. Since the 2016 election, all the “-isms” and “-phobias” had skyrocketed: xenophobia, Islamophobia, homophobia, racism, and antisemitism—challenging issues affecting communities, adults, and children.

  Our story begins with Noura and her family landing in Tampa, Florida, on the day of the Muslim ban. They are welcomed by Jordyn’s family and their church, mirroring my husband’s experience when they arrived as refugees from Afghanistan in 1979, fleeing the Soviet Union invasion. I fleshed out Noura and her family’s story. Once a successful hotelier in the old city of Aleppo, Noura’s father had joined the White Helmets when Noura’s brother was trapped under rubble after an air strike. Like thousands of others, they’d fled Aleppo for a refugee camp in Kilis, Turkey, where Noura is treated for PTSD.

  While writing the novel, we woke up to the mosque shooting in New Zealand that left fifty-one worshippers dead. It shocked us how hate and ignorance led to the taking of innocent lives, and it became important to incorporate themes of understanding and tolerance. Another threat to humanity, one that contributed to the Syrian War, is climate change. My son’s elementary school took part in an environmental beach cleanup and this became part of the plot. We also added an absurd law, recently passed in Florida, banning the ban of plastic straws.

  It was because of another law in Frisco, Texas, attempting to ban a prayer room established by Muslim students, that I suggested we add a similar room to our story. The room served as a place for students of all backgrounds to come together to celebrate their religious/spiritual beliefs, assemble peaceably, and express free speech. When the room is shut down, the children petition to redress the decision, all rights afforded under the First Amendment.*

  As Shannon and I were finishing the book, we were shocked to see that a top Trump immigration official, Ken Cuccinelli, had reworked Emma Lazarus’s iconic poem from the Statue of Liberty, which plays a key role in our story. He declared that instead of taking in “tired, poor, huddled masses,” we should only embrace immigrants who could “stand on their own two feet” and “not become a public charge,” adding later that the poem referred only to “people coming from Europe.”

  Although outwardly different, both Noura and Jordyn struggle to find a sense of belonging and freedom. These themes manifested themselves using birds and fish and the concept of flying over water. Noura loves birds and Jordyn has an affinity with fish. A boat ride to Shell Key Preserve, a bird sanctuary near Tampa, serves as a voyage where the girls help each other overcome their fears and deepen their friendship.

  * First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting t
he free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

  Mohammed Qutaish was ten years old when protests started in Syria. As his home city of Aleppo was ravaged by war, Mohammed began making a model to rebuild it. He and his dad gathered materials from street debris—paper, boxes, wood scraps, and cardboard—but there were no colored pencils or glue to be found in Aleppo. Those were brought in from Turkey. Mohammed worked for three years on his model, and hung a note above it that said, THEY DESTROY. WE REBUILD.

  As he worked, Mohammed built not only structures that had been demolished but designed improvements for an Aleppo of the future: solar panels, rooftop pools, helipads, and gardens.

  Mohammed’s model was transported out of Syria and displayed at Mmuseumm in New York City. From there it moved to the Skirball Cultural Center in Los Angeles, and to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Articles and pictures of Mohammed’s model have been featured in the New York Times and Architectural Digest.

  When Mohammed grows up, he wants to be an architect and help rebuild Syria.

  Muzoon Almellehan is from Daraa, in southwest Syria. In 2013, fighting forced Muzoon’s family to abandon their home. Muzoon left everything behind, except her books. The family escaped to a Jordanian refugee camp. They lived in camps for three years.

  While at the Za’atari camp, Muzoon noticed that lots of girls were dropping out of school to get married. Because Muzoon’s dad was a schoolteacher, she understood the value of an education. She began visiting her friends’ parents and campaigning against child brides.

  In 2014, Muzoon was excited to meet Malala Yousafzai, when Malala visited the Za’atari camp. The two became fast friends, and Muzoon has been called the Malala of Syria.