Once Upon an Eid

by S. K. Ali

  Aya thought of the Eid coming up next month and how it would likely be no different. Aya would pray with her parents and grandparents at home and then arrive at school an hour late, like she’d been at a doctor’s appointment. But Aya couldn’t bear to share such boring plans with Amanda.

  “We do get presents, and we wear all new clothes and go to a prayer in the morning. And then after that there’s usually a carnival with food and games.”

  Aya didn’t mention that she’d never actually been to an Eid carnival, that she’d only heard about them from her cousins who lived in larger cities and had told her about their masjids’ huge celebrations. That was another benefit of being an only that Aya hadn’t given much thought to until now—she didn’t have to worry about anyone else in school contradicting her.

  Aya quickly glanced over at Amanda to see if she’d convinced her, and she was relieved to see Amanda shrug in Samantha’s direction, as if she was satisfied by Aya’s answer. Aya released the sigh she’d been holding and hoped that one day her family’s Eid would be as fun as the Eid she’d described.

  A few weeks later, Aya’s mother sent her to school with a note to tell Mrs. Johnson that she’d be missing the following Monday morning for Eid. Aya begged her mother to excuse her for the whole day so Amanda would think she’d been at a carnival, but Aya’s mother insisted that she had to work and there was no sense in her staying home.

  Aya walked into the classroom with her head down, her gaze fixed on the note in her hand. When she looked up, she was surprised to see a new girl standing beside Mrs. Johnson’s desk. A new girl with an off-white, no-fuss, one-piece hijab slipped over her head.

  Aya’s mouth dropped open, and she instinctively reached up and smoothed her uncovered hair. She didn’t know anyone who wore hijab in sixth grade. She reached for her gold necklace with the pendant that said “Allah” in Arabic script. That was the only thing Aya wore that gave her away as Muslim.

  “Oh, good, Aya. I’m glad you’re here,” Mrs. Johnson said. “This is Hana. She just moved here from the Bay Area. I thought you could show Hana around since you’re both Muslim.”

  Aya felt a hot prickle of frustration that Mrs. Johnson assumed she’d want to be friends with Hana because of their shared religion, but when she looked over at Hana, she saw that Hana wore a knowing expression. She’d picked up on the awkwardness too.

  Aya offered a weak shrug, as if she were apologizing for Mrs. Johnson, and in return, Hana waved and said, “Assalamu Alaikum.”

  Aya was taken aback. She had never used this greeting with a peer, only with her parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, and here was Hana, uttering a Muslim hello as if she’d said it to friends many times before.

  Aya nervously spun the two slender gold bangles on her wrist and replied, “Walaikumussalaam.”

  At Mrs. Johnson’s request, Aya showed Hana to her desk, then walked back to her own, trying to find a name for her mixed feelings. Hana seemed friendly and kind, but she also seemed more Muslim than Aya was. Hana probably did go to Eid carnivals and had been going her entire life. What if she became the classroom’s new expert? Or worse, what if she was the type of Sunni who thought Aya wasn’t a real Muslim too?

  Aya shook her head to rid herself of the ridiculous thought. She heard her mother’s voice, reminding her that they were all Muslims first. And it might be nice to no longer be the classroom only. But the uneasy knot in her stomach lingered, and Aya was distracted all through morning math, wondering what she was going to do with Hana at lunch. Should she go off and sit where she always sat, on the picnic table under the tree, with the girls who spent recess drawing, crocheting, and weaving friendship bracelets? Should she invite Hana to join her or leave her to find her own group of friends? Maybe Hana hated crafts and Aya should reassure her that they didn’t have to be friends just because they were both Muslim?

  At the sound of the bell, Aya grabbed her lunch from her backpack, but before she could head out the classroom door, Hana was at her side with her lunch box in hand. “So where do you usually have lunch?” she asked.

  Again, Aya felt a bristle of annoyance. Hana was so confident and comfortable that Aya was starting to feel like she was the new girl. Aya made the split-second decision not to introduce Hana to her friends over at the craft table and pointed Hana to the unoccupied table at the edge of the playground.

  For a moment, the two girls sat facing each other without much to say. They set up their lunches, pulling out their containers and peeling off their lids, and then almost simultaneously their gazes fell on each other’s food. They both had rice, left over from yesterday’s dinner.

  Hana was the first to say, “Do you ever wish you could just have a sandwich?”

  Aya laughed. Hard. Harder than she’d ever laughed at school. “Every single day.”

  Hana laughed too, and added, “My grandma packs me so much food—way more than I could ever eat at lunch—and I’m always like, ‘Can’t I just have peanut butter and jelly?’”

  “Do you live with your grandma?” Aya asked.

  “I don’t just live with my grandma, I share a room with her. And I love her biryani, but not cold. And not at school.”

  Aya giggled. “I share a room too! And not even with a sister. I share a room with my brother!” Aya told Hana how her grandparents had moved in with her family and how they had taken over her brother’s room, so he had to bunk with her. Hana shared that her family was from Pakistan and that she loved pizza nights because then she could bring those leftovers to school. Aya added that her family was from Iraq and that they also had a rice dish called biryani even though it had different ingredients and flavors.

  Aya couldn’t get over how much she had in common with Hana, and she grew so involved in their conversation that she didn’t notice when Amanda and her band of friends approached their table.

  “What are you guys eating?” Amanda asked.

  It was an innocent question, but Aya felt a burst of concern. She tried to keep the conversation about food for as long as possible, nervous that Amanda would bring up something more sensitive, like her sect. She was just getting to know Hana, and she didn’t want Amanda steering their conversation toward their differences before they’d had a chance to discuss them on their own.

  But Amanda had already moved on to Hana’s hijab. “Why do you wear that if Aya doesn’t?”

  “Because I choose to,” Hana said.

  “Doesn’t it make you hot?”

  “Only if it’s hot out.”

  “Do you wear it when you go swimming?”

  “No. I have a different hijab for swimming.”

  “How about in the shower?”

  “No.”

  “And when you’re sleeping?”

  “No.”

  Aya marveled at Hana’s tone. It was patient but firm, and by not offering up detailed explanations and answers, she was showing Amanda without having to say it that she did not care to carry on the conversation.

  Amanda, however, did not pick up on Hana’s disinterest, and she asked the question Aya had been dreading: “What are you, a Sunni or a Shia?”

  Hana gave Amanda and her friends a puzzled look. “What do you even know about Sunnis and Shias?”

  Aya hung her head in embarrassment. Amanda didn’t know that this was an awkward question for them both. Most Muslims avoided bringing attention to their differences, and although people eventually figured out each other’s sects, they rarely asked this question, especially not within moments of meeting one another.

  Amanda said, “We read in class that Aya is a radical, but she says she’s not.”

  Aya was too stunned to react. She searched for words, but before she could say anything, Hana said, “Because she’s not. We’re all Muslims, and that’s all that matters.”

  Aya felt a mix of relief and confusion. She was supposed to be the classroom only, but having Hana speak up for her was comforting in a way Aya had never known before.

  A
manda rolled her eyes, and Hana gave Aya a look of exasperation that Aya found great satisfaction in returning.

  Amanda finally got the hint that the conversation had ended. She motioned to her friends that it was time to walk away, and as Aya watched Amanda retreat, she was surprised by the rush of warmth she felt for Hana. It was a feeling she hadn’t thought was possible when she’d seen her standing at Mrs. Johnson’s side only a few hours ago.

  “Tough crowd,” Hana said, and the girls found themselves giggling again.

  “But seriously,” Hana added, “you must be the only Muslim they’ve ever met. In my old school there were at least thirty Muslim kids, and some were Shia, so don’t worry. I know you’re not a radical. I don’t know how you’ve survived alone all this time. Alhamdulillah, we have each other, right?”

  “Yeah,” Aya said. “It’s pretty great.”

  “And at least we’ll have each other at prayers. I hear the community here is super small and people pray at each other’s homes. Are you guys sticking around town for Eid?”

  Aya’s shoulders slumped. After Amanda’s interrogation, she didn’t want to bring up their differences again and tell Hana that her family no longer felt welcome in the community. “We actually prefer to pray at home,” she said instead. “My grandfather leads us.”

  “But that’s no fun,” Hana said. “You guys have to start coming now that I’m here so we can hang out.”

  Aya’s breath quickened. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Hana. It’s just that someone said some things about Shias not being real Muslims, and now my parents don’t like to go.”

  Hana’s eyes widened with shock. “That’s so messed up, Aya! That would never happen at our masjid where I used to live. It’s a totally mixed community—and not just Sunni and Shia mixed, but cultures and languages too. You have to come with us. We’re driving back up for Eid. It’s just over an hour from here, and so many people come that they actually have to rent out the convention center! And after the prayer, there’s a carnival, and food, and vendors selling all kinds of stuff like scarves and prayer mats and tasbih. And I finally get to wear my new shalwar kameez and all my bangles. Something tells me you’re a bangle kind of girl too.”

  Aya looked down at her bangles. She never took them off. She loved their soft jingle as she went about her day, and going to a carnival sounded equally lovely. She could have the kind of Eid she’d described to Amanda and come back to school with her own stories to tell of friends, food, and fun. She didn’t know if her parents would agree to go, but she was already enchanted by the idea. How amazing would it be to actually feel like it was Eid?

  “It’s for everyone,” Aya told her mother as they cleared off the dinner table that night. “My new friend Hana said all Muslims are welcome. And she said that everyone gets dressed up and that she’s going to wear a new shalwar kameez and bangles up to her elbows. I wish we were Pakistani like Hana’s family. How come Arabi people never wear their cultural clothing? We dress the same to everything.”

  Aya’s mother looked at her with a puzzled expression, a stack of dirty plates in her hands. “You don’t have to be Pakistani to dress up. You can wear the gelabeya your aunty sent you.”

  Aya had completely forgotten about the turquoise full-length gown hanging in the back of her closet. It had a beautiful sheer overlay with a trim of silver beads along the neckline and down its bodice. She’d never had an occasion to wear it before.

  “Wait,” Aya said, pointing at her mother with a handful of dirty forks and spoons. “Does that mean we can go?”

  “I don’t know, habibti. The convention center is far, and both your father and I had planned to go to work. But we’ll see. Insha’Allah.”

  God willing.

  Aya couldn’t believe it. Her mother was actually considering it. Their local Eid had always been such a quiet affair with so few families, but now she might have the chance to plan an Eid outfit to wear to Eid prayers with a friend. That night, Aya breezed through loading the dishwasher, feeling something she’d never felt about Eid before—excitement.

  Eid morning, Aya’s family woke up for their dawn prayers, and instead of rushing to pray and heading off to work, Aya’s parents surprised her with the news that they’d made plans to join Hana’s family at the convention center.

  Aya couldn’t believe that her parents had agreed to go. She rattled off a string of thank-yous and hurried to her bedroom, where she slid on her gelabeya. Then she stood in front of her dresser mirror, wrapping her hair in a scarf that matched the trim on her dress. She liked the way the hijab framed her face, and it made her think about Hana, how they’d match.

  Aya’s family piled into their minivan, her parents in the front row, grandparents in the middle, and kids in the back. After more than an hour of driving through large stretches of farmland, tall buildings appeared on the horizon. Aya’s mother maneuvered the van through a maze of traffic before they finally pulled into a multilevel parking structure. Aya studied the people leaving their cars, the women in scarves and the men in skullcaps and their clothes that came in every shade of the rainbow. Aya’s family joined the stream of people headed inside the main building. In the hallways, they passed food stalls and pop-up shops selling scarves, books, games, puzzles, incense, candles, and prayer mats. Aya had never seen so many Muslims in one place, and she didn’t know how she’d possibly find Hana in this crowd.

  But Hana was right at the main door, waiting for her with a group of girls their age. “Eid Mubarak, Aya,” Hana said, and wrapped Aya in a hug. She turned to her friends and added, “You guys, this is my savior, the one I told you about,” and then she handed Aya a small paper-wrapped package.

  Inside, Aya found a stack of turquoise glass bangles, the same shade as her gelabeya.

  “I know you have your gold bangles, but now you can match the rest of us,” Hana said.

  Aya slid her new accessories onto her wrist, feeling as if she’d been given a treasure. This was the first Eid gift she’d ever gotten from a friend. Aya thought back on all the Eids that had passed in a blurred rush—her family saying their Eid prayers together in the morning, her parents rushing off to work after taking Aya and her siblings to school—and she felt a joy she’d never known before on this special holiday.

  Aya glanced at Hana and saw her gesturing for Aya to hurry and join everyone for the prayer. She ran toward Hana and her friends, delighting in the delicate clinking sound of her new bangles. Aya stood shoulder to shoulder with Hana, her breath catching with sheer delight at the row after row of people lined up to pray.

  At one point in the prayer, most of the congregation folded their hands and rested them across their stomachs, as was Sunni custom. Aya left her hands at her sides and caught sight of several other people in the room doing the same. Hana was right. This was a mixed community, and it truly did not matter whose hands were folded and whose hands were straight when everyone’s lips moved in sync, reciting the words to the same prayers; when everyone bowed at the exact same moment; and when everyone’s hearts were so warm.

  Hana and Aya moved into sujood, pressing their foreheads to the floor, and Aya wondered why she had ever wanted to be her classroom’s only. It was so much better being an only together.

  Maya Madinah Mu’min could not bear this joy for one more second. She fled to her room to escape the laughter and singing that was filling her candy-colored Victorian house. Even from there, she could hear her family and friends celebrating the bittersweet end of Ramadan at the Mu’mins’ annual Chand Raat party. Their togetherness left her tight and breathless with loneliness and anxiety. She wanted to crawl out of her skin. She had to get away.

  No, not just get away. Run away. Without any clear plan beyond getting away from the house and the corresponding constriction in her heart, she threw a few essentials into her sturdy red backpack: The worn copy of Travel Light that she and Daddy had read together every night Before Everything Changed; Butch, the stuffed Rottweiler; and her la
test snack obsession, itsy-bitsy violet champagne grapes.

  She crept out her open window, dropping onto all fours to crawl under the other windows that were spilling light, warmth, and the fragrance of cardamom into the mist-laced air, and made her way to the front of the house. Scuffing her brown toes in the succulent garden, Maya Madinah glanced down. Great. No shoes. How far could she run without shoes? She grabbed her gardening flip-flops from the front porch, where they were sitting near the neat rows of guest shoes, turned around, and ran straight into Billa.

  “I can’t stand it anymore!” she scowl-whispered to the fat marmalade neighborhood cat. Billa paused in his ambling, then settled down close enough to listen—though he closed his eyes so as not to appear too eager.

  Maya Madinah rolled her own eyes heavenward, where the Shawwal crescent moon had hung before the San Francisco fog had swept in to obscure it. She glanced over at Billa again. Well, a half-cocked feline ear was better than none.

  Maya Madinah put down her flip-flops and stroked the enormous cat as they sat together on the porch steps. Billa was a comforting, purring solidity in her shifting world. Hot tears began leaking out of her eyes at the thought of the changes over the past year. She still lived in the same house with Mama, but everything else was different. Worse. Daddy had moved out last year. The divorce had been finalized last month.

  She thought back to the last Eid-ul-Fitr they had shared as a real family, almost a year ago now. How they had craned their necks outside to look for the crescent moon that heralded the entwined beginnings and endings of Islamic months. How they had welcomed their community in for the Chand Raat party that began their Eid celebrations. The mehndi and songs from Mama’s Pakistani ancestors; the bright paper lanterns and enthralling stories from Daddy’s people—Black Muslims, as American as bean pie. Faith, feasting, and family: all of the things that made Ramadan—and life—sweet.

  At the beginning of Ramadan every year, Daddy dusted off the wooden calendar he had made for her in his garage workshop when she was three. The calendar still sported a few faded Thomas the Tank Engine stickers. She had so loved those books. Each little door on the calendar was decorated with a hand-painted picture of the corresponding moon phase for that evening, marking the start of a new day of fasting. Daddy placed a dark chocolate—her favorite and his—inside each nook, one chocolate for every day of the month and a small toy for every sacred Friday.