other|matters

Istanbul, July 3

The biggest fish are nickel grey, though some of the smaller ones are gold. I do not know if they lose their color as they grow, or if perhaps the more beautiful ones are not, in the end, fit to thrive. I remember my mother’s disdain for flair. She would be pleased by the triumph of the plain.

In the northern corner of the cistern, a feeding frenzy breaks the surface of the water. A little girl throws chunks of ekmek into the shallows. There it takes on water, growing dark, until the carp have torn it apart.

(more…)

There is consensus about Jannah among the children. Everyday we’ll have lemonade. “In rivers?” Hamza wants to be sure. Sister Isra nods her head. “In rivers. In Jannah,” she holds the room with her eyes, “you can have any drink that you want.”

The class is abuzz at this. “In Jannah, I will be able to fly,” Aly announces to his table. He holds his hands in the air, zooming. Ammar and Ahmad consider, while Marwa puts tape on her hands. I lean across my desk, and pat her on the shoulder. “I told you to stop it with the tape, right?” I ask. “We need to save the tape on my desk for the class to use, insha’Allah.”

“I made you a whistle,” she says, rolling a markered strip up off the back of her hand. She creates a tight cylinder and passes it to me. “See? You can blow.” She indicates one end. I try not to sigh outloud. “Thank you for thinking of me, Marwa,” I reply. I stand the whistle on its end next to the homework box. “But right now, you are having your religion class. You need to pay attention. And please do not take any tape more without asking.” She nods. I do not threaten to write her name on the board this time, or worse yet, to make her write it on the board in Arabic. The First Graders abhor this. Finally, at the end of the year, I have discovered the perfect punishment. Too bad it involves the language which they are meant to be learning to love.

(more…)

I cannot remember whose idea it was to go swimming in the river. We walked down ravines, thick as lines on my hand, in sunlight metered through vines. Far at the bottom, the gully widened where water began to flow. A stream the color of hog snakes bubbled along our toes. We followed it, empty handed, until it reached the bank. There, still wearing jeans, we set out to wade in the shallows.

It took less than a minute to realize that we were in trouble, and less than five to drift across the Iowa to its less welcoming side. Whatever ideas we may have had about not really swimming, about our mothers finding out and killing us, were slowly abandoned. We clung there together to handfuls of weeds, and looked back the way we came. There, on the empty bank, our sweatshirts waited all alone. When they came looking for us, I imagined, they would find these. It struck me as funny, then, that I of all people would be in such a state. Wasn’t I supposed to be smarter than this? Did the river, in sweeping me away, forget about my brain?

(more…)

Again it is Friday, and again I am traveling by bus from my home in Jamaica Plain to the masjid in Dorchester. The sides of the bus are streaked with rain, and puddles the color of lead well up along the sidewalks. The pedestrians crowded together at the intersection outside of my window look half drowned. They shiver, lips blue at the edges, and clutch their belongings to their chests. April has all but drawn to a close; my favorite month is ending, and spring is still not quite here. I draw my overcoat around me as I lean back into my seat. The black velvet is damp and smells of Omani roses. I close my eyes and take in the perfume. For a moment I am back in the Gulf, wandering the Muttrah souk, bathed in light the color of gold.

The bus pulls into Dudley Station, and my thoughts return to the present. I catch my reflection in the rear view mirror. I am wearing mostly black today: my slacks, hijab, jacket and overcoat are the color of India ink, while my shirt is magnolia pink. The dark color matches my mood. Since yesterday’s incident on the subway, I have been feeling alone. As people lumber onto the bus, the seat next to me remains empty.

(more…)

“Do you have long hair?” Sahla asks, next to me on the parlor couch. We are turned in toward each other, with our knees angled almost to touch. Aisha crawls into the space between her mother and the back of the sofa. She kneels forward, giggling, and pokes me with her thumb. “Your hair is like this!” She makes sawing motions along her jaw bone, with the edge of her palm. “No, it’s not,” I tell her. “It’s longer than that.” I trail my hand down to my shoulders. “But it’s not as long and beautiful as yours.” She has just undone her braid. Waves of hair, long like wheat, reach halfway down her back.

I turn my attention back to her mother. “It’s about the same length as yours, but dark and annoyingly fine.” Between us, Aisha listens. “Your hair is thin?”

I shake my head. “No, not exactly. If you were going to look at one of my hairs under a microscope and look at one of your hairs under a microscope, then your hair would look much bigger.” Her eyes do not follow me. “Okay,” I try again. “Sometimes, when people are from Poland and Scotland, then their hair has a different feel to it than the hair of people who are from, say, Syria and Palestine.”

(more…)