(I wrote this some time ago but it feels appropriate to re-share it):
It was a bright morning, light streaming down through the blinds as I lay in what had become a ridiculously large bed and pondered the grimness of life. Hisham’s things were packed and gone; I’d even begun to gather boxes for my own.
“I’ll be twenty six in a month,” I thought, “and I’m a complete failure. Everything that I touch turns bad. All I wanted was to be happy, have a prince, a perfect home, beautiful children. And now I’ve lost that chance. I’m ruined and, for once, not even my own fault. Fuck that Polish bitch and her big tits!
“Well, Hisham did!” I made myself laugh. “I hope he’s happy with her air filled blonde head and air filled body. He says he wants to be a good Muslim and have Arab children. Yeah, right! Good luck with that!
“Maybe, I should show him, go and jump off the Sears Tower or something. Then, he’d be sort … no; he’s not worth it. Maybe, it’d be better if I did want to kill myself, to make it worthwhile and take him and some other munafiqeen and so on down with me … no, that’s stupid; I’ve got better things to do, if I could just remember what they were …”
It’s still early as I’m lying in bed, cursing my enemies, wishing for something and I’m not sure what. The day is wide open; I told Katy I’d drop by and say hey, maybe grab lunch. I feel pathetic sometimes clinging to her but, she’s my only real friend here now … and I won’t be in Chicago forever. She said something about going to a gallery later. It’s funny, I think, that in this city full of Arabs, the only person I can even start to unburden myself to is red-haired and Catholic … and, even then, there’re still things I won’t tell her … but, still, she seems to get me more than any of these Arabs.
The phone rings and I’m still lying in bed as I reach for it ….
“Amina?” I hear over the phone, “it’s your dad.”
He’s speaking English; there’re no salaams or shlonik y’ayni’s today … and the phone line sounds foggy … he’s calling from his cel phone while driving somewhere. He never calls me from this phone.
“Yes?” I answer, concerned. “What’s going on?”
I steel myself silently with resolve; my father is, perhaps, about to lecture me on being a fallen woman or, maybe, he’s about to tell me how I’m a disappointment and a disgrace. My throat tightens involuntarily while my shoulders square defensively …
“Do you have your television on?” he asks instead, an almost off-the wall question.
“No,” I almost laugh in relief. “I’m just getting up. Why what’s going on?”
“Just turn on your television,” he says, “I love you, Amina …”
And he hangs up. My father rarely calls for no reason or to pass the time. He certainly isn’t free at telling us of love … what it could be confuses me; I assume that it must be news from home – he might not say that over the phone – but Hafidh is already dead. Maybe there's been a coup? Could it be? I get excited for a moment as I get up.
I climb out of bed, stretching and yawning through the half empty apartment, filled with broken dreams. I turn on the television and, as it warms up, stumble into the kitchen to make myself some coffee … there’s about half a pot left over from yesterday so I pour it into an unwashed mug and stick it into the microwave. I feel guilty at how lazy I’ve become since Hisham left, how messy everything is. I should be boiling fresh ground coffee and have clean dishes; I always had everything perfect, didn’t I? Oh, how I’ve fallen!
The microwave pings and I take the mug out. As I step back into the living room, I see the television screen for the first time … they’re showing what looks like a tiny black dot smacking into the side of a building. It takes me half a second to realize what it is that I’m watching; it’s the World Trade Center in New York. The newsman sounds a little frantic, saying this is a second plane … there’s a fire in Washington, at the State Department, no, at the Pentagon, it’s another plane. Hijackings. More planes all over. Everything is confused.
The coffee mug drops from my hand, hits the floor, breaks into several pieces, hot coffee splashing everywhere ….
“Shit,” I say aloud, at the dropped coffee, but even more, because I know what I am watching. “Shit.”
‘My people’, I’m already dreadfully certain, either did this, whatever this turns out to be, or, even if we didn’t, we’ll be blamed for it anyway. It’s going to get bad, fast. That’s why my father called; he’s no one’s fool.
The images on the screen are strangely fascinating; it’s hard to look away from them. The announcers are practically babbling and I can barely follow them. It doesn’t matter, really. It’s grim. There are tens, no hundreds, no tens of thousands dead.
“La illaha illala; la illaha illala,” I repeat to myself over and over again. “Please God, please let it be someone else!”
I pray informally that they’ll announce soon that a call has come in saying that it’s the Militia of Michigan, the IRA, the ADL, somebody, anybody who’s not an Arab or a Muslim. Please let them not claim to be doing it On Behalf of the People of Palestine or Iraq or in revenge for American crimes … please, God, please let this be someone angry about abortion or taxes or the British government. I keep hoping … I begin to recite to myself Surat al Ikhlas:
“Bismillah Ar-Rahman Ar-Raheem Qul Huw-Allahu Ahad Allah-us-Samad Lam yalid wl lam yulad Wa lam yakul lahu kufuwan ahad,” I say, “In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, say that He is God, the One, God the eternally sought of all; He neither begets nor is begotten. And there is none comparable unto Him.”
I recite long passages, seeing that many are dead, pray for them: “Allahumma ighfir lihayyina, wa mayyitina, wa shahidina, wa gha-ibina, wa sagherina, wa kaberina, wa dhakarina wa unthana. Allahumma man ahyaytahu mina fa ahyihi alal Islam wa man tawaffaytahu mina fatawaffahu alal ieman.”
“Oh God, forgive those of us that are alive and those of us that are dead; those of us that are present, and those of us who are absent: those of that are young, and those of us that are adults; our males and females. Oh God, whomsoever of us You keep alive, let him live as a follower of Islam, and whomsoever You cause to die, let him die as a Believer.”
Maybe, I must be thinking, if I wish or it hard enough, God will hear; the more I recite, the more I pray, the more likely God will listen to me.
But, I know, it’s really no use yet I keep saying to myself No God but God, Muhammad’s the Messenger of God, I put my Trust in God Alone, No God but God …
I finally break my eyes away from the television and go searching for my cigarettes. I thank God silently that I have started smoking … I really badly feel that I want one. I light it and get another cup of coffee. Today, I’ll smoke inside. This is all too much … not now, why now? Why not a few months ago when everything was still good between Hisham and me? Why not a few months from now when the condo’s sold and I’m back in Georgia? I don’t want to be alone, not now …
I am frightened. Images float up in my mind from books I’ve read and films I’ve seen. There’ll be riots, I’m sure, Kristallnacht again, only this time we’ll be the Jews. Paranoia flares up; do I know anyone in this city who’ll hide me in the attic or a secret annex? Katy, I hope, would … but I can’t think of anyone else.
There’ll be wars and rumors of wars in coming days; I can smell that in the wind already. Maybe, this is just the first shot; maybe more buildings in more cities will be hit.
On the news, they are talking about fires in DC, the Pentagon; a plane has been shot down over Pennsylvania. Not the Sears Tower yet; I don’t even want to glance outside and check the skyline.
The phone rings; Rania, am I OK? Is she? Do we know anyone who’s in New York today? She and Samir were there just a few months ago … we both are afraid; Samir’s afraid. Are we going to be rounded up? Deported? God, I hope not …
And the calls keep coming – mom, Aisha, Amr, everyone is babbling … Hisham’s mother calls from Syria; the connection is terrible. We’re OK, I tell her, Hisham’s not here now, and little more; now isn’t the time to tell her what a shmuck her son is, how he hasn’t even bothered to tell his parent’s he’s left …
After that, Katy calls. She asks how I’m doing?
“As well as I can,” I half laugh. “I’m terrified, y’know? Thinking what might happen next …”
“Yeah,” she says, “I can imagine. You think anything will happen?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Does anyone? I just wish I weren’t all alone …”
“Yeah, me too,” she says. “We’re closing the store early; no one is here and we don’t want to be either. Want me to come over?”
“I’d really appreciate that,” I say, “I mean, if it’s not too much a bother …”
“Amina,” she says firmly, “it’s really no big deal … and I’d rather not be sitting at home worrying either! Better we worry together, y’know?”
That makes me laugh.
“Yeah,” I grunt, “how long do you think you’ll be?”
“At least an hour,” she says. “Want me to pick up something to eat?”
“Probably a good idea,” I say, “but I can’t even imagine food …”
“Me either,” she laughs. “Need cigarettes?”
“Umm,” I glance at my almost empty pack with embarrassment; I’ve been almost continuously smoking, “that’s probably a good idea. I’ve been going through them …”
“Yeah, me too,” she says, “Ok, I’ll see you in an hour or two?”
“All right,” I say.
We hang up. For a moment, I think of calling her back and telling her not to come over; I’m a mess, the house is a mess, no one should see me like this … and, then, I realize that, for the first time today, I’m not obsessing about the news …
So, even though I’m still tense, I do stop for a little bit and take a shower and finally get dressed (casually; button down blouse and slacks). When I come back in, I find myself intent on the television, hoping that there is news – news, that is, that this is not Arabs, that this is someone else.
Instead, the news is showing a clip of Arab children celebrating. What the fuck is wrong with these morons? I wonder. Don’t they know that people are dying?
And as I think of that, I remember all the times I’ve seen people celebrate when Arabs die, think of outlines of bodies painted in front of our house … stories I heard of cheering when JFK and MLK died … people are people …
I turn away from the television and start cleaning up a little; dumping ashtrays, putting dirty dishes up, straightening cushions … enough that I am no longer embarrassed.
I have no idea if I ate anything that day; I certainly don’t remember. I know I drank cup after cup of coffee, smoked cigarette after cigarette. Stress, fear, worry, depression, wash over me …
The phone rings, my mother again. Everyone is worried. Everyone is home. She asks what I’m doing. I say a friend is coming by for dinner, Katy. She says she’s glad that I have at least a friend. We hang up when the intercom rings.
2 comments:
Kept me glued till the end.
Thank you for being a part of the blogosphere---I'm shimmying with delight at the mere thought of more posts from you.
dang! you in a frazzled state sounds like me on a normal day...
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