Lightness of Being…

It had been two years since Sonya heard from her husband. Mujahideen were straggling back home heralding a victory against the Soviets, yet no one had word of Hamza.  

Sonya feared he was dead. 

What am I going to do with all these kids? 

Her dad was getting old and all her brothers had their own wives and children to worry about. Moreover a drought had devastated their harvests that year. Sonya had gone to bed hungry too many times to count. She kept making a really watery barley soup for her children, and on occasion they would have a bit of bread as a special treat for dinner. 

She prayed to God and kept her complaints to a minimum. There are those without shelter and others dying of much worse.

She counted her blessings and waited patiently for Allah's intervention, for doesn't He bless those who put their trust on Him alone?  

{-} 

Her older sister, Kawtara, who had been married to a brain surgeon living in the US, heard of Sonya's plight. Her husband had once worked with UNHCR in Afghanistan years back. At her prodding, he called one of his old supervisors and explained Sonya's situation to him. She was classified as a widow, as her husband was MIA, and she had the added advantage of being a woman, as well as having relatives in the US. She fit the profile for their target asylum seekers and it did not take long before her application was being reviewed.  

Sonya and her family went through Cultural orientation programs through the nice folks over at a Christian Non profit mission group. They taught them about life in the US, the proper use of Western style bathrooms, dress, some rudimentary English phrases as well as proper etiquettes.  

When it was time to take down their information the lady who was mentoring them had a hard time pronouncing their names. 

"Your first name?" 

"Sonya" 

"SOOO NN YA?" 

"yes" close enough 

"Last name?" 

In her Kala the use of a last name was never needed. After a bit of hesitation Sonya gave her father's name:

"Jallalludeen" 

"hmm..how about just Deen? Is that okay?" 

"umm OK"

Sonya could never contradict that benevolent, heavily bosomed, sun burnt Nun. She obviously had her own good reasons for the name change.  

Sonya Deen was thus born. She was followed closely by the rest of her kids: Maryam became Maria, Soraya morphed into Sophia, Dawud became David, Abdul Haqq was Adam, and only her last born Omar was spared the name change. The nun had actually heard of an Omar, a sweet African American boy, whom she served dinner to in a soup kitchen back home.  

Many years later Sonya’s husband was furious: 

"How dare you change their names to these Kaffir sounding ones?" 

She shrugged in a helpless gesture  

"They told me I had to. In America everyone changes their names" 

The poor nun did not of course mean to impart that message. It was simply a suggestion that Sonya must have misinterpreted. It happens all the time, something about linguistic barriers. Nonetheless it was the right thing to do, why make these poor refugees’ life even harder with those foreign unpronounceable names?  

{-}

“That there
That's not me
I go
Where I please
I walk through walls
I float down the Liffey
I'm not here
This isn't happening
I'm not here
I'm not here

In a little while
I'll be gone
The moment's already passed
Yeah it's gone
And I'm not here
This isn't happening
I'm not here
I'm not here” 

Angie was under her bed, blanketed by a comforting darkness, with Radiohead blaring through her headphones. She could still hear the muted thuds and screams. Her eyes shut tight, she tried to focus on the words “I am not here, I am not here.” 

The shudder of a huge door slam and a deep silence later, were the cues for Angie to crawl out of her hiding spot.

“I am too old for this.” She felt ancient.

She walked soundlessly to her mother’s bedroom where the huddled figure of her mother was weeping in the corner. She cuddled up next to her, and placed her mother’s head on her bosom. Covering her face with kisses she silenced her muffled apologies.

“It’s okay mom, it’s okay. It’s not your fault he is an asshole” 

Her father’s drinking problem and violent fits had eroded their family life into cycles of violence, intermittent ceasefires full of tension, remorse, a pretense of normalcy, to more violence.

Angie’s mom, Kate,  once a confident flaming red head, tall, voluptuous, and sassy had acquired an awkward hunch in her shoulders (from years of cowering); gained a lot of weight (from her own cycles of food binging) and her hair had simmered down into wisps of brownish grey. She loathed herself and her once forceful personality was replaced by a nervous jumpy temperament. She also acquired a weird habit of stopping mid sentence and losing her train of thought.

“I am just getting too old” It wasn’t Kate that actually spoke; it was the grotesque dinosaur that had taken up residence within her.

{-}

Sophia and Maria experienced their first love at the same time but to completely divergent personalities. Every Sunday the whole family was dragged to the Mosque for mechanical memorization of Quranic verses, a smattering of disjointed ahadith (sayings of the Prophet Muhammad peace be upon him), and Islamic history and lessons that were completely removed from their own daily lives and struggles.

That one fateful Sunday was no different from the rest. Their father bellowed for them to hurry up.

“For your Kaffir Education you wake up very early. This is your Real future. WAKE UP NOW!”

The kids dragged themselves around, going in and out of their bedrooms for one pretext or another.

They barely made it to the mandatory assembly where news, updates, and activities were announced, plus the occasional showcase of Islamic poem, singing (only boys of course), and the final prayer to start out the lessons.

The announcement awaiting them that morning was in the form of a six foot, bronze structure, wearing an angelic white thowb (Arabic dress for men), and sporting a well kept beard, with eyes that held memories of heavenly stars. The mosque’s search for a new Imam was over, the principal declared with enthusiasm.

“Brother Tariq is a revert (convert to Islam) who became Muslim at the tender age of 17. While his friends were immersed in all sorts of Haram activities, this quiet thoughtful boy was fascinated by world religions. When he read the Quran, he realized his search was over. He has spent the last 10 years of his life in the Middle East and studied with all the prominent Shuyukh (plural of Sheikh) out there. He is now ready to serve his community. Mashaallah, can you give me a Takbir to welcome this brother” 

“Allahu Akbar” everyone chanted God’s Greatness with unusual fervor. Indeed, this only proves how our religion is the only Truth there is.  

Brother Tariq murmured his appreciation and was soon engulfed by fathers hugging him, telephone numbers squeezing their way into his palms, and little children shyly walking up to him to just shake his hand.

Maria’s heart took on a different rhythm of its own. She felt like the heavens burst open and this man was brought down especially to fulfill her adolescent angst with a newfound purpose and zeal. She had never wanted to relate to Islam more. That day she was reborn; overwhelmed by a sweetness of faith that she never knew she possessed.

{-}

Sophia yawned and looked around in disdain. She hated this stupid mosque and stupid aunties and uncles, and the annoying out of control kids. She hated her stupid teacher who could never answer anything related to real life without adding a “haram” prefix to it. They should just summarize the lessons by saying “Everything is Haram. You should just commit suicide and end this Haram love affair with this evil world. Thank you and bye” But of course even stupid suicide is haram (forbidden).

She waited around for her dad to go to the Mosque area. Taking advantage of the bustle of kids rushing off to class; she quietly sneaked out through the back door.

She made her way past the Imam’s house, into a makeshift trail past the bushes, to an open track field beside the neighboring high school. She threw herself over a fence with practiced ease and walked over to the bleachers finding her spot right under the comforting shade of an old oak tree.

“I see we are skipping out on Sunday school huh?”  

His languid voice caressed her neck. She sat upright, her heart hammering uncontrollably. She tried to act nonchalant when she turned around to face him, but her words were immediately caught in her throat.

“Oh don’t worry, I won’t tell on you. My name is Yusuf. You can call me Sufi, it drives them crazy” He waved vaguely in the direction of the mosque.

“ummm. Hi. I am Sophia.”  

Sufi was only a year older than Sophia, but in her eyes he was the epitome of sophistication. He was tall, lanky, dressed in impossibly baggy jeans, a huge funky T shirt, with a thin gold necklace with Allah engraved on it in Arabic Calligraphy. He had a shocking head of jet black curly hair, a goatee, and a lingering smile in his eyes vaguely hinting thrilling secrets no one else could share.

Next to him, Sophia’s insecurities came rushing back to her. She felt too thin, her eyes too big, her face too small, her arms disproportionately long, and she wasn’t even wearing her favorite jeans! In her old fashioned Salwar Kamees (which her stupid dad forced her to wear) she swore she must have resembled an obese walrus.

Worst of all, she could not think of one funny or witty comment to make.

“He must think I am retarded” 

They spent the three hours before recess, talking about their lives and sizing up each other.

He was the lead singer and guitarist of a promising rock band. His passion for music unhinged Sophia’s tension and the few hours they had seemed to just melt away. She found out he was half Irani (on his dad’s side) and Half Caucasian “Just enough brown in him to make him relevant and HOT” she thought with a secret glow.  

“Adios my Cinderella, do call when you have a chance” He handed her his business card.

Sophia floated all the way back to the Mosque, a cocooned spiky caterpillar gradually unfurled itself into a gorgeous fluttering butterfly within her heart. She held on to the warmth with a trembling ardor, nothing could bring her down now, not even her dad.

{-}