What the Eyes Don't See_A Story of Crisis, Resistance, and Hope in an American City

by Mona Hanna-Attisha

  Grace applied for a preschool aide job at Flint’s new childcare center, one that pays well, more than $17.50 an hour, with healthcare benefits and a 401(k). It was a new position made available with state money. She was sticking with Flint. This “intervention” of a good job, a living wage job, is one of the best I can think of. And these recovery jobs, the return of the Grand Bargain, will be critical for Flint and places like Flint everywhere.

  “Nakala and Reeva are growing so fast right now,” I went on. “Their brains are growing so much. And no matter what badness they may have been exposed to, we can overcome it with all this goodness. We are trying to tip the scale. And we will.”

  The most important medication that I can prescribe is hope.

  Nakala moved around in my lap, a little restless. Her eyes were wide open, and she followed my voice and my every move. Her fingers were tightly wrapped around mine. I lifted her up and told her she was going to be fine. She was mixed up in an accident—a lot of kids were—but it wasn’t her fault. And it’s my job to make sure she and her sister—and all the kids in Flint—are okay. Actually, it’s my job to make sure they have every chance in the world to be better than okay—to be great.

  ONE NIGHT I’M WORKING LATE, AND I hear Bebe helping Elliott get the girls ready for bed.

  Nina says she isn’t sleepy and never wants to go to bed. Layla pretends not to hear. She is dressing Simba. Poor cat. There is a long silence, followed by movement in the hallway. Bebe, in her quietly persistent way, inches them toward sleep by offering to tell them a story.

  Nina doesn’t really need anybody to read to her anymore. She is a bookworm in her own right. Elliott and I still love the bedtime reading ritual, though, because there is nothing like bedtime cuddling while bonding over a story. And research on early development has shown how critical it is to little kids. Reading to kids is brain food. But this year, as well as last, Elliott still has the most chances to put the girls to bed. It’s something I miss.

  As soon as the girls settle in, I hear Bebe’s gentle voice begin. She isn’t reading a book. She’s telling the story of Haji wa al asafer. “Haji and the Birds.” It’s a family fable that has been passed down, a story my mom heard from her father, Haji, when she was little, and later used to tell Mark and me. It is about a young man named Haji, but we all know my grandfather was that young man—which makes it more vivid and intense.

  “Layla, you don’t remember your great-grandfather,” Bebe is saying in Arabic. “But Nina does, don’t you?”

  “I’ve seen pictures of him, Bebe,” Layla calls out in her husky voice. “I know him!”

  “He was a special person,” Bebe goes on. “When I think of him, he gives me strength. He was honest and kind. He was generous.”

  “Oh yeah!” Layla calls out. “I remember the story Mama told us about how he helped his workers and then they helped him!”

  “That’s right,” Bebe says. “Haji loved everybody. But especially he loved kids. He had five kids, so there was a lot of love in my house when I was a girl your age.

  “At night in the summer, instead of sleeping in our bedrooms, everyone slept on the roof, the tarma, where it was cool. That’s what people in Baghdad used to do and still do.”

  “I wouldn’t like that,” Layla says.

  “Maybe you would,” Bebe answers in Arabic, “if you tried it. And before we all fell asleep, Haji used to cuddle with us and tell us this story.”

  “Haji Jassem and the birds!” says Layla.

  “That’s it!” says Bebe. “You have heard it before. But you need to hear it many times, because someday you’ll be telling the story to your own children, and your grandchildren. They’ll all come to know Haji that way, and the things he cared about and thought were important.”

  After a short pause, she starts. “Once upon a time in Baghdad, there was a young man named Haji. He loved nature. He loved flowers. At his house, he had a garden of citrus trees and date palms, pomegranate trees and flowers.

  “Most of all, he loved birds. He loved their freedom. He loved the sounds of their singing. Black birds, white birds, yellow birds. Big birds and very little birds. Every morning he opened the window to hear their different songs. He loved the cooing of pigeons. He loved the chirping of little sparrows. Each song was different and separate, but together the birds made a beautiful symphony.

  “Every morning, he walked outside with a bowl of grains and rice and seeds. He made a feast for the birds. They would fly down, and Haji liked to watch them eat his feast, then drink from the flowers. He became friends with them all; some birds even ate from the palm of his hand. The garden was such a simple and peaceful place.

  “One day, after feeding the birds, Haji climbed a ladder to pick dates from a palm tree, and reaching for a branch slightly too high, he fell off and broke his leg. He called out for help, called and called, but nobody came.

  “A small bird flew down and tugged at the hem of his white dishdasha. The bird told Haji that he would take him to the doctor. But Haji laughed at the small bird, wondering how such a tiny bird could carry him. Soon another bird came and took the edge of his sleeve. Another bird came, and another, until hundreds of birds surrounded him. They each held a small piece of his dishdasha, and even his hair and his toes, and together the birds were able to lift him and fly him through the air.

  “They flew over the palm trees, the majestic meandering Tigris, the statues of the ancient poets and caliphs, and the impossibly blue minarets and cramped alleys of old Baghdad. It was a magic carpet of birds. And they flew him all the way to the Baghdad hospital, where a very kind doctor took care of his leg. In a few weeks, after his care, Haji was much better and went out into his garden to see the birds again.”

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  I LISTEN TO MY MOM until the end. And I wonder, as I always do, if Haji thanked the birds. And I like how each time the story is told, it changes a little bit.

  When Haji told the story, he liked to draw out details so it took a really, really long time. He described every single bird and every part of Haji’s body being lifted up.

  When Bebe tells the story, she describes the flowers and trees in the garden, and the picturesque neighborhood in Baghdad where Haji lived, and where she was raised.

  When my brother tells the story to his boys, he elaborates on Haji’s skepticism that one tiny bird can help him, until he sees how all the birds working together are able to lift him up.

  When I tell it, and get to the ending, I have a little more to say about the hospital and the kind doctor who cures Haji’s leg. I always say she’s a lady doctor. And I remind the girls how Haji treated every person and every being and his surroundings with respect. And he was treated with the same respect in return. Haji took care of people, and they took care of him. It is a simple way to live, the right way to live. It brought Haji much success in life—to give and receive so much comfort and security and happiness.

  Haji lived long enough to see me become a doctor—and to come to Mark’s wedding and mine (even to the church)—and to meet our eldest kids. This means more to us than we can say. Even though he and my grandmother Mama Latifa were in faraway Baghdad throughout our childhoods, they made their presence known, and their love felt. As we grew up, Haji wrote separate letters to us in Arabic and English, in tiny handwriting that only my mom could read. He knew what books we were reading, especially if they were classics, and what our favorite subjects and teachers were. He knew about our environmental activism in high school, and he championed our commitment to social justice, reminding us of his idealist cousin Nuri Rufail, who risked his freedom and his life to fight fascism.

  Haji never wanted to leave Baghdad, to give up his businesses and rich social life—his many friends from every walk of life, every religion, ethnicity, and sect. He never wanted to leave his magical garden or all the birds he fed every day. B
ut eventually he came to Michigan to escape the bombing and danger. And he wanted to be closer to us and his great-grandkids. When they went to bed, he told them how he fed the birds in Baghdad when he was young.

  And now, almost ten years after his death, I can still feel Haji and feel his magic lifting me up.

  For the children of Flint

  I HOPED AND DREAMED THAT THESE PAGES would somehow weave the stories of my immigrant family with the events of the Flint water crisis to make better sense of both. I had so many seemingly disconnected subjects to share—from drinking-water safety to a genocide in Iraq—but in my mind they were intertwined and connected, all pieces of the same story, the same lens, that explains how I see the world.

  This book started out as a three-hundred-page “draft” that I began soon after the crisis exploded. Thanks to the experience, expertise, and wisdom of Martha Sherrill, it began taking shape and coming together. Thank you for guiding, translating, and massaging my rough words and ideas—and for not telling me the “draft” I handed you was a bit of a disaster. I’m still flummoxed and grateful that you embraced this genre-defying puzzle and made it part of your heart too.

  Like so much in this serendipitous story, it was fate that I ran into Chris Jackson in D.C., where he asked, “Have you thought about writing a book?” Thank you, Chris, for believing that what I had to say belonged in the same inspiring songbook as the other important social justice stories you have helped conceive. Your creativity, insightful perspective, and hands-on involvement lifted every theme in this book. I’m grateful to your entire team at Penguin Random House and the One World imprint—Nicole Counts, London King, Matthew Martin, Loren Noveck, Sharon Propson, Jessica Bonet, Greg Mollica, and Random House president Gina Centrello. Thank you to Penguin Random House for their donation of children’s books to the Flint Kids Read program.

  Always energetic and encouraging, my agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh at WME, brought leadership and savviness to every step of this endeavor. Jennifer, your positive energy is contagious. Much thanks to Eric Lupfer, who beautifully packaged my book proposal early on, and a shout out to Nell Scovell for giving me an early lesson in the strange world of publishing.

  Thank you, early readers: Sinan Antoon, Elin Betanzo, Marc Edwards, Jenny LaChance, Daniel Okrent, and David Rosner. There were other experts I kept bugging— Bruce Lanphear, Rick Sadler, and Nigel Paneth—and want to acknowledge, along with photo and reference researchers Tim Thayer and Katherine Negele, and perfectionist wordsmith John Kenney.

  There aren’t enough pages to thank all the people who have been important in my life, because there are simply too many. But I would be remiss not to mention the teachers, professors, role models, mentors, and colleagues who have influenced and inspired me. Some of you are discussed in these pages, but many more are not. Together, you made me the scientist, activist, storyteller, pediatrician, and person I am. Thank you to my past and current learners—my residents and students—who have taught me so much over the years, far more than I’ve taught them.

  And behind the scenes in a teaching hospital and university there is a network of support—the administration, nurses, building staff, and so many others: your labor makes teaching, learning, and healing possible. Thank you to the leadership at Michigan State University and Hurley Medical Center—especially Aron Sousa, Melany Gavulic, and James Buterakos—who continue to have my back.

  And most important, thank you to my patients and their families, who trust me to care for them. It is an honor to tell some of your stories in these pages. I am fortunate to be the one looking in your little ears, listening to your hearts, and hearing your concerns. Being your doctor during the crisis, before, and after will never just be a job: it is the privilege of my life.

  Now, my family…When I laughed off the idea of writing a book—saying “It’s not about me” and “Don’t I have enough going on already?” and “How on earth can I find another minute in the day?”—it was you, my brother and oldest friend, Mark (who also doesn’t have an extra minute to spare), who shared this journey with me. You will always be Muaked, and never more certain, more confident.

  To my parents, Talia and M. David Hanna—who still take care of me, now even more so—thank you for understanding the importance and value of resurrecting, remembering, and retelling all your family stories. They are woven into me, they lift me up, and they keep me going. I hope this book serves to honor your idealism, your words and deeds, and your lifelong fight for justice.

  Finally, to my husband, Elliott—always patient and encouraging: I am grateful for all your creative contributions and attention to detail, especially with the photos, even if I sometimes stubbornly don’t listen and refuse to tell you so. And most important, thank you for being my partner as we scramble to raise our girls, Nina and Layla.

  To them I’d like to say that I know in the last two years I missed a lot of tuck-ins, drop-offs, pickups, soccer games, Girl Scout meetings, and so much more. Even when I was home, I always seemed to be working or writing the “Dr. Mona Book.” Thank you for graciously sharing your mama. Haji’s lessons are for you.

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  Bridge magazine staff. Poison on Tap: How Government Failed Flint, and the Heroes Who Fought Back. Traverse City, Mich.: Mission Point Press, 2016.

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  Flint Water Advisory Task Force. Final Report. March 2016. www.michigan.gov/​documents/​snyder/​FWATF_FINAL_REPORT_21March2016_517805_7.pdf.

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. New York: Crown, 2010.

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  THE FLINT CHILD HEALTH AND DEVELOPMENT Fund, FlintKids.org, was created by Dr. Mona and her partners as a “tomorrow fund” for Flint children. Housed at the Community Foundation of Greater Flint, the fund supports a myriad of interventions proven to promote children’s potential: home visiting services, nutrition education, breastfeeding support, mindfulness programming, literacy efforts, play structures, and much more. A portion of the author’s proceeds from this book will be donated to the fund. To consider donating, please visit FlintKids.org.

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  A LONG-TIME SUPPORTER of early literacy, Penguin Random House recognizes the role of reading in the successful development of all children, especially children struggling with adversities. Penguin Random House, through the ongoing operational partnership with the Imagination Library program, is supporting the home delivery of books for Flint kids 0 to 5 years of age.