by S. K. Ali
“Fine.” Ayla keeps her promise to Mama and drags herself over to the sink. “Ismail, you have to help.”
I sigh. Keeping my own promise to be nice while I’m in charge has been harder than I imagined. I try to remember that peaceful look on my mom’s face as I realize we still have a week to go.
“What is that?” Ayla covers her mouth in horror as she walks into the kitchen, where I’m grinding onions, and spies the mound of bones and meat on the counter.
“This is goat, the meat Nana Abu got from the butcher for our Qurbani,” Nani says. Her sleeves are rolled up, and she’s wearing a stained apron.
“Qurbani?” Ayla asks.
“The animal we sacrifice for Eid. Remember we talked about it?” Nani explains. “Eid is in two days.”
Ayla turns and looks at me, utter disgust on her face, and whispers, “I’m so going to be a vegetarian.”
I’m almost tempted to join her as the onions make my eyes water and we watch Nani slice fat off chunks of meat.
“Can I stop now?” Ismail is peeling the skins off garlic cloves, standing on a step stool so he can reach the counter.
“How many do you have?” Nani asks.
“Seven.”
“I need twenty.”
“Are you really cooking all of this?” I ask as I stick another onion in the food processor. “It’s so much.” I’ve seen my grandmother put out a feast for a party before. But this is a monumental amount of meat.
“We’re taking it to the mosque on Eid for everybody to eat.”
“What else are we doing on Eid?” Ayla asks as she laces up her sneakers by the garage door. Her friend’s mom is coming to pick her up for soccer practice.
“We’ll go to the masjid for prayer. Distribute the food to everyone who comes for lunch. Then we’ll come home.”
“Wait. That’s it?” Ayla’s mouth falls open. “Aren’t we going to parties?”
“Parties? Maybe we’ll visit our friends. But don’t worry, there will be so many Hajj parties when your parents come home, Insha’Allah.”
Ayla looks at me in alarm. Eid is usually a whirlwind, starting with prayers at the mosque, snacks, and bounce houses at the carnival, then lunch with our grandparents, and then at least two or three parties. We eat dessert all day long, see most of our friends, and get tons of presents and money. What’s this Eid going to be like without our parents or any parties?
“Don’t worry, Eid will be wonderful,” Nana Abu says as he walks into the room.
“Is the rest of my garlic ready?” Nani asks.
I give Ayla a sympathetic nod as she opens the door. I know she is wishing our parents were going to be home for Eid as much as I am. Because I’m pretty sure our grandparents’ idea of wonderful is really different from ours.
“Eid Mubarak! How are you, sweetie?” One of Mama’s friends moves toward me through the dense crowd on the lawn of the Islamic center. She’s draped in a bright turquoise shawl, and her daughter, clutching her hand, is decked out in a glittery gold getup and matching cat ears. It’s like a sea of colors as everyone moves around the lawn and greets each other with smiles, and the bronze dome of the mosque glints in the sunlight. Auntie gives me a big hug.
“Eid Mubarak, Auntie.” I return to the station by the side of the community building, where I’m helping to ladle bowls of Nani’s korma—the savory stew she cooked for more than five hours—and pass them out. We got here extra early, well before the first prayer, so we could set up the food in an outdoor kitchen area.
“How are your parents?” Auntie asks. “Did you talk to them today?”
“Not yet. But they texted and said they finished Hajj.”
“Mubarak! You must be so proud.”
“I am,” I say, and I mean it. Last night before bed we all talked about the few things my parents still have to do before they leave, which include Baba shaving his head today. It’s going to be so funny to see him when he gets home in two days.
“Do you want some?” I hold out a bowl of korma to Auntie.
“Is it spicy?” She hesitates to take it.
“Not too much. It’s really good.” I tasted it, and it’s honestly the best I’ve ever had. Nani made sure to grind up the onions in the entire batch so Ismail wouldn’t find a single one, and she cooked a small separate pot without bones for Ayla. We all agreed it was delicious, even the future vegetarian.
“Thank you.” Auntie takes the bowl and a piece of naan.
As she dips the bread into the sauce and takes a bite, I watch her face transform.
“Oh my. This is incredible.”
“I know.” I’ve handed out at least thirty bowls so far, and it’s been the same reaction each time. One man came back for three servings, and then he asked Nani for her recipe. She said she makes it with love but didn’t reveal anything else. No one is getting her secret ingredients.
“Go play now, Humza.” Nani comes up behind me and puts a hand on my back. “You’ve helped for a long time.” I’ve been here for almost two hours, while Ayla and Ismail ran off to the bounce houses with their friends after about fifteen minutes.
“I’m okay,” I say, surprised to hear myself say it. But it’s been fun to hang out with my grandmother and her crew. They’ve been chatting, teasing each other, and making wisecracks all day, which reminds me of how I am with my best friends from Sunday school, Sami and Qasim. They stopped by earlier but already left for a party.
“Okay.” Nani squeezes my shoulder, and I can tell she’s pleased as she winks at me. “You’re always a good helper, Masha’Allah.”
“Eid Mubarak,” an older auntie whose name I forgot says to us as she approaches. She slips me a five-dollar bill. “Eidhi for you.”
I thank her and add it to the growing wad of cash in my pocket from all the Eidhi I’ve been collecting today. The auntie asks me about Mama and Baba, telling me how happy she is for them and how she’s been praying for them. That’s how it’s been all day. Some people tell me their own Hajj stories. Others mention that my parents added their requests to a prayer notebook that they took with them, filled with the wishes of the community and our family. I’ve already heard of three Hajj parties planned for after they get home. It’s awesome to see how much their trip means to our entire community.
“Here you go, Auntie.” I hand her the last bowl of stew and then realize with a pang of regret that I didn’t save any for myself. At least I got to try it at home last night.
Since we’re done, Nani insists that I go rest, so I sit down on a bench and look around at the crowd, watching the mix of people, old and young, rich and not, speaking different languages and wearing their nicest clothes. There’s a blend of colorful African prints, sparkling saris, leather kufis, and embroidered shalwar kameezes like mine. Everyone has happiness on their faces and is here for the same reason—to gather and feast and worship. It occurs to me that this is probably similar to what Mama described Hajj to be like, on a smaller scale. I hope I can make the pilgrimage one day too.
Nana Abu comes walking up with a bowl of korma and two pieces of naan.
“There you are. You worked hard. I saved this special bowl for us.”
“Yes! You’re the best!” I grin at him and say bismillah before tearing off a piece of the naan and scooping out a chunk of the meat. It’s salty, spicy, and melts in my mouth.
Nana Abu’s lips part into a smile through his short gray beard as he watches me. In the past couple of days, he went to the butcher shop twice, got all the groceries for Nani, and figured out how to pack up all the food in crates into his trunk. Nani was on her feet all day yesterday cooking the korma and had to lie down with a heating pad at night. Both of them spent hours of the holiday feeding a crowd of friends and strangers. But here’s my grandfather, looking even happier than if he were sitting in someone’s living room at a party.
“It’s been a wonderful Eid so far, hasn’t it?” Nana Abu has a little bit of stew and then wipes his mouth with a napkin as I dip
into the korma for another bite, feeling full throughout my insides, including my heart. This morning he called this Eid the “feast of sacrifice,” and I think I have a better idea of what that means now.
“Yeah, Nana Abu,” I say. My grandfather holds up his phone and shows me a new photo of my parents in front of the Kaaba in Mecca. We laugh as he points out my dad’s new haircut, and I feel a swell of joy. “It’s actually been great.”
Toes digging into the warm sand, Bassem stared out across the endless expanse of cobalt sea to the line where it met the sky, a gentle aquamarine. As he marveled at the incredible shifting shades of his favorite color, blue, a memory drifted back to him of a hot summer day like this one three years ago, when he’d been nine years old. He and Babba, his father, had been picking golden apricots in his grandparents’ garden.
“Did you know,” Babba had said, as he began a lot of his conversations when he wanted to impart some tidbit of knowledge, “that many ancient cultures didn’t have a word for the color blue?”
The fact had confounded Bassem. “How can that be?”
Babba, an ophthalmologist who was fascinated by all things related to sight, smiled. “You see, blue doesn’t appear much in nature. There are few blue animals or foods, and blue eyes are pretty rare. If you read ancient texts in Sanskrit, Chinese, Hebrew, or Arabic, there is no word for blue. It’s as if people back then couldn’t recognize the color.”
“What about the sky?” Bassem had asked. “And the oceans?”
“An ancient poem about a sailor lost at sea, written nearly three thousand years ago, described the ocean as a ‘wine-red sea,’” said Babba. “No mention of the word blue in the entire book. And besides, are you sure what you are seeing is blue? Many would say the sky and the ocean are colorless, white, or gray.”
Bassem had craned his neck back, noticing that the sky, close to dusk, was white and pale yellow streaked with pink and orange.
“Habibi,” Babba had said, “always look beyond what your eyes initially recognize and find out what is real, what is possible, and what is the truth.”
Now, as Bassem stood on the shore of the small Greek island, all he could see were the white-capped waves that had nearly taken his life. More than a month ago, in the dark of night, he and twenty-eight others had set sail from the Turkish coast. The water had been a thick, oily black, waiting to engulf them as they sat crammed inside a vessel designed for fifteen. Every minute of the crossing had filled Bassem with gut-wrenching fear, though he hadn’t let it show. Confidently, he’d held on to Ummi, his mother, and his little sister, Dina, eyes probing the sea, looking for land. Forty minutes later, waterlogged and freezing, they’d crawled onto an island. They’d huddled in shock, with nothing to their names except a few small bags. The suitcases had been tossed into the sea to lighten the load.
A deep rumbling in his stomach soon interrupted Bassem’s bleak thoughts. Hunger was a familiar sensation, developed over years of living in a war zone. But for the past month, the hunger had been in observance of Ramadan. He sighed. Babba had loved the holy month of Ramadan, when you abstained, from dawn to dusk, not only from food and drink but also from negative thoughts and actions. It was a time of reflection, personal improvement, and increased devotion to God. It was also a month of charity, and Babba had always made sure they’d shared their blessings with others less fortunate than they were.
Babba. Bassem’s gut twisted as he remembered his father coming home from his eye clinic, pockets full of candy for him and Dina. Bassem would never see him again, and he felt empty, parched of emotion. Even the anger that had burned in him like a hot ember had eventually crumbled to ash, gray and devoid of possibilities.
“B-Bassem,” stuttered a voice from behind him, interrupting his dark thoughts. It was Dina, heading up to the beach, half a dozen of her friends in tow. “You p-p-promised to p-play!”
Bassem sighed. His peace and quiet were gone. They’d found his hideaway, a good distance away from the tourists tanning along the beach, enjoying their vacation. He pulled a plastic bag out of the scuffed-up duffel bag that he carried around. Inside were a dozen glittering marbles, procured in a trade that morning.
“You g-got them!” said Dina. Her stutter had developed as the bombings had grown in number and ferocity. When she got anxious or excited, it got worse.
Bassem nodded. “Let’s go,” he said, watching the kids’ faces light up. He led them across the beach toward the main road that separated the sea from the quaint, whitewashed buildings of the small town. Down the road, he spotted his cousin Rheem waving at him. She stood talking to a girl with short, sun-kissed hair.
He’d seen the girl a few times, either on the beach or dining with her family in the expensive restaurants lining the main street. Waving back, he moved on toward a picturesque port where fishermen unloaded the day’s catch. Bassem gave them a friendly nod. He’d be back later to help mend their nets or clean their boats. He skirted past a tavern where the owner did not appreciate their sort. Bassem had learned that the hard way when he’d knocked on the door, looking for work.
“We don’t want filthy, dirty refugees here,” the red-faced owner had screamed. “You’re ruining our island.”
Bassem had apologized and beat a hasty retreat. He’d heard from the other refugees that people in Greece were already struggling to make money in a bad economy and didn’t want others competing for the few jobs they had.
Solemn and peaceful, the Church of Mary rose at the corner beside a restaurant where octopus hung from pikes, drying before being grilled. The Apollo Hotel came next, a bright pink concoction resembling a fluffy birthday cake. A boy stood at the gates, sweeping the steps.
His eyes lit up when he saw Bassem. “Can you come by later?” he called out. “My mother needs help in the kitchen.” His English was good, having grown up as the son of hoteliers catering to tourists. He also spoke German, some French, Italian, and Spanish. No Arabic though, so Bassem had to use his rusty English.
“Hey, Constantine,” he replied. “Sure, I come in a few hours.”
“Bring b-back some of his mom’s cake,” whispered Dina, an impish smile on her face.
Constantine’s mother had been the first friendly face they’d encountered on the beach the terrible night they’d arrived. She and other islanders, along with a few tourists, had led them to the Apollo Hotel, where they’d received warm clothes and a hot meal, including a rich honey cake. They’d stayed until the volunteers from Helping Hands charity, Hussain and Emily, had arrived. Hussain, a college student from London, had been spending his summer working with refugees in Greece. He’d piled them into a rickety old van and driven them to the old tomato processing factory that would be their new home, established to accommodate the stream of refugees that had begun showing up that spring.
Bassem clenched his fists. Home. His heart tightened as he remembered his family’s comfortable apartment in Syria, golden sunlight flowing through its many windows. He’d stood at the living room window and watched thousands of protestors march by, demanding freedom, equality, and a fair government. In response, President Assad had sent in rockets, bombs, and the military, turning Bassem’s city into a battlefield. Then a graveyard.
Hussain soon became like a big brother to Bassem, helping him and his family navigate the legal spiderweb that would take them to Germany, where his uncles had found asylum. When Hussain had to return to university, the loss hit Bassem hard. Emily, the volunteer from Sydney, was great, but she wasn’t as warm and gregarious as the Britisher. Bassem still kept in touch with Hussain using Ummi’s cell phone, which he kept operational with his meager earnings. The cell phone was their lifeline to their uncles in Germany and family still in Syria and scattered across Turkey and Jordan.
The factory that was now their home stood beside a football pitch, encircled by a chain-link fence made colorful by the clothes drying along its length. Bassem and the other children slipped through the gate and walked past the supply shed, a
logo for Helping Hands painted on its side. Inside the cavernous space, he found Ummi lying on a cot, her eyes closed. He was glad to see her resting, since sleep had deserted her upon leaving Syria. She was awake most nights, pacing or reading the Quran. In her hand she clutched one of the only things that had survived their flight—a wooden cookie mold that had once belonged to her great-grandmother. The family had made nut-filled ma’amoul cookies with it for more than three generations.
He and Dina headed toward their aunt, who stood near the makeshift kitchen that the refugees shared. “Habibi, did you find any work today?” she asked.
“I’m going to Constantine’s to help in the kitchen,” he said.
“You’re such a good boy,” she said, giving him a hug. “And can you believe it—it’s the last fast today.”
The words struck him like shrapnel, the sharp pieces of metal that rained down when bombs fell across Syria. “It’s Eid-ul-Fitr tomorrow—Babba’s favorite holiday,” he murmured.
His aunt nodded sadly as Dina grabbed a snack of stale crackers for the other kids. “It’s E-Eid?” she asked.
Bassem nodded, handing her the marbles. “Go play with them. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Dina was too young to remember the details of an Eid before the war started, but memories fluttered through Bassem’s mind like fragments of iridescent tinsel—his grandparents’ home filled with family and friends, stacks of presents and packets of money for the children. And the food . . . His mouth watered as he remembered the succulent kabobs, rich stews, mounds of jeweled rice, crispy roasted potatoes, and his mother’s specialties, the sweets: honeyed baklava, towering cakes, luscious puddings, and cookies of more than a dozen varieties. The images faded from his mind. His grandparents’ home was gone, reduced to rubble, his grandparents trapped inside.
A month after their last Eid together, Babba had sat them down on the sofa. “I am an ophthalmologist,” he’d said, “an eye doctor who helps people see. But for years we have lived blindly under a government that is corrupt and evil. We have to open our eyes and look for a better future, even if we have to fight for it.”