Once Upon an Eid

by S. K. Ali

  That night, Bassem’s father, uncles, older cousins, and men from the neighborhood had joined the rebels fighting President Assad. And within a year, his family had received a text from Babba’s younger brother, one they’d feared: Babba had been killed during a bombing raid. All around them, the country fell into terrible chaos. Bassem’s uncle urged Ummi and his aunt to leave the country and made plans to meet in Germany. So as fast as they could, they’d collected more than six thousand dollars to pay smugglers to get them out of the country.

  “Salaam Alaikum, sister,” came a soft voice. It was Uncle Yakuba, an elderly Nigerian man who’d been at the factory when they’d arrived. The unelected head of the place, he provided sage advice, soothed frayed tempers, and led Friday prayers.

  “Walaikum Assalam, Uncle,” replied Bassem and his aunt.

  “We will have Eid-ul-Fitr prayers tomorrow morning on the football field,” said Uncle Yakuba. “I’ve spoken to others and they think it’s a good idea.”

  Bassem blinked. Prayers. Prayers had gotten them nothing since the day the killings and destruction had begun.

  “I agree,” said Bassem’s aunt. “We need a little bit of joy around this place.”

  “Masha’Allah, your nephew is a bright, hardworking young man.” Uncle Yakuba smiled at Bassem, his teeth white against his cocoa-colored skin. “I will need your help.”

  “What time?” Bassem asked woodenly.

  “Around eight, when the weather will be cooler. Then we can have a little something to eat.”

  “All right,” said Bassem. “I will get the kids to help lay out sheets for prayer. But what should we do about food?”

  Uncle Yakuba’s smile faded a little.

  “I’ll check the shed,” said Bassem’s aunt. “There is rice, some lentils, and a lot of flour. Alhamdulillah, food to fill our bellies.”

  “We will make do,” said Uncle Yakubu.

  “I’ll go tell the older kids to help,” said Bassem, quickly walking away.

  But instead of looking for Javaid and Amir, the two Afghan brothers his age, Bassem grabbed Ummi’s cell phone and hurried toward the football field, avoiding Dina and her friends. He stumbled and collapsed beneath a flowering bush, huddled amid the vibrant pink flowers. Helplessness and doubt gripped his heart, and without warning hot tears ran down his face. This would be their first Eid without Babba, his grandparents, the rest of his family. There were no presents for the kids, no special foods to celebrate the end of a month of fasting and praying . . . prayers that continued to be unanswered. It was as if God had forgotten about them altogether. He shivered, trying to do as Babba had asked, to look beyond the terrible circumstances that had brought them here, but he just couldn’t.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there when he noticed a pair of scuffed sneakers standing a polite distance away.

  “Bassem,” whispered a concerned voice. “Are you all right?” It was his cousin Rheem. Embarrassed, Bassem wiped his cheeks. “It’s okay,” Rheem said. “You can’t always be the strong one. It’s okay to let it out.”

  Bassem grimaced as he rose, mumbling, “It’s Eid tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She sighed.

  “Uncle Yakuba wants to have prayers on the football field in the morning,” said Bassem.

  “Well, that’s important,” said Rheem. “Though it will be a little boring—there’s nothing special to do, especially for the little kids. No new clothes, gifts, games—nothing.”

  Bassem nodded, having thought the same thing.

  “I wonder . . . does it have to be boring?” pondered Rheem. “Maybe we can get some balloons . . . and a cake or something.”

  Bassem blinked. “Cake?” he muttered.

  “I know, I know . . . a cake big enough for everyone will be way expensive,” sighed Rheem. “But somehow, we need to find a way to make this a good Eid.”

  Cake? thought Bassem as the wheels in his head started to spin. In his mind, he saw his mother holding the cookie mold. If they couldn’t have a big fancy cake, they could have ka’ak cookies, simple circles of sugar, flour, and butter that his mother flavored with whatever was at hand. “Ka’ak,” he burst out.

  “Huh?” said Rheem.

  “I’m going to get stuff for Ummi to make ka’ak,” said Bassem.

  “Ka’ak, cake, good one,” laughed Rheem, eyes lighting up. “From where?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Bassem.

  “Okay, then I’ll figure out a way to prepare games for the kids,” said Rheem. “Silke can help.”

  “Who’s Silke?” asked Bassem.

  “She’s the girl you saw this morning. Her family came for the holidays, but they extended their trip. They’ve been working with Helping Hands, seeing if their friends in Germany can help.”

  Bassem’s heart lifted, and he spotted a glimmer of aquamarine beyond the gray cloud that had descended over him. Most tourists looked at refugees like them uncomfortably or pretended they weren’t there, ruining their vacations. But others, like Silke’s family, weren’t like that; they saw them as human beings. As Bassem left the football field to grab his duffel bag, he made a mental note to send Hussain an Eid Mubarak message when he got to the hotel.

  Constantine and his mother were busy in the hotel kitchen when Bassem arrived, sweaty and out of breath.

  “Hello, Bassem,” called out Constantine’s mother as she stirred a pot of apricot jam.

  “Hello, Kyria,” replied Bassem, using the Greek term for lady, as he tucked his bag under the counter.

  Constantine tossed him a bottle of cold water, for later, and grinned. Bassem smiled thankfully, tongue-tied for a moment. He shrugged off the self-consciousness and got to work unloading boxes of cereal and passing them to Constantine, who stacked them in the pantry.

  It was later, after the work was complete, that Bassem found the words he needed. Constantine’s mom was opening the cash box from which she usually paid him.

  “Kyria,” he began softly, “tomorrow is our celebration of Eid—the end of our holy month of fasting for God. Instead of euros, can you please give me something else?”

  “Something else?” she asked, soft brown eyes confused.

  “Yes,” said Bassem. Then he explained what he needed. As he shared his plan, tears began to gather at the corners of her eyes.

  Dawn arrived on a blessedly cool morning as Bassem and the older boys laid out the sheets for Eid prayers. His body was weary, but his heart light as he thought about the night before. He’d returned to the factory, duffel bag full of supplies. Instead of euros, Constantine’s mother had given him butter, sugar, and spices. As soon as his mother had peered inside the bag, she’d crushed him into a hug and called everyone to her like a drill sergeant.

  Soon the rickety oven was heating up while the ladies flew into action, measuring and mixing, while the kids were sent to search for anything that could serve as baking sheets. All activity ceased as the rich, buttery smell of ka’ak filled the factory. Everyone was given a crumbly disk to taste, flavored with anise and fennel, and as it melted on their tongues, Dina had shouted gleefully, “So this is what Eid tastes like!” The room had burst into laughter, and after carefully packing away the treats, they’d all fallen into a deep sleep, even Ummi.

  Now, as the inhabitants of the factory awoke, the air was filled with a buzz of anticipation. Uncle Yakuba and the men set up tables on the grass, which would soon be laden with bread, feta cheese, lentil stew, and hot tea to be shared for a hot breakfast after prayers. Rheem, Amra, and the other girls were in another corner of the field, setting up a series of simple games for the kids. And somewhere near the shed, Ayoob, a shy Yemeni man, played his wooden flute, which always brought a sense of peace to everyone.

  Slowly, with care and courtesy toward one another, the inhabitants of the factory formed lines facing east, toward the holy city of Mecca. Soulful and melodious, Uncle Yakuba’s voice settled across the field, focusing their little community
in prayer. As Bassem knelt, an ember rekindled in his heart, yearning for a connection with God. As they were finishing, a line of cars pulled up beside the field. To Bassem’s surprise, he saw Constan-tine and his family. From the next car tumbled a group of fishermen and their wives. Half a dozen other islanders and tourists, including Silke and her family, came next. As they pulled packages from their vehicles, Emily drove up in the rickety van, bright balloons bobbing out the window.

  The quiet of the morning broke as Constantine ran to Bassem and everyone shared greetings, shaking hands and hugging. The guests had brought fresh fruit, boiled eggs, and pastries, which they added to the table, creating a feast. Together they sat and ate, laughed and sang as Ayoob’s flute played in harmony with one of the fishermen’s guitars. With a warm smile, Ummi passed out ka’ak, filling everyone with the richness of Eid.

  “Bassem, isn’t this so great?” shrieked Dina as she ran by with her posse to Rheem, who was setting up a game of tug-of-war with Silke, who’d also created a station near them to paint the little ones’ faces.

  Bassem grinned and realized with surprise that her stutter had momentarily disappeared. Like him, she’d forgotten—forgotten that they were refugees far from home.

  “Eid Mubarak.” Emily strode toward him.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” said Bassem, “and for the balloons.”

  “Hussain sent me a message that it was Eid,” she said. “And I have some good news,” she added, smiling from ear to ear. “I heard from the main office in Athens.”

  “Really?” gulped Bassem.

  “They are reviewing your papers to go to Germany,” she said.

  “We’re going to Germany?” gasped Bassem.

  “Don’t get too excited so quickly,” she advised. “There’s still a lot to do, but it’s a start.”

  Unbidden, Babba’s voice echoed in his mind. Always look beyond what your eyes initially recognize and discover what is real, what is possible, and what is the truth. Perhaps God hadn’t forgotten them after all. Hope filled Bassem’s heart, and his eyes refocused, his sight suddenly flooded by the sky, a shimmering azure streaked with cobalt and hints of navy blue and ultramarine.

  “Watch out!”

  Makayla flinched as a basketball bounced off the table, next to where she was sitting.

  She still found it odd, eating in the masjid’s gymnasium, but the gymnasium also served as the dining hall during Ramadan and special occasions. Makayla returned her attention to her phone and continued scrolling through pages of dresses.

  “Makayla! Makayla, are you even listening?” Amira whined.

  Makayla didn’t notice. It had finally happened. She’d found it—the one! The most perfect Eid dress! It was white with silver and gold embroidery around the bodice. It looked royal. It looked rich. It looked . . . like something her parents would never agree to spend so much money on. Still, a girl could dream. Makayla added it to her online shopping cart.

  Amira playfully elbowed her friend in the arm. “I’m starting to think you’re tired of listening to me talk.”

  “What? No!” Makayla waved her phone in the air. “You know . . . just . . . phone stuff.”

  “Prove it, then,” said Amira. “What was I talking about?”

  Makayla saw a number of eyes—a distressing amount of them, actually—all turn in her direction from both sides of the cafeteria-style table. Stuffed mouths—which had only a few minutes ago expressed how glad they were to finally be able to eat for Iftaar—stopped chewing.

  “You’re so extra.” Makayla picked up a spoon. “You were talking about—” Makayla shoveled a giant spoonful of biryani into her mouth and mumbled.

  “Nice try,” Amira laughed, “but you’re not getting out of it this easy.”

  Makayla’s eyes began to water. She fought to hold back tears, but she couldn’t. In her attempt to dodge Amira’s question, she hadn’t thought about the spiciness of the food.

  She still wasn’t used to it. Any of it, really—the spicy food, the fasting, the whole converting-to-Islam thing. These community dinners were doing more to bring out Makayla’s anxiety than to bring her closer to the other girls at the masjid. Amira had been the only one to really reach out to her. Sure, Amira was a bit pushy, but Makayla wasn’t in a position to be choosy when it came to friends.

  Amira passed Makayla some raita. She tried not to laugh. “It’s not even that hot! And that’s what you get for trying to dodge my question.”

  At the moment, Makayla didn’t care how right Amira needed to feel. All she knew was that she’d never been so excited to see yogurt in her entire life!

  The eyes went back to their plates. The other girls were no longer interested in Makayla and Amira.

  “Thanks.” Makayla took several more scoops of raita to ease the raging fire that was happening in her mouth. “Your Eid outfit. You were talking about your Eid outfit.”

  Of course Makayla knew what Amira had been talking about. Amira’s abaya had arrived weeks ago, and she hadn’t stopped talking about it since. Makayla didn’t think her friend was trying to be obnoxious. She was just excited. The dress was pretty. There was no doubt about it. It had been custom-made overseas and was covered with sequins and rhinestones in fancy patterns. Really, it was more than pretty. It reminded Makayla of some of the wedding dresses her aunt had circled in bridal magazines before she’d gotten married. Makayla didn’t own anything so fancy. The fanciest thing she owned was the idea of wearing the abaya she’d saved to her shopping cart.

  “Let me see!” Amira snatched the phone out of Makayla’s hand.

  “Quit playing!” Now Makayla was annoyed.

  “Oh. So this is what you’ve been doing,” Amira said more loudly than she needed to.

  It worked. She’d captured the rest of the table’s attention again. Amira turned the phone around so everyone could see its screen. A few of the girls inched closer for a better look.

  “It’s gorgeous! Don’t you think?” Amira waited for the other girls to agree with her. They did, of course. “Is this your Eid outfit?” she asked Makayla.

  Makayla snatched the phone back. “Well, no.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “So why don’t you buy it? It’s already in your cart.”

  Because it was two hundred dollars. But Makayla was not about to announce to the whole table that her parents couldn’t afford it. She’d eat fifty plates of mouth-burning biryani before that happened.

  “Because it’ll never get here in time. Shipping. You know.” Makayla was proud of herself for coming up with such a logical answer on the spot. You couldn’t argue with logic!

  “I know!” Amira’s eyes widened and her voice got higher. “It’ll be my Eid gift to you! I’ll pay for express shipping! My mom said I could pick a few friends to give Eid gifts to, and this is perfect.” Amira reached in her purse and gave Makayla a gift card, the kind you could use anywhere.

  “I—I couldn’t.” Each breath Makayla took felt heavier than the last. She focused on a boy dribbling a basketball just past their table and breathed deeply. Perfect. You couldn’t argue with logic, but apparently, charity beat logic.

  “Don’t be silly,” Amira giggled. “It’s only a fifty-dollar gift card. And you deserve that dress. It’s gorgeous.”

  Makayla gave Amira her biggest, phoniest smile and desperately turned all her attention back to her phone.

  Makayla’s mom was not having it. “Give it back!”

  “Mom! I can’t give back an Eid gift.” Makayla plopped down on the sofa.

  “Fine,” her mom said. “Then I’ll give it back.”

  Without even looking up from her sewing, her mom had crushed Makayla’s dreams. Makayla had spent all of last night thinking about how to tell her mom what had happened. She’d even let herself believe that her mom would let her get the dress after all so she wouldn’t seem rude or unappreciative of Amira wanting to pay for rush shipping.

&
nbsp; “Why keep that girl’s money if it’s for a dress you’re not getting? That’s selfish!”

  Makayla crossed her arms and sucked her teeth. “It’s selfish if I don’t get the dress.”

  “Here, Bilal.” Her mom passed Makayla’s little brother the newly repaired pants whose patches he closely inspected before nodding his approval.

  “End of discussion, Makayla! I already told you we’re going out today to go Eid shopping.”

  “Great. More time together,” Makayla mumbled.

  “I can do without the attitude, miss,” her mom said. She picked up Makayla’s phone from the end table. “Tuh! Two hundred dollars for a dress.” She shook her head. “That’s a bill.”

  Makayla pouted.

  Her mother placed the phone in her lap. “Get dressed.”

  Makayla, her mom, and Bilal hopped into “Big Sis”—their Toyota Corolla that was older than Makayla. The three of them had been spending more time together than usual over the past few days, cooking and decorating every inch of their tiny apartment to give it “a more Islamic feel,” whatever that meant. Makayla’s mom wanted everyone to feel special and included for their first Eid. Because of their efforts, homemade decorations filled their apartment—it was nearly impossible to find Eid decorations in stores. Eid was like their new Christmas, but without the bombardment of songs on the radio, the school parties, or the ugly sweaters. Now, thanks to her proud mother, Makayla couldn’t even enjoy the one similarity that remained—gifts. Makayla knew her parents were trying their best to make their transition to Islam fun and exciting, but it was all a lot to take in. The spicy food, the different culture, the way they had to dress now, the things they had to give up (especially pepperoni pizza) . . . it was a little overwhelming.

  They pulled up to a strip mall that they usually went to on Saturdays when the thrift store had its twenty-five-cent sales. They started at the end of the strip and worked their way through the stores. With each one, Makayla’s mood lifted. She really liked the new plates and bowls they got from the dollar store for their Eid meal. They were purple and gold and reminded her of royalty.