by S. K. Ali
at least when we’re not being monyets—
and even though it was weird at first, I like
hearing it around the house when she isn’t
here, and I think Aiman does too.)
I’m still thinking about words as I pour oil carefully into a hot pan,
about the ways they twist and turn and dance, the way they
feel on my tongue, the way you can
mold them into new meanings, like the way you can
be sorry about something,
sorry for someone,
scoff at a sorry excuse, or
feel your heart soften at a sorry sight.
Or the way agak means “to guess” and
teragak-agak means “to hesitate,” but
agak-agak, when cooking, means “to cook by feel,”
by instinct, to know in your bones each step that comes next.
Mama knew all about agak-agak.
(Knows, Alia—Mama knows. Present tense.)
Mama uses no recipes, curling her lip
ever so slightly if someone even so much as
suggests it, as if committing the steps to paper,
trapping them with words, erases their magic.
What do I need those for? she says, tapping her temple.
All my recipes are up here.
And it’s true. Mama cooks as though the food
is part of her blood, leavening her bones:
A pinch of this, a dash of that, and
suddenly there it is, hot and steaming,
filling the whole house with warmth.
I toss slices of tofu and tempeh into the pan,
wincing at the tiny explosions that spatter hot oil onto my skin.
(Don’t! Mama would say. You must show it who’s boss.
The kitchen knows when you’re afraid;
then the food tastes of nothing but your timidity.
Wield your tools with a firm grasp—your spatula,
your ladle, your knife. Stay in control.)
And as I watch them darken to golden brown, I wonder
how I can make a lontong that tastes as good as Mama’s
when I can’t taste anything at all.
Now for the main event: The gravy itself.
The one component that holds every
disparate thing together,
like mothers do in families.
I take a deep breath.
(The kitchen knows when you’re afraid.)
Here we go.
Oil in the pot, just enough to coat the bottom;
when it begins to fizz, when the heat begins to rise
from the shimmering surface, in goes the spice paste,
hissing and spitting and yielding a host of familiar aromas,
making my stomach rumble and my eyes water.
Aiman wanders back in, puppy still clutched in his hands.
It smells like Mama in here, he remarks,
and I try very hard not to cry.
(Stay in control.)
Now I add water, creamy coconut milk, bay leaves. Bring the heat
down to a simmer, stir carefully, watch the gravy turn thick and golden.
Now I reach for the shelf where Mama keeps the tamarind paste,
the little glass jar faceted so it sparkles like a jewel in the light, topped
with a silver lid screwed on so tight I can’t get it open.
Now I freeze, tears still in my eyes, smells still
dancing in the air, memories sticking in my throat
like the food I can’t taste.
Now I remember.
Forever ago, or possibly just last week
(Was it really just last week?),
Mama had leaned close one morning,
a special twinkle in her eye, just for me.
This year, she’d said, quiet as though it was just for us to know,
this year you get to help me make the lontong.
And she’d handed me a long list and driven me to the store
and let me go in all by myself!
I remember the way my heart pounded
as I walked through the cramped aisles,
how I spent ages working out which ones
were candlenuts, too shy or too scared or too proud
to ask the boy at the checkout with the lurid manga
and the bored expression.
How carefully I pocketed the change, and how proud I felt
heaving the bags out to the car and seeing
my mother’s smile, so warm it could have melted ice.
How crushed I felt seeing the ingredients laid out side by side
like sentinels on our kitchen counter, realizing I’d forgotten it:
tamarind paste for the juice Mama liked to add almost at the
very end, that hint of sour-sweetness deepening every other
flavor in the gravy, tying it all together
the way mothers do in families.
There were tears in my eyes then too, just the way
there were again later, when we found out, just the way
there are now.
Don’t worry, sayang, Mama had said, her eyes soft, her voice
gentle as a caress. I’ll run back to the store and get some.
She’d tweaked my nose. It’s not the end of the world, Alia.
And she’d told me to be good and to mind Aiman as she
wound her hijab around her head and grabbed her car keys.
But it was the end of the world.
Because Mama never came back.
And it’s all my fault.
All.
My.
Fault.
When Abah walks into the kitchen, red plastic bags
filled with sweating Styrofoam containers swinging
from his fingers, he finds me frozen in place, hands
still clutching a jar of tamarind paste, heaving as if
I may never be able to fill my lungs again, sobs
tearing at my throat like teeth.
I feel strong arms wrap around me and lift me up,
and when he holds me close it’s as if he’s trying
to protect me from all the darkness in the world.
And just what, he says finally, his voice a comforting
rumble against my cheek, is going on here?
(I can’t tell, I think.
You just can’t talk about these things, I think.)
But before I can stop myself the words spill out of me, skittering,
swarming, swooping in a confused stream, tripping over
themselves to escape from my chest.
My fault, I say, over and over and over.
My fault my fault my fault MY FAULT.
When I stop, there is silence, and I feel like
a piece of paper that’s been crumpled, then
smoothed out again, all my lines and wrinkles
showing in the light. Abah rubs my back in comforting
little circles, letting the hiccups shudder through
my body before they die out altogether.
Seems to me like you’ve been carrying quite a load there, chickadee,
he says. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?
Because Mama said, I tell him, sniffing.
Mama said to be good, and to mind Aiman,
and that’s what I’ve been trying to do.
And you’re very good at doing those things, he tells me.
But it’s also okay to let other people take care of you.
We sit like that for a while, not talking, just kind of
being together, which is nice, the TV still blaring songs about
baby sharks and hero pups.
And maybe I should just stay that way, curled into my father’s chest.
Maybe I should just stay quiet and still, but
I know I can’t.
Maaf zahir dan batin, I whisper, my voice little more
than the creak of a rusty door hinge.
&n
bsp; Hmm?
Maaf zahir dan batin.
I make myself lean back, look him straight in the eye.
Mama told me it means that I’m sorry, that I’m sorry with
my whole body and heart and soul, and we always
say it during Eid because we’re asking for forgiveness
for all our past wrongs so we can start fresh.
And I’m sorry; I’m so sorry. For the mess
I’ve made, for the whole sorry situation,
for everything.
Everything.
Abah sets me down on the floor and kneels, leaning close
so we’re face-to-face, nose-to-nose.
It isn’t your fault, chickadee, he says softly.
I know it feels like it is. But you can’t control everything.
It isn’t your fault that Mama decided to go to that store
instead of the one closer to home; it isn’t your fault that
boy decided to cross the road right then; it isn’t your fault that
the truck driver had to swerve to avoid him or that
he never saw Mama’s car coming.
None of that is your fault; it isn’t anyone’s fault.
Sometimes things just happen, and we have to
accept them and move on. Even when it’s hard.
Especially when it’s hard.
And as he speaks, I feel the hard knot in my chest
slowly begin to unravel.
Now, Abah says, straightening up and surveying the mess,
what do we do about all this?
I rub my sleeve across my nose, leaving a trail of slimy snot.
You’re going to help me cook? I ask.
His glance is withering. Please. Your old man is a master at this.
This ginger, for example . . .
That’s galangal, Abah, I tell him, a giggle bubbling in my throat.
That’s what I meant.
Together, with Aiman watching and calling out
his most helpful instructions, we pick up
where I left off. And while Abah assembles a
surprisingly passable sambal, I quietly open the jar
(and how odd, that what was so unyielding just minutes ago
suddenly gives its contents up to me so willingly)
and reach in, the tamarind paste soft and squishy to the touch.
How much do you need? Abah asks, his voice as gentle as
the expression in his eyes.
Oh, you know, I say, shrugging. Agak-agak.
When the meal is ready, we sit around the table, our bowls
laden with firm slices of nasi impit and golden mounds of tofu
and tempeh, all swimming in rich gravy tinged a deep, warm
yellow, topped with dollops of bright red sambal like hats.
(It’s about time, Aiman sniffs. I’m starving.)
We’ll take some to Mama in the morning, Abah says.
Won’t she be proud?
And then he asks the question
I’ve come to dread:
How’s your food?
I take a breath. And I take a bite.
Good, I say. Really good.
And for the first time in days,
I’m not lying at all.
The Eid pictures on Ummi’s phone—they glow,
delight and excite me, light up her screen like fireworks.
Flashy,
sparkly,
enchanting
pictures,
as I scroll along,
of Muslims celebrating,
taking and making joy—
a joy dazzling and dancing, loud and bold.
Pictures of hijabs and shaylas with patterns that never whisper,
of dashikis with colors that shout at my eyes,
bright garments making music as they glide against dark skin.
And lips painted loud, and teeth gleaming in smiles beaming proud,
city grills sizzling with flavor, smoking and popping,
city parks brimming with children, dashing and laughing,
too many people, too many prayer lines to fit on a phone screen,
too many to fit indoors.
I can almost hear the mighty cries of an imam with a mic.
Hundreds of voices say “ameen” as one.
The Eid pictures in my family’s old photo albums, though—
they calm,
settle, and soothe me like Jedda’s arms.
Soft,
cozy,
inviting
pictures
in plastic sleeves as I turn the pages,
of Muslims pioneering,
creating and establishing
warm traditions that hold me, loving and gentle.
Khimars swept back, satiny but simple,
and modest garments sewn during the quiet hush of the night,
heads covered by fezzes or kufis
and necks wrapped in dhikr beads or bow ties,
family-day fish-fries and the very first bean pies, creamy and sweet.
Pictures taken in a house or a temple or a mosque just built,
people bowing on carpet that smelled of incense and musk and home.
Small gatherings in the photos—small but strong.
I can almost hear Brother Imam reciting Quran like an old blues song.
A room of voices says “ameen” as one.
Picture Eid for the first Muslims who came to American shores—came so long ago.
Close your eyes and picture them
in ships,
in chains,
enslaved.
Pictures
in their minds,
image after image of homes overseas,
of Muslims celebrating,
praying and living free
in the lands of Mansa Musa and the mosques of Sankoré.
Picture those Muslims in fields, looking out,
holding tight to memories of the past,
reaching out to visions of the future.
Did they foresee Eids bold and gentle?
Eids loud and loving?
Did they see their descendants—see you and me?
Did they see us all someday free?
I can almost hear their whispered wishes—
duas spoken in the fields each Eid.
Say “ameen” to those prayers,
all our voices as one.
Aya had always liked her status as her school’s only. Being the only Muslim and the only Iraqi made her the authority when anything came up in class remotely related to Islam, Arabs, or hummus.
Ever since one of the kids had brought a veggie tray with red pepper hummus to one of their classroom parties, Aya had been on a mission to make people understand that the word hummus means “garbanzo bean” in Arabic. Merely blending a bean or vegetable into a creamy paste did not magically transform it into the dish more accurately known as hummus bi tahina.
So when her class started their unit on Islam in social studies, Aya enjoyed her classmates’ attention. During their first lesson, her peers wanted to know if she went to church, if she prayed five times a day like their textbook described, and if she fasted during Ramadan.
Aya shared that she did not go to church. She recited her five daily prayers at home because there wasn’t a mosque or a masjid in town, and she fasted during the month of Ramadan, but not for the entire day yet because she was still too young.
But the next day, class felt different. Her teacher, Mrs. Johnson, had been calling on students to take turns reading through the chapter, and Aya couldn’t help but notice that when Amanda Miller began reading aloud the paragraph on the difference between Sunnis and Shias, the rest of her classmates glanced at her as if they were studying her face for a reaction. Aya no longer felt like the classroom expert. Aya felt as if she were on display at a museum.
Aya tried to focus on following along in her textbook, but when the book described her sect, the Shias, as a radical group that broke a
way from mainstream Islam because they wanted the prophet Muhammad’s successor to descend from the family line, Aya grew increasingly uneasy.
The word radical made it sound as if she belonged to the wrong side, but there was so much more to the story of her religion’s division. Every year, Shias all over the world commemorated the martyrdom of the prophet Muhammad’s grandson, and Aya knew it was that tragedy that had caused the eventual rift. However, she didn’t feel like she remembered enough about those events to discuss them with her class.
Aya wanted to at least try and raise an objection to this summary, but before she had the chance, Amanda looked over at her and asked, “Which sect are you?”
Aya’s heart sank.
“I’m a Shia, but we’re not radicals,” Aya said, feeling immediately dissatisfied with her answer. She searched her mind for something more convincing to add, but this time Amanda’s closest friend, Samantha, chimed in to ask if Aya celebrated Christmas.
Aya held in a sigh. Amanda’s family hosted a huge Christmas party every year, and they invited Amanda’s entire group of friends and their families. For weeks leading up to the event, Amanda regaled the class with every detail of her family’s decorations and plans. There was the huge tree that scraped the ceiling; the white lights that trimmed her house; the wreaths that were tied to every window; and the cookie exchange that allowed every guest to go home with a tin full of assorted treats. Even though Aya couldn’t imagine her parents at Amanda Miller’s party, she couldn’t help but feel that how she answered this question would somehow forfeit her chance of ever being invited.
“We don’t really celebrate Christmas,” Aya said. “But we have two major Eids every year, so it’s kind of like having Christmas twice.”
Amanda made a doubtful expression and exchanged a look with Samantha before asking, “How is it like Christmas? Do you decorate and get presents?”
This was a sore spot for Aya. She knew that whatever celebrations her family had, they did not rival Amanda’s family’s elaborate Christmas. Aya’s parents rarely took the day off for Eid, and her family didn’t really belong to a Muslim community anymore. Their small agricultural town only had a handful of other Muslims. They all used to take turns praying in each other’s houses, but a few years ago, when it was Aya’s parents’ turn to host the weekly prayers, her father had overheard someone remark that Shias weren’t real Muslims. Her parents had taken this as a hint that they weren’t welcome, and they’d stopped going, too uncomfortable to tell anyone why.
It hadn’t taken long for Aya to get used to praying at home with her family. None of the Muslim families in town had children her age, so there was no one in particular whom she missed. Except on Eid. Then it was hard to have nowhere special to go, nothing to do.