by S. K. Ali
“Begin each day with sweetness and remembrance,” he reminded her with that gentle, lingering caress on her head that always felt like a blessing. At the end of the month, there were more gifts for Eid, but that calendar was special. Daddy had made it just for her. Even when he spent long days at work or had to travel during Ramadan, he never forgot to fill it. Though she had seen him every weekend since he’d moved out, her home and heart still felt empty without his daily presence.
This year, Mama had forgotten to put the calendar up at first. When she finally remembered, she had stocked one nook with colorful candies instead of dark chocolate—and another with cashews! Even now, the audacity made Maya Madinah stomp her feet, startling Billa.
“Sorry for scaring you, Billa. I like moon nuts, but they don’t belong in the Ramadan calendar! I got really mad after that. You probably heard me screaming at my mom.” Maya Madinah’s voice trailed off as she remembered how she had yelled, “I hate you!” before storming off to her room.
Maya Madinah had never seen her mother cry until that day. Just thinking about it now made the knot of fear and anxiety she’d carried in her stomach since Daddy left grow larger. She wondered if anything would ever be the same again.
Blinking away renewed pinpricks of tears, Maya Madinah slipped her feet into her flip-flops and glanced at Billa, who now appeared to be pretending to sleep.
“Useless cat,” she muttered fondly, prodding him with her finger.
He purred in response, stretching out for more.
“Where should I go, Billa?” she asked, stroking his fat belly. “Daddy is in Oakland, and I’ve never ridden that far on BART alone.” She glanced down at the kids’ Clipper Card for public transit that she’d had since she was five years old, hanging, as always, from her backpack.
Billa stretched and meowed, waving a languid paw toward the sloping hillside. Nusaybah! Maya Madinah’s smile lit up her face—her khala lived a few blocks away.
“Of course! Nusaybah Khala will know what to do. Billa, you’re brilliant. Grumpy, but brilliant.”
Maya Madinah opened the front gate, grateful that the noise inside the house would drown out its squealing hinges. She set off on the familiar unpaved path known only to neighborhood residents that linked her street to others nearby and eventually led to Glen Canyon. Solar lights dotted the path, lighting her way through wild fennel and poppies.
Maya Madinah’s heart was beating fast with excitement as she rushed uphill. She thought about Mama again. They had often walked together on this very path. They loved watching the city from the hilltop as the sun set, pointing out the blue water tower and other familiar landmarks before they were swallowed by the billowing fog. Mama had shared tales of women from the city, such as Ina Coolbrith, the first poet laureate of any state, and Maya Angelou—her namesake!—the first Black San Francisco streetcar conductor, novelist, and so, so much more.
“This, too, is your heritage,” Mama had whispered, holding her close, and Maya Madinah had felt the glow in her stomach of roots and belonging and pride. But now her stomach tightened again. It had been a long time since they’d had a conversation like that.
At the crest of the hill, Maya Madinah paused, panting a little, the fog gently crowning her tight, dark curls with tiny, wet stars. She opened the gate latch and slipped past the first larger house to peek at the tiny, lit cottage tucked in the yard behind it.
Nusaybah Khala was home tonight.
Relieved, Maya Madinah knocked gently on the door, and an instant later, she was taking off her shoes and stepping into a warm hug that made her want to cry and laugh at once, instantly filled with love for her adored Nusaybah Khala.
“Habibti! Did you come to get me for the party? I’m sorry I’m late. Planning the Hikayatna workshop has been taking up all my time,” Nusaybah said, pushing back her blue-streaked hair. She was referring, Maya Madinah knew, to the preservation of post-Nakba Palestinian diaspora stories.
Maya Madinah paused before answering, unsure now if her aunt would understand her need to escape. “Is that a new painting?” she stalled, wandering over to the large abstract canvas in the corner. Nusaybah’s cottage was one of Maya Madinah’s favorite places. Filled with paintings and books, it looked like the sort of place that she’d like to live in that faraway time called Grown Up.
“Yes, love. Often, after the workshops, my mind swirls with colors connected to the stories I’ve heard. I have to paint to release them,” Nusaybah answered.
Maya Madinah turned to face her aunt. “I’m not here to take you to the party,” she admitted. Now the words spilled out fast. “I’m running away—and I need your help! I don’t know where to go. Maybe I could stay with you? Or maybe you could help me get to Daddy’s apartment? I’ve never taken the train alone at night.”
Maya Madinah crossed her arms, lower lip pouting a little in unconscious defiance, legs spread firm and wide to underline her immovable resolve.
Instead of the shocked reaction Maya Madinah expected, Nusaybah’s hazel eyes continued gazing into hers, as unruffled as Billa’s, as if young girls marched into her studio every day, announcing plans to run away.
“Well then, you’ll need some shay to warm you up before your journey,” Nusaybah said in an unperturbed voice, turning on the quick electric kettle in her studio and rummaging around for black tea, sugar, and herbs.
Maya Madinah blinked in surprise, arms dropping to her sides. She found she could breathe a little more deeply now.
Maya Madinah loved her aunt’s ease with silence and her deep listening. So many adults she knew only pretended to listen when in fact they were just waiting for her to pause so they could jump in and lecture her. She browsed her aunt’s bookshelves in the comfortable silence, glancing over occasionally as her aunt made Palestinian-style tea. Mama sometimes let Maya Madinah have sips of her morning chai, slow-simmered with PG Tips tea and whole milk in the Punjabi way. Daddy preferred black coffee, taking the time to hand-grind the beans for the French press. Maya Madinah loved the smell of coffee but not yet the taste, though she kept trying. She missed the smell of coffee in the house.
Her aunt handed her a cup of tea. It was sweet, with chamomile flowers floating on the surface. She noticed that the cup was one of her aunt’s special ones that she kept up on the top shelf for sharing tea with other adults. But then, Maya Madinah supposed she must be Grown Up now that she had left home.
The thought gave her a shiver of anxiety—and excitement.
“Now tell me everything,” Nusaybah said as they sat close together at the tiny, half-moon-shaped dining table for two against the wall.
“Everyone at the Chand Raat party was so happy that it made me mad. Even Mama was smiling and laughing. How can she be so happy after everything that’s happened? It’s like she doesn’t care how I feel! Nobody does!” Maya Madinah felt the anxiety unspool and soften a little more in her core. Tears rushed out.
Her aunt murmured sounds of love and moved her chair closer so she could put her arm around Maya Madinah’s shoulders, still listening.
“Nothing is the same since Daddy moved out. It didn’t feel like a proper Ramadan, and now it doesn’t feel like a real Eid! Mama didn’t even ask me if she could invite all those people over for Chand Raat. She might be happy, but I’m not. And I never will be until we are a real family again,” Maya Madinah said, words broken between sobs.
Her belly felt softer now from sharing some of the emotions that had filled her for the past year and that she had been unable to tell anyone about until tonight. Not the kind therapist her parents had found for her or the school counselor who occasionally checked in. Not even her parents, who had assured her that she could talk to them but who were each now in their separate homes.
How could she tell her parents her deepest prayer that somehow they could be a family again?
“I’m so glad you shared that with me, habibti. You have been carrying so much so bravely for such a long time.” Nusaybah Khala stroked M
aya Madinah’s curls, her love and empathy palpable between them. “Would it be okay if you spent the night here before deciding what you want to do next?”
Maya Madinah nodded, wiping her tear-streaked face. Staying with Nusaybah Khala was always a special treat. She was beginning to miss Mama a little but was not yet ready to go home. She wondered if her mother had even noticed she was gone. She hoped so, and she hoped Mama was worried. Serves her right!
“May I let your mother and father know we have decided to have a Chand Raat slumber party here tonight?” Nusaybah asked.
“I suppose so.” Maya Madinah shrugged after a minute of thought. “They’ll probably be angry and say no, though.”
“No one will be angry with you, darling. I just don’t want them to worry,” Nusaybah said before typing a text and putting away her phone. “Why don’t we get ready for bed first? Then we can talk some more and have a bedtime story, if you like?”
Maya Madinah nodded. Her khala always had the best stories. She took the too-large flannel pajamas her aunt offered her into the bathroom, rolling up the soft sleeves and hems to make them fit.
Nusaybah rolled out the trundle bed from underneath her bed frame and tucked Maya Madinah in with Butch, her stuffed dog. Butch was a love-worn gift from her father, and without him she could not sleep. All night she kept her arms wrapped tightly around him, as if he were a buoy keeping her afloat in her dreams.
“You’ve heard this story before, though perhaps not in this way. Because now you are someone new, revisiting an old story and mining it for more,” Nusaybah said.
“How am I new, Nusaybah Khala?” Maya Madinah asked.
“We are made anew every day, beloved. And tasting sadness changes us,” Nusaybah said. “Like so many of the best stories, this one begins in a faraway land, long ago. There was a little boy swimming inside his mother, waiting to be born. But shortly before the day of his birth, his father passed away. He was raised by his tender, grief-stricken mother and a wet nurse, who loved him like he was her own son. For a while, his world was solid and stable, but when his mother also passed away, he was still only five years old!
“Next he went to live with his grandfather until the loving old man passed away when the boy was eight. After that, the boy lived with a dear uncle until he was a young man, ready to make his way in the world.” Nusaybah paused. “Of course, you know who this is, don’t you?”
Maya Madinah nodded. She had heard the story of his childhood many times, though this was the first time she had felt his sadness and loss so keenly in her own heart. “The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.”
“That’s right! He was heartbroken so many times, and yet he continued to try to be brave enough to love and be loved again. Joy and sorrow follow each other endlessly like moon phases, Maya Madinah. There are times of shining fullness and times of emptying out. Sometimes, before we can welcome joy in again, we need to acknowledge the sadness in our hearts—as you did so courageously tonight, my love,” Nusaybah said, squeezing her tight.
“What you are going through is painful. I am grateful that both of your parents are still here to walk beside you, but it is still hard.” She paused again before asking, “When it was the Prophet’s turn to form a family, what do you think it looked like?”
Maya Madinah considered. This was the first time she had been asked to reflect on his life in such a personal way. From all the stories she’d heard growing up, it seemed like he had been surrounded by many loving people for most of his life. Kind of like she had been, growing up in this little village within the city.
“Big, fun, and busy?” Maya Madinah ventured. “He had family, best friends, and a village full of people of different races, classes, and faiths. He lived close to the people he loved, and his home was always open to them. They helped him when things got hard. And he loved cats!”
“Yes, that’s certainly all true!” Nusaybah laughed. “He lived with partners and children—both biological and adopted—and had deep friendships and a strong community. You know, he was given many difficulties in his life, but he chose to build on those experiences by creating a world of beauty, love, joy, and connection for himself and those around him.”
Maya Madinah thought about it. Before Everything Changed, that’s what her world had been like too.
“But I want my mom and dad around. I know life can be hard, but I need them both. Together,” Maya Madinah said.
“I know, sweetheart. It’s totally natural and okay for you to feel that way,” Nusaybah assured her. “Families can look a lot of different ways, Maya Madinah. And each of them is beautiful. We each have a biological family, the one we’re born into. You have your parents and relatives. And we each have a chosen family, which might include people we are related to and those we aren’t. Look at us! We may not be related by blood, but I am so glad to have you as my chosen niece.”
Here, Nusaybah bent over Maya Madinah’s drowsing head. “Sleep and dream and grow now, beloved. When you wake up, you will know where to go from here. Listen to the One in your deepest heart and then trust yourself. Good night.”
Maya Madinah closed her eyes, hugging Butch tight, her one sharp desire throbbing as a prayer in her heart before sleep overcame her.
Early-morning sunlight streamed through the sheer white curtains, nudging Maya Madinah awake. She was alone in the cottage but unafraid. Nusaybah had probably popped into her parents’ home a few feet away.
It was Eid.
Her first Eid without her family, she realized, her stomach clenching with that familiar knot again. She put her hands over her belly, breathing deeply to loosen the tightness. “It’s okay to feel this way,” she murmured aloud, voice quavering.
She missed her mother and father with a fierceness now, remembering how Mama always kissed her gently on the forehead to wake her for Eid prayers at the mosque and how her father held her little hand gently in his big brown one as they prayed together, side by side.
Well, Maya Madinah thought, reflecting on the conversation from last night, it was her first Eid without her family as they had been for a long time. If they couldn’t be what they had been, could they become something new? She wasn’t sure. But maybe it was worth trying—one breath, one day at a time. She lay staring up through the skylight at the radiant blue sky, hands behind her head, thinking some more.
“It’s going to be hard. It’s going to be different. But I can try,” she said finally, turning to Butch, feeling both courage and sadness rise in her heart.
After the cathartic cry and conversation and a good night’s sleep, she felt lighter and stronger and almost—but not quite—ready for this strange new Eid ahead. If it included tears and laughter, that was okay, because she would be with—what had her khala called it?—her chosen family. All those whom she loved, who loved her in return, including Butch and Billa and her favorite books.
She thought about the Eid plans her parents had discussed with her a few days ago. At the time, she had felt rebellious and angry. All she had wanted then was for them to spend the whole day together. Now, for the first time, she felt a trace of curiosity. Maybe having two separate Eid outings wouldn’t be as bad as she had thought.
She was going to spend the morning with Mama and her maternal cousins and friends at the huge Eid festival at the Santa Clara County Fairgrounds with cotton candy and rides. Then Daddy was going to pick her up and take her to the Unity Eid picnic in Oakland, and she would see Imam Al Amin from her favorite mosque, feast on delicious barbecue while listening to a band, and play with her paternal cousins and still more friends.
In each place, she would be surrounded by family and friends. Her chosen family. Big. And fun. And busy. She would be just like Muhammad.
Maya Madinah grinned and sat up, her glorious curls reaching heavenward.
Suddenly, she couldn’t wait for this new and different Eid to begin.
“If you touch your tongue while yawning, it can stop the yawn. It’s a scientific fact.”<
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I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to distract my mind as my brother Noor’s voice droned on.
“Do you know that anatidaephobia is the fear that somewhere in the world, there is a duck watching you? I mean, how wild would it be to have that phobia?!”
I snapped. “You know what’s wild?! Having to listen to you recite stupid trivia on an eight-hour road trip! Quit it!”
“Kids, stop fighting,” Mum called out in a bored tone.
Noor was unperturbed. “It’s not a stupid fact. Somewhere out there in the galaxy there are probably aliens sharing random stupid facts about us human beings. Sheez.”
I stared at him, open-mouthed. He stared back at me and flashed a cheesy smile.
“What?” he asked innocently.
I didn’t have a chance to respond, because Adam (four years old, going on three) and Hannah (five years old, going on four) were in the middle row of seats, fighting over a book that neither had been interested in until one of them had touched it, setting off a sudden property war. Dad was driving, trying to listen to his CD (a religious lecture on how to control your temper when fasting), and Noor’s nose was back in his 1,001 Random Facts book.
“Do you hear what the sheikh is saying, children?” Dad said. “We have to avoid anger when we’re fast—”
“Adam and Hannah, will you learn to share!” Mum yelled angrily, turning around to glare at them as she reached over and grabbed the book. The spine ripped, provoking hysterical wails from them both.