I ignore that message. Especially the last sentences. It’s Ramadan, and I won’t be thinking about anything unholy during this month.
Amal sends me aHappy Ramadanrotating GIF, and I send her one back. She texts me about the iftars she and Marwan are invited to. Baba and I have iftar together, and he goes to the mosque for taraweeh after, while I study and pray at home. From Mama’s recipe book, I bring her meals to life. When I make the lentil soup she used to make in Ramadan, Baba takes a sip before a tear slips from his eye.
“It tastes exactly the way your mother used to cook it,” he says, and something in me gives and builds and heals.
Jamie and I exchange daily Tupperwares of the food we made for iftar the day before. I haven’t dabbled with the more complex recipes, but I’ve become quite good at the ones Mama used to always make. Like kabse, and fasulye, and even mehshi.
But one day when Baba has to stay late at the gas station, I try going to one of the iftars hosted by the mosque my family used to visit. They rented out a community center space for all Muslims to attend. The iftar spread is over several tables, and I find so much joy in seeing Jamie interact with other Muslims. I find joy in being here myself. These are my people. Jamie is in an animated debate with two other boys our age about stolen art in the 1920s.
As soon as the Athan rings, he brings me a plate of dates.
“Let me be the one who breaks your fast.” His cheeks are pink, and I fight a smile, accepting one.
Afterward, we all pray Maghrib together before eating. There are many families, parents bringing their children to a place they can connect with their culture and religion. I fill my plate with dishes from various cuisines brought by members of the community. Egyptian, Sudanese, Malaysian, Moroccan, Uighur, Syrian, and Yemeni.
During dessert, Jamie hands me a plate of atayef drizzled with rose syrup and sits on the bench beside me. This dumpling is one ofmy favorite desserts in the world. The outer crispy pancake giving way to the rich filling of sweet cream.
“Mama used to make this every Ramadan.” I take another bite. “Amal and I would help fill them with nuts. Those were her favorite, but Amal and I loved the cream ones.”
Jamie smiles.
“I miss coming to the mosque,” I say through the cloud of nostalgia. “I didn’t like it when I was a kid. I thought it was boring. I mean, I was a kid. I just wanted to have fun. But now, I’m happy here.”
“I like it too.” Jamie watches the kids in the corner skipping rope. “I thought I’d feel like an outsider, but everyone is so kind. They treat me like I’ve always belonged. Being here, I can’t imagine how I ever believed anything in the media. I mean, I didn’t obsess over it or think Muslims were bad. I thought there were a lot of good ones, but also many who aren’t. Or they followed some backward religion.Thisisn’t backward.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Stories,” he says. “I’ve watched a couple of videos from converts who talk about their journey. I like the wordrevert. How we’re all born with this natural inclination toward the truth. Like you said before, they were on the outside looking in.”
We’re quiet, and I think I can say it. Painting Mama’s story, cooking her recipes, accepting the truth, and talking about it with Amal and Baba—it’s all made it easier to say the words I’ve been so afraid of.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” I say, and he nods. “You never asked, but you always assumed my mom died from cancer.”
“Yeah?”
I bite my lower lip, staring at my sneakers, and tell him the whole story. He doesn’t say one word to interrupt me, but when I’m done, I notice the tears on his hand. I glance up, and he looks away, wiping his eyes with the back of his arm.
“Xin chia bu?n,” he whispers, and I remember it from the time in the library. I’ll carry part of your sadness with me.
“Thank you,” I whisper back. I sniff, clearing my throat. “See, for a long time, my parents raised me and Amal to not be seen, because it’s safer that way. If we were at the supermarket and someone spat in my face, I would have to wipe it off and walk away. They were scared we’d die. That we’d get kicked out of the country even though we’re American. Even though this is my country.” I take a deep breath. “But that’s not how I want to be. I can’t let those people at school just say whatever they want. I have to say something. I think I’m fighting back, but I don’t know if it’s working. It’s scary to draw those murals. I’m always worried it’ll be traced back to me. But even knowing that could happen, I still paint. I can’t stop. That’s how I fight back.”
Jamie stares at me a little longer, brown eyes shining like twin stars. He finally looks away, sniffing.
“Yeah,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Yeah.”
We don’t say anything after that.
The last night before Ramadan ends, I’m on my prayer mat, praying for Opus. I want out of the pit of the sea. I want to be floating among the waves and jellyfish.
Baba and I have iftar together, and I make Mama’s favorite dish, wara’a eneb. He just smiles when he sees the little wrapped vine leaves.
We eat in silence, and after a while he says, “I…I have work tomorrow. I’m going to the mosque beside the gas station.”
I look up, chewing slowly. Eid used to be a celebration in my home. We didn’t always have new clothes, but we always did have new pajamas we’d wear the night before. Mama would decorate the apartment with paper crescents she painted, and Amal would bake a chocolate cake. Baba would get us knafeh from a Syrian patisserie shop. We’d all go to the mosque for Eid prayer in the morningand spend the day doing something fun. Maybe a picnic Mama put together.
But this is another Eid without her. No paper crescents, no singing, no new pajamas.
“Okay,” I whisper.
