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the rest of the world saw me.
the rest of the world saw me.
Fatima and I like to find bits and pieces of ourselves in the faces of movie stars.
Fatima and I like to find bits and pieces of ourselves in the faces of movie stars.
Bashar al-Assad
Bashar al-Assad
Revolution and war are not good for business.
Revolution and war are not good for business.
Words, all kinds of them, bubble up in my throat but nothing comes out.
every organ in my body holds its breath as I watch him make up his mind about us.
It is so strange to feel lucky
for something that is making my heart feel so sad.
He is perfect English and a big car that purrs as it hums down the street.
Laughing at me and my English pronunciation.
My uncle’s house is so big that it could fit four of my old apartments inside of it.
Americans don’t have much history so they like things they think are old.
Americans are obsessed with murder, she says. And you made me move here to be safe, I say, half joking, half not.
I spend the rest of that night locked in the bathroom, whispering to myself in the mirror. I speak English.
Then I start to notice the man on the corner with a sign begging people for help, the tired woman waiting for the bus
with shoes that are cracked at the sole.
Uncle Mazin turns to her and says, This is home.
she smells like she always has, agarwood oil and rosewater. It is the smell of home, of love, of safety.
the smell of cumin and thyme, the strong scent of Arabic coffee brewing on a stove in the back of the kitchen.
the chill from that night is trapped inside my bones,
turtlenecks—an American word for a clothing item that makes me laugh—
That means Arabic is my mother tongue, And it is my mama’s tongue, but I’ve never thought of it that way before.
There is a panic climbing up my spine, crawling into my chest. I feel like screaming,
a girl who likes movies more than news, a girl
Aleppo is synonymous with war.
And death.
I am filled
with a terror of not quite knowing where I am or where I am going. I wrap my arms around her and I hold on, I hold on to that feeling of home.
I search every day for a clue about why I deserve to be here in Aunt Michelle’s kitchen, safe and fed. When so many others
just like me are not.
he believes so much in a better version of his country.
My voice cracks more than once— from sadness, from frustration that I can’t say what I truly want to say.
I shrug. In America, I have picked up a habit of shrugging.
the word bint on our lips, tasting like chocolate, tasting like afternoon mint tea with three extra spoonfuls of sugar, tasting like sunshine. Tasting like hope.
when I get nervous my accent gets thicker
Missing Issa has become a physical ache inside of me, like a rotting cavity that is growing more painful every day.
the spirit inside of me has once again started to kick and kick.
seeing me.
There is an Arabic proverb that says: She makes you feel like a loaf of freshly baked bread.
And I have this magical thing called punch. Liters of it.
I feel safe. I feel at home.
The ringing in my ears stays for a little while, dulling from a sharp scream to a softer echo.
Whoever did that is a terrorist, I say, and then bite my tongue so hard I can taste blood.
My vision blurs with tears.
Your brother would let his anger guide him.
I am slowly realizing that no amount of money is enough to scrub away the hate.
