Other Words for Home

by Jasmine Warga

Care to tell us something else you find to be dope? Hearing Mrs. Ravenswood say that word makes us all smile.

Music, Grace says. Any type in particular? Mrs. Ravenswood asks. Grace’s face flushes red and she whispers, Rock and roll. Really? I ask Grace. Her face is still red, but she nods.

Did you know that when we see a star, we are really seeing a past version of it because the light is traveling from so far away? Miles’s head is tilted up. So looking at the stars, in a way, is like looking into the past.

I wish I could look into the future, I say quietly.

I tell Miles all about Issa and how he has run away to Aleppo to help all those people who are stuck in a war-torn city. How he has become one of those people who are stuck in a war-torn city.

We are silent for a while. It is not a bad silence though. Instead it feels right like it is acknowledging the heaviness of what was said, and it’s okay that we don’t know what to say. Thank you for telling me. I really hope he is safe.

The postcard comes at just the right moment. It is the type of thing that makes me believe in Allah and the grace of the universe.

It is a small postcard with a simple photograph of Beirut on the front. In typical Fatima fashion, she has not written much, but she has written and that is what matters.

She is still my friend and that is what matters.

Mama beams with pride and puts her hands on her belly that is now so big it seems like it could pop at any moment. She has realized her wish of getting Uncle Mazin to come to mosque. And Aunt Michelle and Sarah are here too. There are so many people here. All because Mama and a few of her friends from the mosque have organized a fund raiser for Layla’s parents to help them offset the costs of the damage to their restaurant, to help them heal.

The baskets filled with homemade ma’amoul and soaps made with olive oil and little bottles filled with rosewater perfume. I make my way through the crowded room, sipping sugary tea out of a Styrofoam cup. I find Layla sitting near the back of the room with a few of her friends from mosque who don’t go to our school.

Jude, she says, smiles, and gives me a hug.

Layla looks at the shiny tiled floor. I know. I’m sorry. It’s just I was so angry. I get it, I say, practicing an American phrase I have recently learned.

We both keep watching Sarah. She is practicing how to say tay’ebeh, delicious. All of a sudden, Layla reaches out and touches my shoulder. Jude, you’re brave. You know that, right?

After the fund raiser, Uncle Mazin Aunt Michelle Sarah Mama and I all go home. Mama collapses into bed, so tired, but I stay up with the rest of my family.

At the fundraiser, he met a nurse from Jordan, a store owner from Egypt, a data scientist from Syria. It felt good to talk about home with people who understood, he says to me in Arabic. Home. I am surprised to hear him call Syria home.

Sarah gained something tonight. Something she didn’t have before. And now she is giving some of it to me. I will, I say with a small smile.

In Mrs. Ravenswood’s class, we are celebrating the fact that Ben and his family have all become American citizens.

I am at play practice, watching Miles fiddle with a Rubik’s cube. We are sitting beside Layla who is putting the finishing touches on one of the set murals that depicts the French countryside. It is beautiful and I tell her so, but I am also trying to tell her, You belong here. You make beautiful things.

You’re going to be a big sister! she says. Can you believe it? I laugh nervously and look out the window. As we drive to the hospital where Uncle Mazin works and my baby sister will be born, I think, You will belong here. You will belong wherever you want. You will make anywhere beautiful.

When I hold her for the first time my heart feels like it is going to burst. I didn’t know it was possible to love one tiny person so, so much. She is red and loud, and cries at all times of the day and night.

She makes Baba cry when he sees her through the computer, his arms aching to hold her.

I don’t even bother to try and hide my smile. We all take turns rocking Amal, changing her. Every tiny thing she does— yawn, squirm, kick, brings us so much joy.

Mama calls Baba all the time so he can see Amal when she is sleepy and snuggly when she is yelling her little head off when she is looking all around, wide-eyed and dazed. I listen to Mama and Baba speculate about what Amal will be like when she gets older.

I bring in pictures of Amal to show off in Mrs. Ravenswood’s class. She’s so beautiful, Grace says. She has your nose, Mrs. Ravenswood says. She’s so little, Omar says, and we all laugh because it’s such an Omar thing to state the obvious. When it’s Ben’s turn, he looks at the photograph. She’s an American, he says, and that’s awesome. It makes us all smile.

I can see the months that have passed. There are shadows under his eyes that I have never seen before, and I can make out the outline of a bruise around his elbow. There is unshaved scruff on his chin and he looks much thinner. Yet, his smile is still the same. Bright enough to light up the entire room.

I ask him, Where are you? How have you been? Are you going to go home? Are you going to come here? Can you believe I’m a big sister now? That I’m no longer your littlest sister? S L O W D O W N he tells me, laughing. He has left the most dangerous place and is in a nearby town. He is using an international aid worker’s computer to call us.

And then Mrs. Bloom does clap. She claps for us. I’m so proud of all of you, she says. You’ve worked so hard and you’ve brought this story to life. We all look at each other and clap and bow. Proud of each other, proud of what we have created together. It is lovely to be a part of something that feels bigger than you.

I put on my costume and Mama does not comment on the tight black leggings or the long-sleeved patterned leotard. As long as you are comfortable with it, her eyes seem to say. She has French braided my hair underneath my hijab. No one else will see it, but it helps me to feel in character.

We are all nervously waiting behind the curtain. I see Layla carefully checking the sets, a clipboard in hand, making notes. Her eyes briefly meet mine and we share a smile, each wishing the other good luck. I know Miles is up in the tech booth, getting the lights ready. The more I get to know him, the more I appreciate how he likes to help other people shine.

I hold my breath. The curtain lifts and I step out onto the stage. The theater lights are brighter than I imagined.

The first inkling of the idea that would later become Other Words for Home came to me in fall of 2013 when I was invited over to a close family friend’s house for dinner. At this dinner, I was introduced to members of their extended family who had recently come over from Syria to escape the violence that was threatening their hometown. I learned more about the conflict in Syria, which, up until then, I’d only had a vague awareness of. At this dinner, I watched as cousins who were raised in America interacted with cousins who had been raised in Syria. It made me think about families—like my own (my father is from Jordan)—who live on different sides of an ocean.

Flash forward to fall of 2016—the atrocities of the war in Syria had been splashed across the front pages of many American and European newspapers. More of the world was aware of what was happening, yet the silence in response to the suffering of an entire population felt deafening. Why didn’t more people care? Why didn’t more people want to help? These questions scared me. They made me confront things that I had long ago buried within me—knowledge of prejudice against Arabs and Arab Americans, Islamophobia, and America’s often cool indifference to the suffering of brown people.

So I began to write the book.

I wrote Jude for my twelve-year-old self, who never saw a brown girl in a book who was proud of her family and where she came from. A brown girl with hopes and dreams of her own. I’m ashamed to admit that growing up I was much more like Jude’s cousin Sarah than like Jude. Through societal conditioning, I learned to be a little afraid and a little embarrassed of my father’s culture. I never was exposed to any media that told me to feel otherwise.

I also hope that by introducing you to Jude, a magnanimous girl with a big heart and even bigger dreams, I will show that you don’t need to be afraid of these children who are fleeing from a war zone.

To learn more about the conflict in Syria and how you can help refugees like Jude, please consider checking out one of the following websites: https://www.unicefusa.org/mission/emergencies/child-refugees/syria-crisis https://www.whitehelmets.org/en https://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/what-we-do/countries/syria https://my.care.org/site/SPageNavigator/CARE_SpecialDelivery.html https://www.refugees-welcome.net https://www.icrc.org/en/where-we-work/middle-east/syria

Everyone who watched my children so that I could “finish just this one page” or “reread this section one more time.” In particular, Shymaa Salih, Remy Jacobs, Elsa Gonzalez, Linda Warga, Doug Warga, Kathleen Warga, Jeff Voegele, Rachel Warga, Linda L. Warga, and Annie Toops. My family on both sides of the Atlantic. I love you all so much and feel so tremendously grateful to be the recipient of all of your support.

It makes me very sad that my Uncle Abdalla passed away before he had the chance to read this book. He was always my biggest fan, dedicated to reading every word I wrote even though English was not his native language. His generous and revolutionary spirit inspired the very heart of this story.

Lillian Nour and Juniper Lee, you are the lights of my life. You are kind and gentle and loving and evidence of everything that is right about this world. Thank you for making me believe in magic again. To every Arab and Arab American girl, I see you. You are worthy. Keep shining.

JASMINE WARGA is the author of the teen books Here We Are Now and My Heart and Other Black Holes, which has been translated into over twenty languages. This is her first novel for middle grade readers. She lives in Chicago with her family.