Sumayyah Scribbles

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All the world

They are few and far between, those moments of clarity. When they do arrive, I can count my breaths; I can focus on a leaf shivering in the breeze; I can feel the gift that lives in every moment. Then, when the clarity passes, my moments again become a blur. The world is loud; it scrambles for my attention, pouring all it's got into my eyes, ears, and mind. And so I rush through the world in distraction, mind crowded with the everything that is nothing. As for that rare moment when I stare at the sky or watch the rain or stroke a leaf, it is worth all the world.

Unravelling

“Yes, you've told me before.” The words I speak into the phone are calm, but my heart sinks--as with every other proof of your unravelling. I wish I could grasp at those strands of memory that keep escaping, replaced by things that never were. And as the strands slip away, fears of all kinds come to stay. They crowd your mind; danger lurks around every corner. Maybe we are not that different. The fears have made a home in me too. One of them bothers me the most. I'm afraid that when I finally see you, I will not know you.

The darkness

The darkness surrounds me at times. It’s so heavy I can barely stand, barely breathe. My knees buckle, my face pushed into the dirt. He told me this would happen, peace be upon him. He said my people would become the platter upon which ravenous nations descend. Strangely, though, the sun continues to shine. It lights up, so brightly, the place where I’ve fallen. I push my palms against the soil, against the burdens that I carry. I stand. I look at the long road ahead. I’m tired. So tired. But a voice inside says no, don’t stop. Don’t dare. I look down at my feet. I push one forward, then the other.

Shoe hostages

You used to hide our shoes. It was your tried-and-true way of getting your nieces and nephews to sleep over. “Okay, kids, let’s go home now,” one of your siblings would say at the end of a visit. “But their shoes are nowhere to be found,” you’d say. “I guess they’ll just have to sleep over!” Your siblings would chuckle at this hostage-taking and relent. But not my dad. He’d demand the shoes be procured immediately. And what choice did you have but to listen to your older brother? You had no children of your own, and you spoiled us rotten. Love flowed freely from your heart, knowing no bounds. We saw it in the hours you spent telling us stories, in your home that was always open, in the milk you put out for strays, and in your endless batches of fried potatoes. They were legendary, those potatoes. I still don’t know why yours always tasted the best. My brother would eat a plateful all by himself, and you’d just laugh and go make more. You don’t make them anymore. The last time I saw you

On our knees

It doesn't take much to bring us to our knees; the tiny does as well as the torrential. Floods and fires do it, but so do splinters, stubbed toes, and unseen pathogens that ravage the world. So many meanings have changed, the unremarkable cough or sneeze inspiring suspicion, the comforting handshake, shared meal, or conversation tinged with anxiety, the peace of solitude within four walls broken. We are all of us tyrants in our own way, thinking we are clever and strong and don’t need Him, but it doesn't take much to bring us to our knees. Must we be brought to our knees to see our own frailty? Must we be broken to return to humbleness and gratitude? Or can we seek His help, guidance, and forgiveness on our knees?

Provisions

I turn the key counter-clockwise, once, twice, three times, each turn accompanied by a satisfying click. I walk down the stone steps, avoiding the uneven bits that have eroded over time, my hand gliding across the wooden railing. I step out into the sun, and my heart swells at its warmth and at the clear blue sky. I spring down the steps, turn left on the footpath, and turn left again onto the main road. In a few minutes, I will reach my destination. My tongue whispers various supplications. My steps are brisk and determined, but I am calm. I pass men, women, and children on my way, each carrying stories unknown to me. I soon spot the cart. I give the greeting of peace as I approach, and the man standing there responds. I tear a plastic bag away and start placing potatoes inside. I choose the big ones after turning them over to examine them. I walk over to the scales, placing the bag on one side and the two-kilogram weight on the other. The bag is heavier. I remove the smallest potato,

Heavy days

I remember it only in snatches, in images that I can bring to mind like screenshots from a movie -- rewind and wallow. They were heavy days, spent mostly at the computer, following closely how many had been shot -- and where -- until the shooting was in our neighbourhood, and we heard of three killed. I remember looking at my husband, our eyes connecting with the same thought. I remember us checking for recent Facebook activity just to know he was still alive. We found nothing. And those three words spoken on the phone, so simple but so shattering. It was the last two weeks of summer vacation, but the days crawled by, and whenever I lay down to sleep I thought of him and of those left behind. Now that new-school-year smell, the waxed floors felt like betrayal like the day my aunt died and I’d baked butter cookies. All who met me that first day expressed their condolences -- kind words and concerned faces -- and then turned to others to discuss their vacations, laughter replacing concer

Push back

It's always right there, just around the corner, at your fingertips. A simple tap or click opens it up, and it's ready to swallow you up. Push it back—those floodgates bursting with everything evil and ugly. Push back the paralysis and the despair. We feel a strange obligation towards the despair. We call it being connected, being in-the-know. We faithfully wring our hands at each calamity, scattering broken hearts and crying faces before scrolling past. And then—we're left more disconnected than ever. Emptier than ever. More confused than ever. It's a strange reality that pelts us with images without context. Small, ugly pieces of a larger picture we cannot see. And so, we see the pain, but not the Plan. We see suffering and destruction, but not Mercy, not Love, not Wisdom. We are so focused on the hideous pieces that we forget to look beyond them. Don't be the ostrich; no. But why seek out what will cause you despair? Why jump into a place with no air and then won

The writer in me

The writer in me, nurtured at an early age but silenced in its prime by country-hopping, teaching, and babies —an occasional gasp for air its only reprieve from slow suffocation— longs to speak again. I've so much to say, it tells me, but you haven't been listening. Don't hold me back, it says by shopping, cooking, and lame excuses. Let me go, it says; let me speak. Ya Allah, strengthen my voice. (July 2018)

That masjid

A week ago, on our way to a dental appointment, my husband and I stopped at a nearby masjid to pray maghrib. I hadn't set foot in that masjid for eleven years and two days—the day I got married. And as I stepped inside amid the hustle and bustle of that day's errands, time seemed to slow down. My eyes searched everything, measuring it against my memory. The entrance was different; it seemed to have been expanded. The stairwell leading up to the women's section, though, was exactly the same. I ran my hands over the banister where I'd rested the papers so I could sign my name. My uncle had brought the marriage contract to me, and my sister had rushed to follow me and snap a picture from above. I climbed the steps slowly. I noticed the carpet was a deep red; I couldn't remember what colour it was before. I plodded slowly through the women's prayer area and up a few steps to where it extended around the corner. I looked at the spot where I'd sat on a plastic cha

Root and branch

A branch cut off from its tree; that's how she felt, my mom. Now I'm back to the tree - the trunk, the roots - but all I can do is look longingly at that cut-off branch. (December 2009)