Sumayyah Scribbles

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?

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,...

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...

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, 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)

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...

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)

When it rains cats and dogs, the snails come out. I step nimbly around them, lifting my abaya slightly. I hate wet hems—and stepping on snails. Their bulbous shells are easy enough to spot, though their dull colour is oddly similar to the sidewalk's. If I stop to look, I see their feelers moving around in a slow, circular motion. Their slimy bodies glacially inch forward towards the other end of the sidewalk. But if it's dark out, or I'm in a rush, or both, it's almost inevitable I'll hear that unmistakable crunch. Yuck. And sorry! (November 2018)

She always has some excuse. “My children are at home alone,” she says as she steps nimbly (or not-so-nimbly) in front of me. “I'm late for an appointment.” “I have to get back to work.” But as much as she annoys me, she's the better of the two. The other one doesn't make excuses at all. She just elbows her way in, shoves her arm through the window, and barks her order at the sweaty man plucking the hot loaves from the aging machine. Her strange skills are many, this one. Her long arm snakes its way through the tightest spots. Her body slips through crowds with an odd swiftness that is unrelated to the size of the crowd—or her body. Her tongue drips honey on request; she smilingly helps old ladies with their bread and then steps into the line right after. Nothing bothers me more than these women. The line could be a mile long and I wouldn't mind; it's the feeling that someone is taking my turn—my right—that drives me mad. So here I am, my insides on fire with indigna...

What do I owe to a man who brought so much good to this world? My days and nights revolve around what he has taught me, though I have never seen him. I wake from sleep to the same call that his companion made so many years ago, standing atop the House that I face in my prayers. I raise my hands the way he taught me, and recite the words that flow lightly over my tongue, though they are heavy. Those Words made him sweat even on the coldest day. I smile in the faces of my loved ones because he taught me that it's charity. So too is helping people carry their things, cheering up a friend, and removing harmful objects from the path where people walk. I try to do all of these too. I try, also, to see that what truly remains is what I give away, not what I keep. He taught me this. When I'm angry, I trap the vile words that threaten to explode out of me, because he praised the one who does this. Most importantly, he taught me about my Creator. He taught me that nothing is like Him, an...

I was there when the wolves came to tear away her flesh to mock her to snigger behind gloved hands I was there and I did nothing. I was there when the wolves came to rain fury upon his house to break down the walls to snatch all the souls inside I was there and I was silent. I was there when the wolves came to cut her with their tongues until she bled She looked my way so I could stop them but my tongue tasted of blood too. I was there when the wolves came armed with everything that could kill and hurt and maim and traumatize I was there and I did not shout. I was there all those times. And it seems I was a wolf too. (March 2018)

I want to protect you, my child, from falls and scrapes and whispers and stares. I want to erect a barrier between you and anything that might harm your body, your feelings, or your spirit. The list of these evils is unfathomably long and painful to think about. But I cannot protect you. You see, I am as vulnerable as you are. Having you is a blessing I cannot begin to explain – you're a piece of me that happens to be outside my body – but it is one with weighty implications. Seeing you in pain is a special kind of torture. As you leave my sight by morning and evening, that nagging “what if” opens the door to all manner of thoughts so distressing that I would go mad with worry if not for one thing. You have a Guardian. I am no guardian, oh, no. My life hangs by a thread. And so it is with us all, though we're either too arrogant or distracted to admit it. But we're sent reminders at times, small ones and big ones, so we know who's really in charge. So we know we're ...

I flew away, one day, leaving you behind; you were not quite sixteen. There were ten years between us, and we shared a room for many of those years. And because of the age gap, you didn't get under my skin like the others... I remember the day you were born, and the jaundice lights they put you under, and your pitiful newborn cries. I couldn't stand to hear them and ran out of the room. Silly girl. Our oldest brother named you. He wanted you to have a strong name, like the woman who defended the Prophet in battle. And so it was. The little piece of flesh that came home with us from the hospital was called Nusaybah. You were Mom's sixth, and you were our baby as much as hers. Our old albums are peppered with photos of us carrying you, and you screaming your head off. One day, after she'd started you on solids, Mom asked me to put your baby food in a bowl of hot water, so it would be a suitable temperature. I was puzzled by the request, and when I asked for clarification,...

The kids burst into the room, puncturing my sleep and yanking me back into the world. I am momentarily disoriented, and slowly realize from the faint light coming in from the window that the sun has just set. I hear the second call to prayer, and then a voice begins to recite – very softly – from the mosque nearby. It is a sound not of this world. From where I am, lying in bed while the kids play around me, it is only a distant hum, rhythmic and melodic. It is too far away for me to hear what is being recited, but it pulls at my heart. Suddenly, another voice intrudes rudely into my reverie. A man right outside my window talks loudly, arguing with someone, swearing. This loud voice in the foreground contrasts starkly with the quiet one in the background. The man soon goes away, and I am drawn back to the voice from the mosque. My heart yearns for that peace within the rude noise of this world. The sound is so beautiful I want to rush into the night to find it, to draw closer so I can ...

I don't know how you did it. Regardless of all the warnings, you'd sleep late every night. Before dawn, Mom would be in and out of your room a dozen times, shaking you, calling your name, announcing how many minutes were left. Sometimes you didn't get up. But, usually, you'd manage to stumble out of bed and make it downstairs in a daze, squinting in the bright lights, glasses placed on your face haphazardly. “Pass me a jug of water!” you'd yell. “How many minutes are left?” Usually, they'd be less than five. We'd be getting those last gulps of water, looking at the wall clock above the dining room table, and you'd just be starting. You'd grab whatever was on the table and ingest it at an alarming speed—ensuring indigestion later, but desperate times call for desperate measures! Mom would have a pitcher of water ready for you, daily—was that a wry smile that she hid from her firstborn?—and we'd laugh out loud watching you glug, glug, glug, water s...

I carry you everywhere, a second soul in my body. I used to forget you daily, months ago, unaware of my gift and burden; you are more insistent now to be recognized, heavier, visible. I have not yet met you, but you are of my flesh -- amazing how I can love someone I do not know. You don't yet know it, but I want you to be the best part of me, the best part of him, and better. I see, suddenly, that this is what my mother wanted from me. (Dedicated to my mom. Written February 2009.)

A smile was pasted on my face that first Eid after I got married, but deep down, I was forlorn. For 25 years, Eid had meant certain things to me, and now that those things were missing... well, it just didn't feel like Eid. In my family of eight, Eid day always started off in a flurry of activity. (Well, that's a generous way to put it; “mad dash” or “stress vortex” would be a bit more accurate.) My parents, of course, would be up early, and if my memory serves me correctly, I usually was too. I much preferred having a leisurely milk-and-cereal breakfast to grabbing a banana while tripping out the door. But no matter how on-time I was, someone or other of my siblings would delay us all. Without exception, there was always someone who'd stayed up late the night before and could not get up. It was usually one of my brothers, whose room my mom would shuffle into and out of at different stages of the morning. Before breakfast. After breakfast. Before getting dressed. After gett...

You may wonder why you are receiving this letter. It is a gift, a reminder of what you already know but sometimes forget: You are here for a reason. You are a force. You are a created soul. You are important. If you've ever thought, “I'm just one person,” realize that one person is a lot. Every human who has ever walked this earth was one person, and each of them left a mark. What will yours be? And no, there is no need to move mountains. There is only a need to nourish hearts. And your heart is the first one that needs to be watered. By His words. By His remembrance. Some of the greatest deeds are things that no human can see. They are deeds of the heart, of the mind. Belief. Certainty. Hope. Optimism. Kindness. Be kind. To yourself first. Stop complaining. Stop lamenting over your lack of focus, discipline, vision, progress. Life is a whirlwind, a dream that quickly slips away. Find out what's important to you and do a little bit of it every day. It's that simple. Foc...

Dear old friend, You always manage to show up at my doorstep suddenly. Even if I know when you're coming, I'm always taken by surprise. You'd think I'd be better prepared. I only see you once a year, for a few days. They pass too quickly. I always feel a bit nervous beforehand. But once I open the door and find you there, beaming, it melts away. You always bring gifts—not things that can be touched, though. Light. Joy. Insight. Gratitude. Patience. Remembrance. Suddenly the hours of the day seem to stretch before me. Do I spend that much time eating? You have a way of looking into my soul, bringing out the good and the ugly. In fact, there's a piece of me that's only here when you're here. When you leave, I feel a loss. I think what I miss most is myself—the part that is capable of so much more. You always leave as abruptly as you arrived, taking with you the gifts you had brought. I try to keep them alive, try to nurture their glow, but they fade all the sa...

The voice is frequently drowned out, but never silenced. It lives on amid the sneers of doomsayers; amid the trash littering every street; amid the sea of garishly painted faces and stretch pants. It shrinks, yes, at every horrible thing that has become normal; at every proof of our failure. It winces at every pathetic trinket imported from China; at the vulgarities written on baby clothing and displayed by clueless shopkeepers; at the absurd cheers heard on every street when the home team scores a goal. But it grows, too. At each call to prayer, it gets a little bigger, and at every kind word or gesture. “See?” it says, nudging me when a young man offers me his seat on the bus – though the scar on his cheek says he’s been in a street fight. “Didn’t I tell you?” it murmurs when a taxi driver drops me off on the other side of a busy street so I don’t have to cross with my children. And when my child picks up an Arabic book and reads it on her own, the voice tells me we made the right de...

I remember the first time I saw your face. Your cheeks flushed a deep red when I walked into the room. I was surprised; I had never seen a man blush before. I remember you sitting in that sunk-in armchair, motorcycle helmet balanced on one knee, listening to my dad and uncles talk about anything and everything. We placed sweets before you in those fancy little plates, but you never ate anything. I remember peeking through the curtain as you put on your helmet and sped away. A bearded Egyptian guy didn't quite fit the stereotype I had in my head of motorbike riders. I remember looking at you from the upper floor of the masjid on the big day. Your head was down the whole time. I sat listening solemnly too, but when I heard my name spoken together with yours, I grinned like a fool. I remember descending the masjid stairs, and how you hid behind a wall when you saw me. You told me not to expect that you'd hold my hand in public. You did hold my hand later before you left for the ni...

Go on, believe the lie that your parched heart has soaked up so thirstily. Believe that they are less than you. Believe that their skin tone, their features, and their belief make them less human. Believe that you are a victim, that you are only defending yourself. Believe it as you trample on babies. Believe that you are cut of a different cloth, that you are superior. Believe that you are still human. Believe all the ugly words that have become your truth. The world says they have been debased and dehumanized. But I say it is you who have been debased and dehumanized. Alas, I have no pity for how you have ruined yourself. (September 2017)

The first time I saw you, I knew my life would never be the same. Your face was swollen, red, and puffy, but to me it was the most beautiful I'd ever seen. Everything in you was perfect: your fingers, your toes, your shock of black hair, your newly-opened eyes. You were the epitome of everything new and good. To me, your existence meant love, hope, and wonder. The gift of you brought to life a part of my heart that I didn't know was there. To put it simply, I never knew a piece of me could exist outside my body. Also, I never knew the true meaning of “tired” until you came! Regardless, everything you did was amazing. When you smiled, held your head steady, sat by yourself, clapped, gurgled, crawled, stood, walked, talked... I was giddy with joy. I'd never felt a joy so pure. For the next three years, my life revolved completely around you (and, eleven months after you came, your sister). My sense of myself – my very existence – was defined by my babies. It was simultaneousl...

We'd walk down those nondescript Egyptian streets, my siblings and I, faces glistening with sweat in the humid summer weather. The Mediterranean was just around the corner; it brought the breeze, but it also brought that heavy moisture that hung in the air. Mom's eager steps led us to her childhood home, past listless men sitting in cafe chairs in the street, watching passersby. All those old buildings looked the same to us – until we reached the entrance to your building. They were double doors, wooden and painted blue once-upon-a-time, and one of them was always open. I guess you'd hear our clambering footsteps approaching, because you'd let out your signature whistle. It was a simple melody: two long notes, gentle like the wind against our sweaty faces. We'd look at each other in excited recognition, grab the metal banister, and dash up the wide stone staircase leading up to your apartment. You'd always be waiting in the doorway with a big smile. Your kisses ...