Sumayyah Scribbles

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...