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 ...