succumb

a novel

to my family, for their support

to Tanya, for her love and persistence

to those who didn’t believe in me, for making me try

introduction

In the recent years, months, and days of my life, political interest has grown in me as testament to my father’s eagerness to learn and read new things on a constant basis. Having been as so aptly named, my father’s son, it’s only natural that my readings into political affairs and the like is why I am now writing this book.

In the days after the 2000 Election the United States that was so heavily engrossed in it, I found myself watching as if it were the season finale of a hit sitcom on a major network, eating popcorn and soda as if it were proper entertainment by a given ‘common’ standard. From this point, it was a switch in my life that had generally been very carefree and uninvolved with affairs of state. Over the next year, I watched news on CNN, FOX, and as recommended by my father to get a more broad view of the world, the BBC, Jerusalem Post, and other foreign papers and websites.

In my time watching and reading, there had been constant escalations of violence in the middle east, most of which is not reported by the US media outlets. Myself being naïve to the entire world of politics, and also the circumstances in the Middle East, I found myself doing homework on the creation of Israel, the seven day war, and other events in line with that area.

Now it’s important to note, that my family, both immediate and otherwise, is Muslim. Prior to my interest sparked in politics, my faith in religion had long quelled and much to the chagrin of my mother, I had abandoned going to the mosque for prayers, did not participate in religious holidays (namely Eid), and did not take part in what would be called a ‘good’ Muslim’s life.

September 11^th was an awakening. Rushed from my sleep in the early hours of the morning (I’m not a morning person) by my father whose only words were “the world is coming apart” in a somber tone, I found myself plopped in front of the television in time to see the second plane hit the Twin Towers, live. My first thought was immediate and as is my nature, I blurted out that it was more likely than not, Muslims. Soon after I made my own conclusion, Tom Clancy was being interviewed on CNN explaining how the Muslim faith was generally tolerant and peace loving. And having been bought up in a Muslim family, I could not disagree more.

Through my readings, my research, my questions and ultimately my answers, I found that other than in America and other civilized countries, Muslims were savage. Palestinians by in large wanted ‘blood’ for every act committed against them. Mullahs from Pakistan and Afghanistan called for the slaughter of non-believers. Yet in a time long ago where technology and communication were in infant stages, Muslim warriors during the Crusades, like Saladin, allowed religious tolerance for all, and freedom to worship without any hardships on non-Muslims.

It was in this time that Muslims thrived. Making some of the most brilliant discoveries including the earliest cataract surgeries, medicinal advances and truly magnificent artwork, the Muslim empire was the most influential and prosperous of its time. It also was the time that Muslims was the most educated and inspiring.

After the Twin Towers’ bombing, I found myself inundated with relatives explaining to me how it was a “Jewish conspiracy,” how these acts were somehow justified by Palestinian treatment, and a bunch of other comments generally geared towards the “Zionists.” I would nod and listen, afterwards discussing with my father the ludicrous accusations that are made. It was almost entertaining how uneducated my relatives seemed when they discussed these events – I had to bite my lip in order to withhold my smiles.

But it proved a point to me – that education is key. My father, was far more intelligent than the rest of his family. Of course this is partially why he could see both sides instead of being blinded by the Muslim right. By in large, my extended family was anti-Jewish. I remember it as early as the 2000 election, when my mother received phone calls from Muslim friends asking who she voted for. “Not Lieberman right? He’s a Jew!”

And such has been my life. Fortunately I have not been ingrained with the hatred many others have, and with my (relative) ability to see both sides, I can see neither is right, and that the deciding factor in every one of these regions to bring some type of peace is a civilized education. Those who do not know history, as they say, are doomed to repeat it. In the Muslim world, it seems, without education, violence and hatred know no bounds. It did not hurt, that my Godmother and Godfather were both Jewish – my Godmother having lived through World War II in Berlin as a young girl. I suppose it’s given me a balanced view on things, and when I reflect back I suppose it’s probably led me astray from the radical points of view adopted by many.

And today I sit here presenting a book to you, the reader. I wanted to give you a background of how I came to write this book. Being brought up in an immediate environment that’s tolerant, and an extended environment that’s prejudiced and severely biased, it is difficult to put into words how I feel about these problems that lie in the Middle East and the rest of the Muslim world.

I thus, present to you a simple work that tries to put into a story, the way I feel, and what my hopes are.

Please enjoy the book, and to those Muslims that may feel offended – you haven’t read the book correctly, or you are getting a translation from a third party. I hope that my dreams that I express here can escape some day to reality.

Chapter 1

The house was a mess. It wasn’t normally this way – Aminah was usually immaculate with her home, however today her mind was preoccupied with packing. It was all done in a rush; the need to move was great and very suddenly necessitated only weeks before.

“Fatimah hurry up, we do not have much time left to leave,” Aminah instructed her daughter.

“Umma, please sit down and let me do this. You are not in the right shape to do all this. I will take care of the packing that is left,” Fatimah replied.

The house itself wasn’t much to look at. It was a two story home, only because a single story would leave it a mere two rooms. The front door led into the living room, where most of the meals were had. Before the move, a beautiful Persian carpet adorned the entrance of the home in that room – part of Aminah’s dowry from her father. The walls, once adorned with pictures of their daughter, husband, and family pictures now had only nails left where the pictures once hung. All around the room boxes were stacked filled with remnants of the years they had spent in the house. The mattresses that made up the furniture of the upper level were leaning against the wall.

Directly ahead, the living room met the kitchen. A sink with a small countertop sat in front of a window that looked out into the backyard. Flowers sat on the back of the countertop to the left of the sink and they remained there even during the move – it seemed unimportant to pack them in the rush. On the left and right, cabinets hung and held the glasses, plates, pots and pans – now safely packed away. Fatimah sat on the floor with a blanket, wrapping a glass with the blanket around it to prevent it from breaking.

Aminah had a cold sweat building. She had taken her daughter’s advice and sat down, and placed her hand on her protruding stomach. The movement within her belly was pleasant, and she took a few moments to enjoy it. Then the rumble outside came, and finally the knock at the door.

“Fatimah, DON’T!” her mother warned. She slowly stood up, and walked toward the door.

Turning the knob, and opening the door revealed a gentleman – strikingly handsome and young. Green eyes pierced from under his uniformed headpiece. His brown locks wrapped around behind his ear. His stance was a straight as a board, the result of military training, or a very strict mother – perhaps a combination of both. Upon his face were gold-rimmed spectacles that helped keep the hair wrapped around his ears. Around his neck hung a chain with the Star of David as a pendant, the clasp neatly behind his neck. His uniform was pressed perfectly, and he wore the signifying apparel Aminah knew were that of an officer – an Israeli officer.

In a calm, almost soothing voice he asked, “Are you ready miss?” His Arabic was flawless, if you overlooked the slight accent.

Aminah turned back to look into the kitchen. Fatimah had already covered her head with a scarf, and nodded to her mother. Aminah turned back to the officer, and slowly nodded.

He gave Aminah paperwork he removed from his breast pocket. Aminah knew what it was, and quickly putting on her glasses read it, and put it away in her pocket.

“I will have my men bring your family where you like, provided it is safe for us. We will arrange to move your belongings with us as well. I promise you they will remain undamaged.”

“That is not necessary”, a booming voice came from the stairwell. Aminah’s father apparently finished his prayers, strolling down the stairs.

Abdul was not a young man, but his spirit kept him young at heart. The top of his head was bald, though the sides did sport some salt and pepper hair, well-kept and groomed by Aminah. He had a beard, though it was trimmed and clean. He could have been a very convincing western businessman, given his skin was very light, especially for a Palestinian. Glasses sat upon the ridge of his nose. His frame was average and very sturdy from years of physical labor, even though he had just turned 64. He was a kind man, gentle, and intelligent.

“Thank you for your offer,” said Adbul, placing his left hand on the left shoulder of the officer. “My truck is parked just outside and we have made arrangements for their belongings.”

“I will have my men help you to load your truck,” said the officer, turning back to the other soldiers and motioning them to come and get started.

As proud as Abdul was, he knew he was not capable of loading the truck with a young girl and a pregnant woman to help him. He nodded to the officer. “Thank you.”

The soldiers motioned to Adbul to enter the home – apparently the officer was the only one who spoke Arabic. He placed his hand on the left shoulder of the first soldier, and pointed to his truck in the distance. The soldier nodded, and Abdul motioned him inside.

“Aminah, Fatimah come. Go sit in the truck and wait. I will finish here.” He motioned them forward and out the door. They listened immediately, and ushered out the door. Fatimah took her mother’s hand and walked her to the truck, an old 80s Toyota pickup.

Slowly, the soldiers began to load the truck. As the officer promised, the soldiers were careful, placing boxes so they would not shift on the ride, or fall out of the cab. Aminah sat on the passenger side, her elbow on the inside of the door, her hand on her face. Fatimah saw the tears running from her mother’s face, and consoled her. She draped both arms around her mother, and put her head on her shoulder. Her mother moved her hand from her face, and rested it on her daughter’s head. From the side view mirror, Fatimah saw what the rumbling had come from.

Before they knew it, Abdul was opening the driver’s door and starting the car. The pickup was loaded with their belongings.

From the side view mirror, Fatimah saw movement. The sun shone brightly and glinted off of the steel blade, itself covered in mud and dirt caked on from the elements and use. The use of course was clear to Fatimah, and more so to her now whimpering mother. The blade now lifted high from the ground, soldiers now making a perimeter. The bulldozer charged full ahead, leveling the top story of the home in a single thrust. The bottom story started to collapse from the weight of the rubble, and the bulldozer started to back up to make another pass. Fatimah watched as the officer removed his hat and wiped his eyes of tears. The dust, she figured. He looked in her direction maintaining the stern, solemn look.

As they rode away, their home became increasingly a spec in the side view mirror to Fatimah, disappearing from view just as the bulldozer took it from them in reality. The Toyota took thru the barren streets, kicking up the remnants of what seemed to be a huge parade only days before. Gaza City hosted a lot of these.

Chapter 2

Abdul drove on without looking back, fearing the sight of his daughter’s home being demolished would lead him astray and into evil thoughts against those who did this to them. He turned to look at his daughter and granddaughter – what a strong girl Fatimah was, he thought. Consoling her mother, and doing what needed to be done. He hoped her strong will would also keep her from being lured in by Shaitaan – the devil. He would teach her as best as he could.

Abdul’s home was something of a mansion compared to his daughter’s modest home. It was a two story home, with several bedrooms. The entrance had a proper foyer with a staircase that led upstairs to the four bedrooms. The living room was to the left of the foyer, adorned with scenic artwork, modern furniture and a Persian rug covering the floor. To the right, a dining room with a china cabinet showcasing expensive dish sets, and a table to seat eight people. Beyond the dining room, the kitchen had granite countertops, a simple fridge, and what Fatimah enjoyed the most – a television in the corner.

Pulling up to his home, Abdul got out and went around to the passenger’s side. His daughter’s legs were shaky, but he held her at the armpit, took her inside, and walked her upstairs where she collapsed on a bed. Fatimah followed to the entrance, where she remained in the foyer.

Her grandfather came back down, and put his hand under her chin, and kissed her forehead. He didn’t speak, though Fatimah knew he didn’t need to. She knew what he was feeling even though he tried hard to hide it. He was sorry. Sorry he couldn’t stop the house from being demolished. Sorry he couldn’t do more. Fatimah needed no apologies from him, so she kissed him on the cheek and smiled. Abdul sighed with relief, his heart still heavy and burdened.

He walked into the kitchen, where the cooking smell was strong, and very appealing. Fatimah found herself sitting on a stool in the kitchen, her grandfather and his servant Farrah, cooking a great amount of food. She took the opportunity to set the table in the dining room, getting the plates and silverware from the cabinets.

She was famished. The entire past night, and into this morning she had spent packing, so that her mother would not have to. She finished setting the table and walked back into the kitchen, armed with a spoon taking square aim at the pot brewing the lamb.

“Go pray first,” her grandfather instructed.

She nodded in agreement, but she knew it would be an empty prayer. Everything her family had was taken from her in such a short amount of time. She had nothing to be thankful for. She didn’t want to ask God for anything. She wanted to yell at Him. Yet here she found herself going through the motions, in the living room, showing to her grandfather she was praying, though none of the words that left her lips were from the Quran – they were from her heart, and from her mind. And they were full of hate and sorrow.

By the time she finished her prayers, she turned around to look at the dining table, and it was filled with food. The window outside the dining room showed it to be getting dark outside. Her grandfather stood waiting for her to sit. Farrah was already seated. She knew her grandfather treated her like family – she was an orphan and only 14 years old. He was happy to have her nearly an adopted daughter, and she was happy to be there. Fatimah was 15, so they got along great. She sat down next to Farrah, and her grandfather finally sat after they were seated.

While it was not a happy day, Farrah was able to talk with Fatimah and get her to smile, joking around. It was her personality, and her happiness was infectious. It was good Abdul thought, for Fatimah to be here with Farrah rather than elsewhere.

“Go ahead Fatimah – eat. I know you were hungry.”

Fatimah grabbed the pita in the middle of the table, then helped herself to the lamb stew that was in the pot. Ripping pieces of the pita apart, she ate, her thoughts passing her by as she enjoyed the food.

After dinner, Fatimah realized she had eaten far too much. Her body was weak, and rather than being told by her grandfather to go and pray, she went upstairs to the bedroom where her mother was, laid next to her, and fell fast asleep.

Chapter 3

It was late the next morning when Fatimah awoke. Her mother was gone from her side, and a blanket draped over her that was not there when she had first lain down. The sleep was refreshing, and Fatimah had slept quite a bit more than she was used to. The thin curtains let light in thru their slits, piercing Fatimah’s eyes, as she stirred awake. Squinting her eyes against the sunlight, she staggered from the bed and into the adjacent bathroom. She turned the water on the faucet, ran her fingers thru the stream until it was warm. She splashed her face, cleaning her sticky morning eyes, and turned towards the shower stall.

Coming down the stairs, lunch was cooking. Fatimah had slept right thru breakfast – usually a meal she didn’t miss. The night before had tired her, and given the amount of work, her body now ached for nourishment. The food was about prepared, so Fatimah walked into the kitchen and mumbled a salaam to her grandfather and her mother, both busily preparing the lunch. She went toward the cabinets, and set the table. Sitting down, she saw Farrah dusting the living room furniture. Farrah saw her as well, and put her dusting supplies away, so that she could come sit with her.

Quickly they found themselves chatting away, her mother grabbing quick peeks at her daughter, happy to see her in high spirits. The food was soon set, and the family started to eat.

Farrah had a tiny appetite; it suited her tiny frame. Fatimah however, was eating voraciously. Her mother slapped her hand as she grabbed the pita without using the tongs.

“You have better manners than that!” she yelled. “You were not raised in a cave, use the tongs.”

Fatimah, ashamed at her poor manners bowed her head down in shame and also out of respect. “Sorry… it won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.”

Aminah having finished the conversation with her daughter went back to her food, eating like the royalty she felt she always was in her father’s home — prim and proper – always in her father’s presence.

She took the fork and ate another bite of rice, when her stomach started to ache. She put her hand on her swollen belly, and her face showed the way she felt. Not ill, exactly, but rather in some amount of pain and worry. Her daughter saw it first.

“Mother are you okay?”

There was no response. Her mother now getting up from the table, her hand on the back of their chair, she let out grumbling noises as she steadied herself.

And then her water broke.

Chapter 4

Before Aminah knew it, she was being pushed into the Toyota pickup truck headed for the hospital. The contractions were coming now, harder and faster. Fatimah was as cool as ice, and was there helping her mother and holding her hand, telling her to breathe and relax. They would be there in a half hour.

Abdul, while his face did not show it, was scared out of his mind. His sole attention was on the road ahead, he did not want to look at his daughter now in terrible pain, as it was almost unbearable. When his wife gave birth to their children, a midwife was there to buffer Abdul from the graphic nature of birth. He was always there after the yelling, screaming and cursing, holding his child high in his hands, and proclaiming his happiness as a new father. While he had hoped for a similar circumstance in this case, he knew that Fatimah was far too young to take on that responsibility, and the hospital was the only refuge he had from the actual birth process, and the only hope his daughter had of safely delivering the baby.

Getting to the hospital was a relief – the stewards and nurses ran to the pickup truck as Abdul yelled liked a crazed maniac. He had lost it, and the hospital staff already knew it. They took him aside, and wheeled his daughter into the delivery room.

Chapter 5

His shoulder hurt. The bones in his body were not meant to take such abuse, especially from an energetic and now two ecstatic young girls in Fatimah and Farrah. He woke from his slumber from the waiting room, being woken by the harsh ‘nudging’ of his shoulder by his second daughters. Seventeen hours had passed.

“Grandfather, come, you must come! Umma had a boy! He’s so cute!” shrieked the newly-emerging, and very excited, big sister in Fatimah.

Farrah giggled alongside Fatimah, grabbing Abdul’s hand and lifting him from his long slumber. Still groggy, Farrah already had bought him a cup of tea, placing it in his while dragging him with his other hand.

“Come see the baby!” Fatimah exclaimed.

“Let me see your mother first.” Abdul was excited, nervous, anxious, and scared. It was much like when the midwife pulled him out of his slumber in the same fashion, when his daughter was born.

Entering his daughter’s room was a difficult task. Abdul peered in from the side quietly, at a resting, though not quite asleep Aminah. Monitors and tubes hooked to his daughter’s arms scared him but he knew they were for safety, which reassured him. He came in and quietly shut the door behind him. He walked up to his daughter’s bed, and sat beside her on the chair. Aminah took hold of his hand, and tears flowed onto her cheeks – tears of joy.

“Aminah, are you okay?” Abdul asked, stroking his daughter’s hair from her brow. He placed his hand on her right shoulder. She took hold of his hand with his, and placed it firmly on her cheek. She looked downward, as tears continued to flow.

“Father, God has blessed me with a beautiful boy. I wish his father was here to see this.” Aminah beamed.

Abdul paused. He was not fond of the man Aminah married, but at the time it seemed a good match. The family was good, educated, and relatively religious. They weren’t terribly rich, but Abdul knew the boy’s father – a hard worker and a proud man. He knew that Aminah would be cared for.

“You have been blessed by God. Be thankful, that he sends you a son, to carry on your family, and one day to care for you.”

“Muhammad. God has no other name for this boy – I know it. I will name my son Muhammad, after our Prophet, and after my husband who God has beside him.”

Abdul frowned. Yet, he was happy for his daughter, happy to be a grandfather for now the second time, and happy that his daughter was happy.

“Rest child, you look exhausted. I will look in on Muhammad, and see my grandson for the first time.” He placed his hand gently on his daughter’s cheek, and stood from the chair. He leaned in and gave her a kiss on the forehead. He then pulled the cover up and closed the light as he left the room.

Chapter 6

After a few days at the hospital, Aminah returned home. It was not usual to stay overnight at the hospital for such a simple matter as birth – already the rooms were crowded and the doctors quite busy with their daily schedule full of bullet wounds and stabbings. Abdul however, was friendly with some of the attending doctors – friendly meaning that he was happy to take their money during bridge games. There was a certain level of admiration from the doctors to Abdul, and they extended every courtesy they could for his daughter.

Home felt a lot better than a hospital, thought Aminah. She was uncomfortable being cared for in that fashion for quite some time – before she was married. She was well rested too, and as evening approached she could smell the food cooking from her room. Muhammad now asleep in her lap, she lifted him gently and put him in the crib that was waiting for him the day she arrived back home.

Coming down the stairs, there was quite a commotion. The faces of her father and daughter were present, but also her brother and several friends and cousins.

“Congratulations Aminah!” they said one after another, as she went from person to person. Each offered their own imparting wisdom on the matter of child rearing and she gave them a smile, and in the back of her mind knew that most of her congratulators didn’t have children at all.

Among the people who congratulated her, last was her brother Siddiq, who had returned home from business after hearing the news.

He put his arms around her, and gave her a gentle hug. “God bless you, and my new nephew.” It was the most genuine greeting she received the entire night.

Pleasantries followed, jokes about what Muhammad would be doing as he got older. Aminah’s family and friends planned Muhammad’s life as he sat upstairs, only a few days old.

“A doctor, right?”

“No of course not! An engineer!”

“No, let him become a teacher those are needed most!”

Everybody had an opinion. Aminah for the most part sat back and watched the conversation run its course. She knew that Muhammad’s path in life was not going to be decided by her or anybody else – she would make sure to teach him to take control of his own life.

As the conversation came to a lull, Abdul was quick to slip in a quiet comment – “Dinner is served.”

And if you know nothing of Arabic peoples know this – they love to eat. There was a stampede into the kitchen, and neighbors heard all through the night laughter, yelling, and what seemed to be a really good time.

After the first few yells however, Aminah heard some softer whimpers from upstairs, and excused herself for the rest of the evening to put Muhammad to bed again, and again throughout the night.

Chapter 7

A year had passed, and Muhammad’s first birthday was rapidly approaching. Abdul had written the occasion on the calendar – April 22^nd – because while he was still sharp as a tack, names and dates had started to become fuzzy as he learned them.

The last year had shown a whole host of growth for Muhammad in many ways. He was a bright child, always happy, and rarely cried. Aminah bought him to the doctor about three months after he was born and complained, “My son doesn’t cry. Could there be something wrong with him?”

The doctor gave Aminah a serious stare to see if she was serious, and then burst out in laughter. “You know Aminah, most people bring their children to me when they are crying too much! You don’t have anything to worry about – just a happy baby boy.”

In addition to Muhammad’s likable disposition, his uncle Siddiq had grown very close to him. Often he would rock Muhammad to sleep, feed him his bottle, and change him when the need was there. However, Siddiq continually scolded Aminah for giving Muhammad a passifier and, after enough argumentation, Aminah stopped trying to give it to Muhammad. Siddiq’s logic was that it would make him more of a man – he didn’t need to be pacified. It was a moot point, as after the trip Aminah took to the doctor, she gave up on the idea herself. Muhammad didn’t seem to need it.

Aminah decided during the course of that year, that Siddiq should become Muhammad’s godfather. She saw the way he cared for him, and was glad that Muhammad would have a father figure in his life. She could tell him on Muhammad’s birthday – it would be a surprise for him as well.

Chapter 8

The day was upon them, and it was a small gathering. Muhammad’s first birthday had come, and with it only a few days prior, came his first word – “Iftar” – or breakfast in Arabic.

Aminah felt this was because the child was always awake in the morning – an early riser that she herself was not. And having lived in her father’s home once again, she settled into a bit of laziness when getting up, especially since Muhammad didn’t cry during the nights. Her first job was to prepare “Iftar” for Muhammad and Fatimah, even though it was generally tasked to Farrah to do. Aminah just felt she needed to do her job as a parent in any way she could, even though her father provided whatever she needed.

That evening, a small party was forming. There were decorations, party hats, and a cake waiting in the refrigerator. Even though the party for Muhammad’s birthday was set for 6:00pm, Aminah knew people would continue to drift in until 8pm – it was something true of the culture in which she lived. Nobody really cared much about being on time. The running joke was that their lateness was due to PST, or the acronym they came up with – Palestinian Standard Time.

Aminah knew the tradition and was determined to break it. At 6:30pm when about half the guests had arrived, she served food for the guests that had shown up thus far.

Every guest came with presents in hand, mostly wrapped though a few stuffed in bags with a ribbon or two. The gifts were laid along a table that was in the foyer.

Seven o’clock came and more guests started to arrive and much to their chagrin found the food being served. One of Abdul’s friends came and exclaimed, “Aminah, how could you already serve the food?”

“I invited you at 6:00. It is 7:30. You should make an effort to come earlier, else you will always miss meals at this house.” She turned curtly on her heel and went back to tending to the guests.

Muhammad in the midst of all the commotion was rather unaware it was a special occasion. He was stacking toy blocks upstairs. His coordination frustrated him as he could not stack them in a straight line and they continually tumbled. Nevertheless, he kept picking them up as they fell, and continue to attempt to stack them over and over.

“Where is the birthday boy?” asked Siddiq.

“Upstairs, he is playing but I think he will be glad to see everybody and besides, he needs to eat as well.” Aminah answered. She had been in the past weeks started to feed Muhammad more solid foods and the rice that was served for the guests, he quite enjoyed, plain as it was.

Aminah went upstairs and got Muhammad, still playing with his blocks when she came in. She carried him downstairs without complaint – Muhammad was getting more and more frustrated with the blocks and knew that his mother was bringing him to something better – he could read her pretty well already and knew that she only came to get him for food or to change him. Both of which, he looked forward to.

As Aminah carried him down the stairs, the crowd gathered in the dining room started to cheer. Fatimah hung her head in embarrassment because she knew they would soon be singing a horrendous rendition of “Happy Birthday”. She had been through it quite a few times and it seemed to her, they got progressively worse every year.

Siddiq was the first one up and snatched Muhammad from Aminah’s arms, and started to lovingly toss him into the air making baby noises and smiling at him. Muhammad laughed also – he loved the feeling of being tossed about.

Aminah in the meanwhile lit candles on the cake, while Abdul’s tardy friend started to motion others for the “Happy Birthday” song. Fatimah cringed. As they sang, Farrah too realized why Fatimah had cringed. It was as horrible could be – surely there were birds outside dying a painful death from the horrendous pitch.

After the horrible singing was said and done, the cake was blown out by Siddiq who held Muhammad in his arms. Muhammad got his first small mouthful of his birthday cake – strawberry shortcake.

After the cake was cut and even the tardy guests got some food, presents were put in front of Muhammad and Aminah who helped to open all the boxes.

One by one, presents were opened. Baby clothes, a toy car, money and what Muhammad attached himself to immediately, a teddy bear quite near the size of the birthday boy.

“I guess we know what present he likes best eh Khalid?” joked Siddiq.

“I am glad that he likes it – may God let him have many more happy and healthy birthdays,” replied Khalid.

The few people who knew Khalid was that he was a devoutly religious friend of Siddiq. He kept a full beard, in contrast to the rest of the well groomed or clean shaven guests. Adbul never approved of Khalid, but during his grandson’s birthday he was too preoccupied to care. He was after all, a guest invited by Muhammad’s uncle.

The rest of the night was spent much like the day Muhammad was born – chatting and tea for a better part of the night, while the birthday boy slept soundly upstairs. Before Siddiq retired for the night, Aminah came and hugged her brother and asked him to be Muhammad’s godfather. He was struck with emotion – tears welled up in his eyes which he quickly wiped with his shoulder. He accepted the responsibility, and taking his right hand and putting it on his sister’s cheek, kissed her left cheek.

“I will always take care of Muhammad and see that he is on the path of Islam.”

It was all Aminah could have hoped to hear.

Chapter 9

Spring passed without much incident, fall as well, and in the middle of the winter when the temperature started to drop, so too did Aminah’s health.

She had been stricken with some disease, and refusing to go to the doctor she continually sat in her room, fever running high. Day after day Fatimah and Farrah came up to her room and put cold compresses on her head, massaged her aching body, and fed her. By the time spring rolled around again, she was entirely bedridden.

During the whole time, Muhammad made strides. He managed to stand up the toy blocks to make a vertical tower, much to his mother’s happiness as she watched him from her bedside. He picked up new vocabulary, starting with “Umma” – his mother, who always watched him. Other words came in this time – uncle, grandfather, and of course his teddy bear named affectionately “Teddy”.

It is generally true that you must learn to crawl before you can walk, however Muhammad was taking his first steps early on. His mother was amazed at his development, aided little by herself and partially by Fatimah and Farrah who were all too eager to play with the child. Teaching however, was something they did not do well, and Aminah was happy to have seen Muhammad’s first steps from her bedside – he pulled himself up to her bedside and looked at her, then held the edge of the bed and literally walked away from her. He didn’t make it far before falling, and looking back to Aminah and knowing she would not get up to help him, not a tear was spilled, nor did he muster up the nerve to cry. He fell many, many times but continued to mimic his sister and grandfather who walked upright with such ease. His perseverance was testament to the type of woman his mother was.

Yet still Aminah remained in bed and as the winter crept into her bedroom causing her joints to ache from the cold, she battled the pain that was attacking her. Her body was exhausted and it was at this point finally, where Abdul could take her to the hospital, because every time prior she fought him tooth and nail. He knew now that there would be no such argument and she would come easily to be taken care of. It was difficult for him to watch his daughter in pain.

Adbul was fortunate once again, knowing the doctors as well as he did when he bought Aminah in. She was admitted immediately, even though there were wounded people from a day prior from a helicopter rocket attack in the city. Always the justification was, they were attacking terrorists yet, and Adbul saw only elderly men and women waiting to be cared for, as his daughter was wheeled into the hospital in a wheelchair.

“Collateral damage my foot!” roared Abdul, in a whisper so quiet nobody heard him. It was a sore subject for him.

The doctors admitted Aminah for a few days, and told Abdul to go home and take care of his grandson. Siddiq was in and out of the house, always tending to business though, Adbul was convinced he was never up to any good. Siddiq was old enough however, not to be worried about by his father, but a good parent always looks after his or her children. His daughter was forty, Siddiq was twenty eight, and Adbul himself was sixty seven. It was upsetting to him that at his old age, his health seemed better than his daughters’.

Four days passed, and on the eve of every day Abdul went to the doctors to get what he could from them.

“Be patient, we are still running tests,” was always the answer.

How many tests could they run? On returning from the hospital every night, his head hung lower, and his heart beat faster with every racing thought of what could be wrong with his daughter.

On the morning of the fourth day, Adbul was called into the hospital. He entered the lobby, where he was face to face with the doctor who was attending to Aminah. His hands began to tremble and his forehead began to sweat. The doctor was a good man and saw Adbul in his state.

Taking his hands, the doctor guided Adbul to a chair in the lobby. A nurse came with tea, and now sitting beside him, the doctor said, “Abdul, I have some bad news.”

Chapter 10

Abdul had a very long drive home. It was only about a fifteen minute ride to the hospital, but the return trip home seemed to have lasted hours. He was still trying to wrap his head around the morning – “Your daughter has uterine cancer… we will do what we can.”

He finally got home, and upon entering saw Muhammad climbing onto the chair with both arms greatly bruised – the child refused to give up to the defeat of being able to walk and subsequently had beat his arms grabbing onto any sturdy piece of furniture and then falling over and over. Fatimah was in the kitchen giggling with Farrah as they ate cereal, and for a moment, Adbul’s hands stopped shaking and he inwardly smiled.

“Farrah, Fatimah… can you go to the store and get some milk?” he asked, extending his hand with more money than they needed. He knew they would buy candy with the extra and they would stay later outside than they had to.

They accepted, not noticing the old man’s weariness from the past few days and now this morning. After they left, Adbul went into the living room and from underneath the coffee table took the Quran and opened it, and began to read. Tears came now, dripping onto the pages as he read. He wiped his eyes but eventually began to cry, for there was nothing he could do – his daughter’s life was in God’s hands. He closed the Quran and got up. He washed his hands, face, arms, feet, and then did his prayers, trying to focus deeply on God, and not the daughter he left dying in the hospital.

Chapter 11

Perhaps his prayers found their way to God, because the following seasons gave renewed life and vigor to the once bedridden body of Aminah. The following weeks showed her gaining strength with the medicines the doctors had given her, in addition to the radiation treatments she received at great cost to Adbul. He was happy to pay for it though, because amassing the little wealth he had was ultimately for his family, and his daughter’s health was a subject upon which he could not bring himself to think of cost.

As time went by, Aminah gained strength she had once had. She left her bed, the first time in many months. She began once again, to make her house a home – cleaning, cooking, and being a mother for her children.

Fatimah got the least from Aminah’s recovery – she was growing independent as her mother was bedridden and this only continued as she recuperated. Farrah helped Fatimah in becoming independent – she had known true independence for much longer than Fatimah had, and in their becoming such close friends, it was only fitting that they take on each other’s traits, both good and bad.

Muhammad grew rapidly throughout Aminah’s recovery. From stacking blocks, he began to read at a young age – well, not so much read but associate words with pictures. As Aminah read to him she realized he picked up the word associations quickly. “Apple” was easily associated, and this grew further to more fruits and vegetables, then the names of relatives, and eventually to any object she could point out to him. Muhammad’s memory was exceptional. She didn’t realize how exceptional, until she read him a children’s book a few times and while Muhammad couldn’t read the words, he recited the entire page back to her because he associated the pictures on the page with what words she had read to him prior. It was the first hint at three and a half years old, that Muhammad was exceptionally bright, and Aminah was convinced would bring him great success in his life ahead.

Aminah’s recovery was helping to progress her children, but for her father it had the opposite effect. Abdul gained age and showed age more rapidly than before, perhaps because of the stress of Aminah’s condition, or perhaps the life that had been so kind to him was finally catching up to his age. He always lived like something of a big kid, especially with regards to his diet. He was the type of adult to have sugar in his diet on a continual basis and now in his later adulthood, was diagnosed with diabetes. It was a shock to his family who always looked to him as the source of strength now saw him on a basis get lightheaded because his sugar level was not under control. Aminah made sure to start to take more care of him, as he had taken care of her in her time of need. Abdul’s diet was changed drastically, and the fatty, sweet foods he loved now stayed far away from his plate except only time to time.

Chapter 12

It was a shock, about two years after Aminah’s full recovery that she again wound up in the hospital. Abdul had noticed her being sluggish and complaining of headache and fever, and wasted no time taking her to the hospital. She did not resist this time, as she found great joy in her children and did not want to do anything to jeopardize her being away from them.

Back through the same cold, dark doors of the hospital did Adbul find himself once again. He dreaded it greatly, the very sterile atmosphere that has in it more death than a graveyard could ever see.

“Patience, please sir,” begged the nurse to Abdul’s constant pleas for information about his daughter.

“This is nonsense, no test can take this long!” roared Abdul. He had been waiting for almost six hours, and some tests returned ‘inconclusive’ and yet others needed more time to complete. He also knew that the longer the doctors took, the more he would be charged for this visit.

Adbul’s funds ran low, much as he would never have admitted it to his daughter or grandchildren. Pride was a beast that consumed Abdul and something his daughter had in spades as well. She swallowed it on this visit to the hospital, but Adbul was much more unlikely to admit how close he was to being broke. He always fashioned himself a “man’s man”, where he was the sole breadwinner and took care of his family without any help.

These thoughts, his daughter being ill, his already depleting funds, and the consequences of either or both ran through his mind continually until he tired himself from anger and fear, lashing out at nurses and hospital staff when he knew they were not the cause of his woes. He collapsed on the chair in the waiting room, and did not move until the next day, when the doctor attending to his daughter woke him. The doctor wore a long face, one Adbul had seen a few years earlier when he was told his daughter had cancer. It was not a pleasant way for him to wake.

Chapter 13

After some hours at the hospital, some at the makeshift mosque inside it, Adbul left the hospital. His shirt was soaked, his hands salty, and his body drained. God had taken his daughter, and there was nothing he could do about it. These cries were full of anger and hatred, not of love and affection. God had taken his daughter, robbed his grandchildren of a mother, and robbed her of the life she was meant to live. She was too good a person to have had this happen to her.

He drove aimlessly for what seemed hours, passing his home more than once yet not having the courage to return and break the news to his grandchildren, that their mother was gone. Each pass of his home he gained some strength, because he knew that he still had to be the man who would care for his grandchildren in his daughter’s absence. Some five hour later, he finally drove his car into his driveway. It took him twenty minutes for him to get out of the car, and walk to his front door. Turning the knob was not an issue – Fatimah opened the door and met her grandfather at the door.

“How’s Umma doing?” asked Fatimah.

Adbul had no answer other than to put his hand on her cheek and kiss her head. With a long, sad face, he entered his house without saying a word.

Chapter 14

That evening, Abdul spent time explaining to Fatimah that her mother was not going to come home. She was surprisingly strong; she had since developed a sense of calm the last time her mother visited the hospital. Fatimah had felt her mother slip away from her the last time, and though this time was far more sudden, she shed her tears and then helped her grandfather prepare for the burial.

Siddiq took his sister’s passing the hardest. He wept until his shirt was wet with tears and sweat. As the younger brother, he looked up to his sister’s strength through all she had been through, and felt immediately that she did not deserve this. His rage was circling and kept finding unfortunate victims, yelling at his father, at Fatimah and Farrah, however never at Muhammad. He still remembered the promise he kept to his sister when Muhammad’s first birthday came – he would stay true to that, and take the child under his wing entirely and make sure that he had a positive male role model in his life. What more, the guilt and sorrow he felt that the boy’s next birthday – a little more than a week away – would be missed for the first time by his mother.

Muhammad through the next few days was oddly silent. The child that was so filled with joy seemed to be carrying baggage on his shoulders more than he could manage to hold.

As is customary in Islam, Aminah was buried almost immediately. The body was cleansed and the next day, put to rest. Abdul was involved many times in burying those that died with the continuous violence between the Israeli Defense Forces and the militants – many times innocents would be killed and he often helped the families cope with their losses, and not turn their anger against the wrong people, but rather those who incited the violence themselves. And now, in his time of need he found not a soul willing to sit by his side and console him in his time of mourning.

Aminah was laid to rest the next morning at dusk, only a handful of people present as prayers were read, all wishing her an expedient trip to Heaven. Abdul felt further upset that Siddiq’s friend Khalid, had come to the burial – he was not a friend of the family nor was he a friend of Aminah’s. His appearance there was unbecoming of the rest of the mourners, all clean shaven or at least, very well groomed beards, and well dressed in suits and ties, he instead came wearing loose white robes and with a full beard, now running wild with strands of silver hair.

“My deepest condolences Abdul,” professed Khalid. “I do not know your pain but know that I am here in your time of mourning, and if you should need anything please do not hesitate to ask me.”

“Thank you for coming,” replied Abdul curtly. The only image Khalid bought to Abdul’s mind, was those of the militants that caused much of the innocent death by promoting violence. He was tempted to say something more abrasive but held his tongue – Aminah would have scolded him for yelling and he did not want to dishonor her wishes as she was not a few meters away, now being covered by earth.

“Siddiq, take the children home and help Farrah make food for the evening. I want to stay here a little longer,” asked Abdul.

“You should come home Abba, there’s nothing more we can do for her,’ replied Siddiq.

Already more than annoyed with Siddiq’s friend, Abdul’s anger unleashed on his son.

“GO HOME NOW!” roared Abdul. With the loud eruption, the funeral attendees also decided it would be a good time to move on from the service. They quickly paid their last respects and walked away, heads hung low in respect.

Siddiq picked up Muhammad in his arms. As Muhammad came to eye level with Siddiq, Muhammad turned to his uncle and with his childhood innocence asked simply, “Umma?”

Siddiq shook his head and looked away, tears now in his eyes. He hugged the boy he carried in his arms, as tears rolled from his cheeks onto Muhammad’s back. Muhammad hugged his uncle back – one hand still holding his toy bear, ‘Teddy’ – and wrapped his arms around his neck and found Siddiq’s hair still long enough to play with. He put his head down on his uncle’s shoulder and kept quiet for what seemed an eternity. ‘Teddy’ dangled down his uncle’s back. Siddiq took Fatimah’s hand, and motioned her to leave with him. Farrah followed right beside.

Within fifteen minutes the gravesite was cleared of people, and Adbul sat alone at his daughter’s grave, got on both knees took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly. The tears began to well in his eyes, his body started to shake, he put his head in his hands and began to sob violently.

Chapter 15

The simple thought of ‘time healing all wounds’ is one that could have found itself in Abdul’s home very easily. He saw with his own eyes that Fatimah was turning from a girl to a woman as each day passed. Developing into a strong woman no less, not unlike her mother. Muhammad as well moved forward in his vocabulary, and with Siddiq’s now constant involvement, had also learned to pray properly. ‘Teddy’ remained a constant spectator that sat on the side as Muhammad read his prayers.

Abdul was glad to see it all, though he could still not bring himself to smile. A weariness that did not afflict him through much of his older years now took firm hold in every aspect of his life. He was often an early riser in the mornings – the first to wake others for Fajr prayers. Now he would stay asleep for hours past Fajr, and not even make up the prayer later as he did when he woke late. The salt and pepper hair he kept well groomed now grew unruly and long, and even more started to fall out as he slept late.

As part of his father’s deterioration, Siddiq moved back home with his father. Now married, Siddiq took residence in his own bedroom which was largely untouched from when he moved out years earlier to pursue business interests. He did not however, have any children, and in Muhammad now a burgeoning six years old, he felt the growth of a man he had not known prior – one giving, kind, and the one quality that surprised him most – patient. He found this quality most as Muhammad asked questions about his surroundings, about his mother, and now as he came to understand the role of one, his father.

Siddiq was unsure how to handle the subject of Muhammad’s father – it was one Aminah had kept to herself as well and did not discuss even with Fatimah. Aminah’s husband was a good friend of Siddiq’s, and it was how the match was made to begin with, on Siddiq’s recommendation of his strong-charactered friend, Abdullah. Aminah’s father was enamored by him, his hard work, his dedication to his family, and his strength in Islam. He felt it would be a good basis of life for his grandchildren, to at least learn the fundamentals of Islam from their father.

So instead of answering Muhammad where his father was, Siddiq offered his opinion of the man.

“Your father was a great man, and he loved you and your mother and your sister greatly. His death was tragic and only forced upon him by the Zionists.”

Muhammad sat quiet – he knew well enough to not question his uncle in the midst of his long speeches, especially those he felt so strongly about. He was still curious of course, but knew there were other avenues to find information about his father. He hugged Teddy tightly and listened.

Chapter 16

In the fall of Muhammad’s sixth year, he attended his first Friday Jummah prayer, where all the Muslims of the neighborhood answered the call of the azan and went to the mosque. This was done in spirit of Muslim unity and also reverence to God. After weeks of practicing his salaat Muhammad was ready to pray with the adults, something he had looked forward to for some time.

The mosque was not far from their home, a round building with rickety wooden doors as an entrance that never closed, regardless of the time of night. The top of the mosque had a dome on it, inscribed with words from the Quran, reading Allah, the most beneficient, the most merciful. There were two entrances to the mosque, each on opposite ends of the building – one for men, the other for women.

Muhammad took his time before going upstairs. This was his first visit to the mosque and he wanted to remember it in vivid detail. On the bottom floor, he saw a curtain behind which he heard the voices of the women. Generally women did not come in as great a number to the mosque so their prayer area was smaller than that of the men’s. He walked to his left, just past the mosque entrance and removed his shoes, and placed them on the rack next to his uncle’s. Following his uncle again, he went further left into the washroom where he began to make wudu or the cleansing of the body in order to offer prayer to God. Hands, arms, face, feet and neck were all cleansed under running water while whispering a prayer as each body part was washed. He dried his body and started up the stairs, now directly behind him.

Going up the stairs was nothing special – a small lamp lit the way up as there were no windows, and proceeded out to the main prayer room. Muhammad climbed stairs to a great hall, adorned with simple carpets, all rectangular in shape and meant to be one to each person. The carpets were inlaid with a simple building, a square which was symbolic of the Kabah, the holiest site in Islam, colored white on a dark green background.

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