Category: ShortStory

Nothing is Sacred

By: Yaman

Nothing is sacred anymore.

Ironic for that to be my first conscious thought as I woke to the rhythmic hymns of the call for the morning prayer. The call became louder with each passing line. I had let Farah change the alarm’s setting a week ago. She gave it back with a sly smile.

“His voice will now slowly rise with the sun, but still faster than you,” she said.

She was getting to the age where she recognized her own cleverness. I’m a little worried by this; she is also getting to the pint where outsmarting others was no longer charming for a girl. She will have to consciously choose to be herself as others damn me for not teaching her manners.

I trust she is smart enough to know that nothing would make me more proud, so I mirror the half-smile.

“The slower I rise, the more time you have to sleep in.”

I tap her on the nose. Her smile loses its slant and turns into a full one. If ever there was a sight that a metaphor couldn’t grasp, it was that.

This brings me back to the prayer’s call, as I recall my mother’s dubiousness towards religion. If you ever wondered, a zealot father and an agnostic mother make for an ambivalent but practicing son. I remember her warning to me one day, coming out of a Friday prayer sermon that gave her particular angst.

“A metaphor is used to grasp, amplify, or create meaning. There is nothing that gives more meaning to man than religion, and so no metaphor more strong. When someone starts with the words of the Lord, that should make you more alert than during any other speech. Not because he is more likely to willfully trick you, but because you are more likely to unconsciously believe them even if they are wrong. And in this world, there are too many who love nothing more than to willfully steer you wrong.”

This made me respect my dad even more. He never went a sentence without injecting the Lord’s name. Despite my mom’s alertness, or maybe because of it, she often said that his speech was what she first fell in love with.

“Allahu akhbar allaaaahu akbar”

The repeating of the first line of the prayer call, which praised God as greater, meant that the end of the hymn was near. It was also how last night’s speech from the leader of our nation began.

It was angry.

“God is greater. God is greater.” He bellowed.

“God is greater than our enemy, and greater than our strengths. He is greater than our worries, and greater than our pride. He instructs that we fear not giving this life in order to secure back his lands for our children. He promises us a life far greater in the next world.”

Hard to believe that the same words that wake your conscious to the connectedness of the world can also beat the drums of war. And on and on they drummed, until last beat played out, again echoing the structure of the prayer call.

“La illaha illa Allah.”

Very matter of factly, Very matter of factly, there is no deity but God.

It had finally occurred to me what my mother meant. That phrase, used in conjunction with a metaphor about the meaning of life, can amplify a message in two drastically different ways. It could be a phrase of compassion that represents that we are all connected to one God, even if we worship differently. But more often, it can propagate the message that Islam is the only path towards salvation.

Metaphors, I realized, are tools in our colloquial box of tricks. We can use them to construct stories that help us understand and empathize, or we can use them to induce fear in order to maintain a system and manipulate the masses.

All our current leaders use them for the latter. One of our young ones has to survive through adulthood without being too entrenched in the system to lead the way for change. One way they can win me as a follower is by not stuffing their religion down my throat.

I hope they come soon enough so that my daughter is able to be clever freely, because otherwise, I fear she is strong enough to take the burden if it is passed to her.

Farah’s chapter comes next with this

Sometimes I think my father thinks me smarter than I actually am.

Fever Pitch

By: Yaman Al-Nachawati

I must have been sitting there for over a half hour, stroking her long black hair as she slept on my lap.

Seeing her finally at ease was the only thing that made life bearable after the last few days. Just a minute ago, I thought I saw the beginnings of a smile. Guilt seeped through me when I realized that I am not yet ready for her full one; she has her mother’s dimples.

How I miss her.

That smile was why we named her Farah, my Joy since the day I first held her 12 years ago. I was worried the world had lost two of its most prized jewels forever.

My thoughts returned to her brother in the next room, and I began to worry. I had not heard an update in far too long.

When Dr. Ben finally walked in, I tried not to read too much into his face.

“I managed to get the shrapnel out from his leg, but the infection had already started to spread.”

I shuddered uncontrollably. That word. That word echoes in my mind daily. That word cost me the mercy that had come from the Heavens, my Hanan.

I did all I could to fight off the flashbacks, but braced myself for the one that I had no control over. I could feel Hanan’s hands in mine as I tried to absorb all the heat from the fever I knew would kill her. Without any medicine left, there was nothing more I could do. It was the first time I felt alone; my older brother, Hamid, my right hand before her, was mourning the loss of his own wife from the blast.

But what haunts me the most from that day was the smile.

I knew she had given all she had to flash it; that she knew I needed something to help me when all I wanted to do was help her. But when the dimples faded as quickly as they had come, it hurt me in a place I do not think can heal. Her soul rose back to the Heavens not long after. I let go of her hands and closed my eyes in silent prayer.

When I re-opened them, I regained control of my thoughts long enough to see Dr. Ben’s horrified face. I begged him not to worry and to continue.

“Had we not been able to sneak the supplies through the border yesterday, we would have had to amputate. But as long as you give him the antibiotics, he should be fully recovered soon.”

I said every prayer I remembered to thank and bless Dr. Ben. I knew the sacrifices he was making to be here, the risks he was taking. It made it difficult for me to look him in the eye.

“One last thing, Adam.” He waited for my acknowledgement to make sure I was still with him.

“You must be very careful with his fever.”

I nodded as he parted. I know all too much about fevers, Doc.

I was shaken in surprise when the moment of silence was disturbed.

“Why does a fever come with an infection, Baba?”

Farah had fooled me into thinking she was asleep. I smiled glowingly; both her cleverness and curiosity came from her mother.

It was the first time a thought about Hanan did not cut through me. If anyone could turn these nightmares back into dreams, it was going to be Farah. I thought deeply about how to answer her question.

“The body begins to think that the only way to fight off the infection is to heat itself. It starts to do things that it knows will hurt it to kill off some of the infection. It does help, at first, but the body realizes it has to raise the temperature even more to have a chance in the fight.”

“But the infection is too strong! The body needs medicine! Otherwise, it will die!” Tears began to fill her eyes.

I took a breath and nodded.

“When the symptom is taken for the cure, it kills you long before the disease does.”

I hated being so bold with her, but it is something else that Farah had in common with Hanan; the cold truth comforts her far more than a white lie. I knew that she would now need something to do to take her mind off her mother. I gave her the antibiotics and asked if she could give them to Osama.

“And for the fever, Baba?”

I smiled.

“If you cure the infection, the fever will die down too, habibti. But put this on his head in the meantime.” I said, giving her a cold wet cloth.

Her face told me I was not yet in the clear.

“Baba, what caused the infection outside? Why was our house bombed? Why did Mama and Ammai have to die?” she asked, in a stone expression I wish on no father.

It was a question I would not have known how to answer coming from anyone else. But something about Farah’s straight forwardness forced me into finding a clear reply.

“Hate. Hate is the root of it all.”

She nodded.

It broke my heart that she already understood hate so well.

“I think it spread to some of the people we know after the bomb, Baba.”

I avoided her eyes, already feeling the pain of the question to come.

“ Sometimes I feel like I am going to catch it. It scares me. What will I do then? Where can I find the cure?”

I let the blow of the question sink in and then leave. I looked her in the eyes and found what I was looking for.

“The cure is in all of us, Farah. I know you carry it with you always.”

Her face turned soft again, and it unburdened me to know she understood. She was far too wise for her age. She went to treat her brother.

That’s when I received the call; I could barely make out Hamid’s words through the mania behind his voice. He was on the run, he told me. He had launched a rocket towards the other side, and could not bring himself back in the neighbourhood in fear of making us targets.

“Sometimes the cure gets buried beneath losses too heavy to dig out.” I mumbled to no one, as more tears began to flow from the well I thought was dry. I prayed for him and wiped my face.

When Farah walked back in the room, she was holding another cold wet cloth.

“I think Ammo Hamid needs this, too.” She said, going back to her comfortable spot, head on my lap.

I took it from her slowly and stroked her hair.

I wonder if Farah knows that she is the only person keeping me sane.