Amber Brown
So how’s school?” Amal asks, sitting in front of me.
I pause between shoving three yabra’as into my mouth, relishing the slightly lemony taste and the rich spices in the rice and meat.
“Is this why you asked me over?” I ask through a full mouth.
She rolls her eyes. While my hair nearly reaches below my waist, Amal’s hair is sheared into a French bob.
Her bangs make her look younger, and the whole style works extremely well with her square-shaped face.
She’s always known how to be chic and use what God gave her.
Although she loves expensive things, she’s able to create expensive looks from whatever she has.
Her apartment reflects that. It’s a two bedroom, and most of Amal’s and Marwan’s salaries go toward the rent.
She keeps it minimalist, opting for a light green and sky-gray palette.
She doesn’t like the floors, because they’re laminated when she wanted tiles, so she covered them with rugs.
Mama called them poor imitations of the real Syrian ones in Souq Al-Hamidiye.
“This is a normal question.” Amal takes a sip of her coffee. “You ask me about my job, and I ask you about your school. Unless you’re feeling defensive for some reason?”
“Can I eat?” I answer instead.
“Fine.”
She watches me and pushes the bowl of yogurt toward me before getting up and pouring me a glass of ayran.
I pause, swallowing hard. “Why are you taking care of me?”
She frowns. “I always take care of you.”
I take another bite. “You never poured me ayran before.”
She stares at me for long second, long enough for me to finally realize she’s nervous. The yabra’a in my mouth turns to cement, and I find it hard to swallow. My fork clatters onto the table, and my stomach seizes with nerves.
“Stop it. Relax.” She takes the seat in front of me.
“What’s happening?” I swallow thickly. “Is it Mama? Don’t tell me it’s nothing,” I interrupt when she moves to say something. “Don’t you dare gaslight me.”
“Okay.” She holds her hands up. “I have news. It’s not bad; I promise.”
I loosen for a fraction, but my muscles hurt from how much I’m tensing them.
Amal takes a deep breath before placing a palm onto her stomach. “I’m pregnant.”
I gawk at her, and my guard shatters. “Oh my God!” I gasp.
I stand, rushing to hug her. She wraps me tightly in her arms, and I’m half on her lap as a fierce nostalgia sweeps through me, remembering when Mama used to hug me like this. Amal inherited her hugs, and I wish she’d hug me like this every day.
When we break apart, Amal’s eyes are misty, and I feel my own become watery as well.
“I can’t believe I’m going to be a mom.” Amal laughs shakily.
“You’ll be amazing.” True happiness creeps through the emptiness. And this time, it stays. I’ll be an aunt. I wonder what this baby will inherit from me, from Amal, from Mama, from Baba. From our ancestors that we don’t know. “Did you tell Baba?”
She nods. “I went to the gas station last week and told him. He was happy. Well, as happy as Baba can be.”
I glare at her. “You knew for so long?”
“I wanted to tell you in person,” she protests. “And you were busy with school. Ergo, the yabra’a is an apology.”
I sigh. “Okay. You’re forgiven.”
She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
“I don’t know why I’m crying.” She hiccups.
“I’ll get you tissues.” I skip toward the kitchen. “Your hormones are all over the place.”
“I was thinking of Mama too,” she says from the living room, and I pause, my palms becoming sweaty. “I was thinking how the baby will never know her.”
I stare at the box of tissues and don’t move.
“And I’m thinking, how will I tell the baby about her?
” Amal continues, her voice wavering. “I’m thinking how she was pregnant with us; she must have talked to us all the time.
And I know I was in her stomach, and I don’t remember any of it, but I hate that I don’t.
I hate we had time with her we don’t remember.
It’s so stupid. But I hate it. And every day, I’ll forget one thing about her, and I don’t know how much I’ll remember when the baby is old enough to understand it had a grandmother who died. ”
My throat feels too raw.
“Our family was so small to begin with,” Amal says, and I think it’s easier for the both of us to listen and talk when we can’t see each other.
“We don’t even keep in contact with our relatives in Syria because they’re strangers to us.
Sometimes…I wish Mama and Baba never left Syria.
I don’t know if we would have been worse off, but at least we’d have a family.
Maybe what happened wouldn’t have happened. Maybe Mama would still be alive.”
I lean my head against the wall in her kitchen, closing my eyes. “If we stayed in Syria, you wouldn’t have met Marwan.”
She blubbers out a laugh. “No, he would have found me there.”
I open my eyes, staring at the salt and pepper shakers.
“Do… do you think about that?” Amal asks in a quiet voice.
“Yeah,” I croak. “All the time.”
“But then I feel guilty because we’ve been given so much. We’re not suffering because of what’s happening in Syria. I just didn’t think it had to be a choice like this. Staying and suffering or leaving and being in gh’erbe.”
Gh’erbe, I think.
No word in English comes close to the true meaning of the word in Arabic.
The root word of it meaning “to withdraw.” From it comes many words with the same meaning.
The sunset. The absence of light. At its essence, it’s being a stranger in a strange country.
A country that doesn’t feel the way home should feel.
Strange in your skin that doesn’t fit along your muscles.
It’s a never-ending ache every person away from their homeland feels for the rest of their lives.
As Muslims, we always knew that word would become a part of us.
“It’s not fair,” she says. “But this life isn’t forever.”
“No, it’s not.” I think I want to tell her about the murals. I think she’ll believe me. I clear my throat. “Hey, Amal.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you see those murals out in the city?”
“Oh my God, yes,” she exclaims. “Stephanie hates them because our office building got an entire mural all over it. The conch and all.”
I scratch the wall. “What do you think of them?”
“Hmm, they’re all right. I love the colors. They remind me of how Mama used to paint in her sketchbook.”
I take a deep breath. “I think—”
“Okay, I can’t do this. Jihad, can you come back here? There’s something else I need to tell you.”
This time when my stomach twists on itself, it doesn’t stop. Something terrible is going to happen when I walk back into the living room.
Amal stands in the middle, fidgeting with her fingers and wearing an incredibly guilty expression.
I stare at her silently because my mouth won’t move. No sound would come out even if it did. I’m beyond terrified.
She swallows hard, pressing two fingers to massage her forehead.
“Marwan and I have been trying for a while,” she begins in a forced calm voice.
“A month or so after we decided we wanted to have kids, Mama…Mama was gone. I—I couldn’t think of anything at the time but what happened.
But then, I started thinking again. I want to have a baby; so does Marwan.
We started looking for jobs outside of New York.
We got a lot of rejections. But before we found out I’m pregnant, Marwan got an offer in Qatar. It all just came together.”
She goes silent, waiting for me to say something. But I don’t understand.
“Jihad, Marwan and I are moving to Qatar.” She moves toward me.
Everything is happening in slow motion. “He signed the contract last week. We already have an apartment. A duplex, actually. The company will pay the rent. It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever seen.
We could actually buy a house there because there’s no interest. Everyone’s Muslim.
I won’t have to be scared I’ll be shot in the streets just for existing.
My baby will go to school where I won’t worry every day there’ll be a school shooting, just praying they come back home.
I’ll live in a place that’s home. It won’t be gh’erbe. ”
She holds my arms, and I immediately push her away.
“You’re leaving?” I ask in a choked voice. “After everything—after—you’re leaving? You’re leaving me too?”
Her face crumples. “Jihad, I’m not—”
“Yes, you are!” I shout. “You’re leaving me here alone. How could you do this? You’re selfish; that’s what you are!”
“Jihad,” she says, lips trembling. “Listen—”
“Save it! Leave everything to me. Let me deal with Baba and all this shit while you go off and have an amazing life!”
Amal moves to grab my arms again to pull me to her. But I shake her off, and with cold hands, I tie my hair quickly before putting on my hijab.
“Jihad, please,” she pleads. “Listen to me. I’m not leaving you, okay? I’ll talk to you every day. We don’t even see each other here all the time. You’ll visit me in the summer. I’ll pay for your plane ticket. You could apply to universities in Qatar too. Or a job. I’m not leaving you behind.”
I let her talk to herself as I aggressively twist the hijab around my head and neck and grab my bag.
“Jihad, talk to me.” She follows me frantically through the apartment. “Jihad, please. This isn’t about me anymore. I’m going to be a mom. I have to take care of my baby.”
I wrench open the front door, and she puts a hand on it, stopping it from swinging wide. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and, at any other moment, this would have tugged at my heart. But all I see are guilt tears. Manipulation.
“You want me to be okay with this?” I snap. “Does what I think even matter? I didn’t want to go to Braxton, and you and Baba made me. I don’t want you to go to Qatar, but you will. You do whatever you want, Amal, but I’m not going to be happy for you.”
Her grip slackens on the door, and I use that to tug it open and slip out.
“Jihad!” she shouts after me, but I ignore her and run down the stairs.