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The American Girl
The Doorless Entrance
The afternoon sunlight flushed a pinkish glow onto the mosque’s inner wall. Its walls were ornamented in amber and sapphire Arabic, intricate rhythmical designs, and gold-plated patterns hinting at a city that once was the heart of all civilization. The colossal domed ceiling was covered in floral seams. Stained lemon- and violet-colored glass jolted from the dome's center reaching to another realm beyond, beyond the sorrow beneath it.
The women in black gowns stood in track lines behind the men in the white gowns. The bodies rooted in prostration towards the Northeast direction of the holy Kabba.
“Allahu Akbar.” Each man, woman and child lifted a left hand over a right palm and wrist and began a quiet recitation with the one man who led the prayer in front. He lyrically recited Quranic messages of justice and peace. “Pray for the agony to shed.”
My hair was wrapped tightly in a ponytail and covered with a black scarf. I blended into the rows of women in the same blackness.
“Allah Akbar.” The speaker echoed, signaling us to bow down to the floor in a submissive gesture to God. With my forehead flat to the dirty carpet, I looked at the lady to the side of me. Her nose wrinkled as saliva piled at the corner of her lip and tears hit the carpet. I should not have been looking, but I had been searching for faces of familiarity. What I found instead was a feeling of familiarity. Every night and many times in the long day, tears would fall onto my pillow and my saliva would slide down my mouth as I sucked my thumb to sleep.
“Allah Akbar.” Our heads lifted again. We were all one, in this place, praying for an escape that never came. Our bodies crunched so tightly together you could not see any cracks between our black robes.
We were one, knotted in prayer, whispering the same words to the same God.
“Allahu Akbar.” I closed my eyes to fading memories of my home and my parents.
"Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah," (Peace and mercy of Allah be on you), turning our heads from right to left signaling the end of prayer.
The windows reflected beams of golden light and hit the right side of my cheek. It felt like God was the only One who never abandoned me. I was not alone. He was with me.
The bodies began scattering to get the slippers and shoes left behind at the doorless entrance. I searched for my small pink ones. I spotted my aunt outside on the street corner. Her green spandex pants flashed in between the black and white robes that shuffled onto the street. She was smoking and talking to a man who bought and sold gold jewelry. She seemed to be arguing with him over the price of the bracelet she had in her other hand.
I waited.
Shatha promised to show me pictures of my mom that she had boxed somewhere. Although she was not like my mom, I felt close to my mom when I was with her. They were close once. She knew my mom once, she knew her…She must know the playful tone in her voice, the smell of her skin, the softness of her black hair. She knew her and must have loved her, and would therefore love me.
But she was not like my mom. My mom was so beautiful and classy and she never wore hot green tights or smoked cigarettes.
Shatha said I had my mom’s eyes. Our eyes, she said, were both the same. Both the same.
Maybe my mom could see what I see now…
I sat still waiting for Shatha in front of the mosque entrance, the black robe draping my frame. She gestured at me sternly from a distance as she took a bottomless inhalation of her cigarette.
In color, the yellowish cabs matched the corn cobs an old man was selling close to where I sat. He waved a corn cob back and forth in the warm air, slowly, like the sway of the emerald green palm trees rising from the cracked cement behind him. The roasting smell was familiar. Baba used to roast corn, hamburger meat, and chicken for us in the backyard while we would watch the distant display of Disneyland fireworks.
Shatha did not seem to notice, so I walked closer to the comforting aroma. It floated through my nose to my tongue. No longer was there the smell of unknown chemicals, gas and cigarette smoke. The old man sat at the edge of his wheelchair in order to reach his hands above the corn cart. Seeing me, he smiled like my Baba, a large, gigantic, humongous smile.
“Come, would you like a piece of corn?”
“Yes.”
He passed me the warm bright corn in a soft tissue.
"What is your name?"
"Sara."
“Where are you from Sasoorah?”
“America.”
“Are you American?”
“Yes.”
“You are the most beautiful American girl. Where are your parents?”
“America, but I they are coming soon.”
“You must say peace be onto them, they have a good girl.”
“Thank you, I will tell them when they come, they said soon. I think next week”
“Then you must come again, I will give you another piece, the biggest piece I have.”
“The biggest?”
“On my eyes, I promise you.” I looked at his grey, shiny eyes. They were discolored and glassy, not like Baba’s. He turned and smiled and a boy skipped up to us with a basket in his hand.
“This is Ibrahim, my grandson."
Ibrahim was tan and had an even wider smile then his grandfather’s. He wore pants too short for his long legs and a shirt too big for his skinny arms. In his hand was a basket of black and brown slippers in many different sizes.
“Ibrahim, this is Sara. She is from America.”
“Come, Sara, my sister. I will show you what I sell,” he said in broken English.
I glanced back at Aunt Shatha who was busy lighting another cigarette as the jewelry man dangled the bracelet.
“Look Sasoorah,” Ibrahim had keychains, flags, Quranic verses on fabric, and slippers. Lots of slippers. “I sell all these, and make money for my mom.” The little English he spoke, I'd find out later, he'd learned from his mother, who was once an English major at the University of Baghdad.
I loved him right away, not for all the stuff he showed me but because he spoke some English. It helped me to forget the alien place I was in, and forget I was an alien in this place. And his hairless chest and slender pre-mature body were like mine. Also, he had freckles on his cheeks, like me! I loved him.
My aunt came rushing over, her red heels challenging the ground in wide strides. She quickly pulled me away.
She spoke nervously. “Girl, these people sell at the black market. Do not talk to them! Did they ask where you are from?”
“No.”
“Did they ask if you were Sunni or Shia?”
“No.”
“Did you speak his name?”
“No.”
The silence came again. The stir, the torture, clasping at my heart. The roasting smell was now gone, so my dad was gone too.
He must have gone to sleep early tonight. He probably was too tired from his work to roast anymore. Good night, Baba. Kiss Mama for me.
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