A Journey Back Home

The first time I touched a dead body, I was 18. It was at the Battle House, a few hours after Nikki died. I wasn’t alone. There were four of us in total who had volunteered to wash and prepare Nikki Williams’ body for burial. My mother didn’t want me to participate in this ritual. She feared I would have nightmares. At 45, it would be her first time to see or wash a dead person. But I insisted. I wanted to touch a dead body, feel it. Smell it. I wanted to look for afterlife signs on Nikki’s face.I wanted to know what life was like inside a coffin. I wondered, and still wonder, what was happening to those who preceded us--the Pharaoh of Egypt, Saladin, Gandhi, Peter Jennings, Michael Jackson, Gadaffi, my grandmother?                                                           

We stood in the washroom – my mother, my older sister, my mother’s friend Nora – staring at the shape of Nikki’s body underneath the white sheets. I inspected the room and found stacks of dark blue cotton towels and white sheets in one corner. Bottles of Clorox spray and Lysol were under the sink. Over 25 shades of lipstick and eye shadow were arranged on the counter. Pink and red blush, Maybelline mascara, Old Spice cologne. Very Sexy Hot by Victoria’s Secret.

            My mother squeezed my hand. “Jinan,” she said in a small voice. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

            I nodded.

              I didn’t know what to expect under the sheet. I imagined the skeleton from Tales From the Crypt. Mother stepped towards the table and reached for the sheet. “Inna lilla wa inna e-layhi raji’oon.” She wiped a tear with the back of her palm.

            To God we belong, and to Him we shall return.

I stretched my neck to get a better view. I didn’t want to miss a moment, but as soon as Mama unveiled Nikki’s face, I shut my eyes. I waited for a scream. A cry. An Oh, My God. But it was quiet except for my mother whispering verses from the Quran.

            I opened my left eye. My mother held a finger under the faucet, waiting for the right temperature. My sister browsed through the shampoos, unscrewing the caps and sniffing until she finally selected the unscented bottle. I tiptoed towards Nikki’s body. Her eyes were gently closed, her lips sealed in the shape of a crescent. Her cheeks were pink, naturally. Her face was thin. She had lost almost 60 pounds because of the AIDS. I wanted to touch her so I uncovered her right arm. It was hard and cold, just like our kitchen’s granite countertop. I touched her pale fingers, one by one. I touched her white feet, her toenails, her eyelids.

            It was less than three months ago that my sister and I visited her at the hospice. We took her a yellow silk nightgown as a gift. I asked her if she was afraid of death. She was. But she said that converting to Islam had kept her alive, even after the death of her husband eight months earlier from the same disease.

            “This life is only a journey back home,” she said.

            “What do you mean?” I asked.

            “Paradise. Where our mother and father, Adam and Eve, originated.”

            I smoothed her hair with my fingers. I’d read about the rivers of honey and wine in the Quran, about the castles, the abundance of meat and pomegranate. I'd memorized the hadith of the Prophet Muhammad that teaches paradise is a place no eye has ever seen, ear has ever heard, or mind has ever imagined. But I couldn’t paint a picture of this heaven beside the scenes I had seen on The Simpsons and Southpark.      Mama was mopping Nikki’s collarbone and chest with an orange soap bar while her friend Nora showered after her with the hose. They moved down her body methodically until everything was cleansed. They rearranged the sheet so that her body was never completely exposed. My sister shampooed Nikki’s hair.

            “Can I wash her feet?” I asked.

            My mother looked at me, pulled her sleeve up and handed me the soap.

            Her feet were ice, her toenails tiles of glass. I rubbed her withered calves and knees.

            The last time I'd seen her pray at the Mosque, she prostrated for so long I feared she had died.

            “Are you all right?” I asked after she finally got up and finished salah.

            “I needed to ask God to take care of a few things after my death. I asked for an easy departure and to be reunited with my husband.”

            I regretted not spending more time with Nikki, even though she was 15 years older than me. I never knew why she had chosen Islam, how she had met her husband, or how they both ended up with AIDS.

            I finished washing her feet. Nikki Williams was clean, and it was time to perform on her the mandatory ablution Muslims make before praying a physical prayer.  
“Bismillah Rahman al-Rahim,” my mother said.

            In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.

           Mother wiped her mouth and nose and face. I washed her right arm. My sister washed her left arm. Mama wiped Nikki’s hair, ears, and neck. Nora washed her right and left foot.

            We dried her body with the dark blue towels. My sister braided Nikki’s hair, then carried the white pre-cut sheets to the table. We wrapped her in seven sheets, covering everything except her face. She looked pure.

            We paused. No one said a word. Mama cried. She pulled out a napkin from her dress pocket and pressed it against her eyes. This made my sister cry. I wondered who would wash me. I wondered if I would look so natural, buried with nothing except white cloth and my Book of Deeds. 

            We rolled in the coffin and stationed it next to Nikki. Even though she weighed only 57 pounds, her body felt much heavier. We lowered her inside and curved her face to the right. Nora searched for the bottle of rose water in her purse, and peppered it over the body.

            After that, I would never have rose water in my baklava or milk pudding.  

            Mama closed the lid. This is when I started to cry. Not because I’m claustrophobic. I was afraid of dying; of leaving this earth. Of going back home to where Adam and Eve were created. I was afraid of being judged for cheating all throughout Geometry and Islamic Studies class, for the time I stole from Wal-Mart and let a boy in high school hold my hand and see my hair. Of the time I smoked. The time I told my brother that his bed was a toilet while he was sleepwalking. And when I let the pool guy stare at me swimming in a hot pink bra instead of grabbing my towel.

            I didn’t want to go to hell. Or heaven. I didn't want to live in a castle. Or drink from the river of wine. I didn't want to believe that life beyond Earth existed.

            I was no longer interested in justice, in reward or punishment. I thought, let us simply die: The Prophets. Helen Keller. Hitler. Mother Teresa. Soldiers who raped Bosnian girls. Children slaughtered in Rwanda. Iraqi infants blown up into pieces. My neighbor who killed his wife. The mother who drowned her four kids. The old man who searches through dumpsters for food. The student who volunteers her afternoons at the Ronald McDonald House. The doctor who donates a year’s salary to education.

No reward. No punishment. Just ashes.

My sister put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay.”

            I let her lead me outside to the car. It was noon. Before we drove to the cemetery, Nikki had to be escorted to the Mosque where everyone in the community would join in the funeral prayer.

            Two policemen waited outside the Mosque parking lot, observing us until we finished praying. They then led the carpool to the cemetery. It took the thirty cars--a few Mercedes, one Hummer, a Jaguar, a Rolls Royce, and a many more vehicles--twenty minutes to reach the cemetery. I was silent the entire way. I stared at the rows of palm trees bordering the wide golf courses, and listened to the Quranic verses Mother had turned on. “For devout men and women, for men and women who are patient, for men and women who humble themselves, for men and women who give in charity, for men and women who fast, for men and women who guard their chastity, and for men and women who engage much in God’s praise, for them Allah has prepared forgiveness and great reward.”

            I thought about Nikki. Did she know she was on her way to be buried? We passed billboards for Disney World and Island of Adventure before we reached a small dirt road in the middle of nowhere. We took a right on Medina Drive and parked. We walked over the long grass and around the untrimmed bushes. Five men carried the coffin while the rest followed. We gathered around the grave. Less than a year ago I had stood at the same spot holding Nikki’s hand as her husband was lowered into the ground.

            Was death really a journey back home? Could Nikki see us? Hear us? I’ve memorized the three questions the Angels of Death ask as soon as the earth swallows you up: Who is your God? What is your Religion? Who is your Prophet?

            I know about the barzakh, the place souls linger until the Day of Judgment.

            Did Nikki's husband know that she was going to be buried three feet to his right?

            I knew about the window to paradise that reveals a person's promised spot in the afterlife if they answer correctly. The window to hell is on the left. But what was happening to Nikki at that particular second--as everyone lifted a handful of dirt and sprinkled it over the coffin? 

            I longed to witness the angels questioning her. To listen to her answers. I thought about my mother, my father, my brothers, my sisters. I never wanted to bury any of them. I bent down, scooped soil into my palm, and dropped it into the hole. The Imam recited a prayer.

            "Amen," we all said.

            The shovel was passed around and everyone took a turn to fill the grave. Even an eight year old girl. The hole was sealed. People started walking back to their cars. And that was the end of the funeral. Last night Nikki slept in her bed, above the ground; tonight, she sleeps inside. Alone. It was time to go home, time to return to life. To eat dinner, watch The Office, brush our teeth, sleep, and wake up.    

            A small group of people stayed behind. I overheard the Imam tell a woman--she had concealed her tears behind Ray-ban sunglasses--that God would have created a tribe of sinners for the sole purpose of sinning and repenting and sinning and repenting and sinning, just to demonstrate His patience and mercy. In response, I recited one of my favorite verses, “And when my slave asks about Me, let him know that I am near. I respond to the invocations of the supplicant when he calls on Me. So let them obey Me, and believe in Me so that they may be guided.”

           

I dropped to the earth and prostrated in the direction of Mecca, my forehead pressed to the grass. I called God by His most beautiful names. Oh Merciful. Generous. Powerful. Forgiving. Peaceful. I asked for humility. I prayed for the life of every soul since Adam. I prayed for the old man who ate drumsticks from dumpsters to find a job. For the children who grew up eating only canned foods. I asked for a conscience that wouldn’t allow me to sleep until the persons I had wronged had forgiven me. I asked God to be patient with my inevitable sins. And to never let me forget Him.  

            

          

Mar Elias Palestinian Refugee Camp

The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him said, "I and the one who sponsors an orphan will be in Paradise like these two” – and he gestured with his forefinger and middle finger, holding them apart.

Beirut, Lebanon

“Do they like sweets?” I asked the driver.

“They love anything sweet, especially baklava,” Mustafa answered as he swerved the minivan between orange and green taxis and a red Mercedes. He was driving in the middle of two lanes, honking his way forward. I buckled up. 

            “Are you nervous?” Ismael asked.

I looked at my husband, reached for his hand, and wondered how many guys would have agreed to fly across the world to spend a few days of their short school vacation at a refugee camp. I had dreamed about this moment for four years, since the day I had signed up to sponsor five-year old Safiya.

After I graduated high school, I decided to spend the monetary gifts from family friends  sponsoring an orphan. The agency sent me detailed profiles of over 500 children from the ages of one to sixteen. How was I ever supposed to select a child? It didn’t seem fair or right to the other 499 children I wouldn’t select. As I had scrolled through pages and pages of children, five year old Safiya, a Palestinian living in a refugee camp in Lebanon had stood out simply for no other reason than having the same name as my first niece.

Next to her name was her picture. She had very dark, brown, empty eyes with no smile. Her parents were both dead and she lived with her grandmother, an uncle, two brothers, one older sister, and her twin sister Mona. I called the relief agency that Mustafa and his co-worker Aisha worked for to learn more about the sponsorship. I asked if I could sponsor Safiya’s twin too, but the receptionist confirmed that Mona was already being sponsored by a lady in Texas.  

“No,” I responded. I let go of my husband’s palm. “How does my hijab look?”

“Perfect,” Ismael said.

Aisha sat in the passenger’s seat giving Mustafa directions to the bakery.

 “Sarah, do you know what you want to buy?” Aisha asked.

“I’d like to take the girls cake.” 

“If you want cake,” Mustafa interrupted, “this bakery is known to be the best in Beirut. It’ll have everything you’ve ever imagined and more.”

I licked my lips as I remembered I still hadn't eaten anything after being interrogated at the Syrian border 24 hours earlier because I was the daughter of a woman who lived with a college roommate who had a brother who tried to overthrow the Assad regime in 1979, 28 years ago.

The driver swerved into the bakery’s parking lot and made a sudden stop. Ismael and I unbuckled our seatbelts and stepped out of the vehicle while Mustafa and Aisha waited in the car.

The bakery was warm and clean and sugary. The owner was boiling sugary rosewater syrup on the stove.

“Ahlan wa-sahlan,” he said, greeting us with a smile that revealed his coffee stained teeth. 

Mustafa was right. This bakery had to be the best in Beirut. Every kind of dessert was displayed. I turned around and saw over twenty-five different styles of buttercream cake. They were each decorated with rich, creamy frosting and fruits. Some cakes had sliced strawberries and berries and kiwis. Other cakes had apples and mangos and bananas. 

“How much for this?” I asked, pointing to the vanilla cake with sliced mangos, kiwis, peaches, and strawberries on top, and a sprinkle of crushed pistachio.

“Fifty pounds.”

“Do you accept VISA or American dollars?”

He pulled out the calculator from underneath the cabinet, punched a few buttons and then said, “That’ll be eighty-two dollars.”

It was the first time I would spent more than $10 on a cake, and I didn’t even mind.  Ismael gave the owner a $100 bill.

I grabbed the small cake and returned to the car.

“Oh, my God,” Aisha said, “it smells so good.”

Mustafa started the ignition and drove out of the parking lot.

“Remind me again, were Safiya and Mona born at the camp?” I asked.

“In their very house. The camp is their life, but Palestine is their home,” Aisha said.
Fortunately,” Mustafa began, “their grandmother, who you will see shortly, takes very good care of them. She’s been living in the camp since 1952, the year Mar Elias was established to help the Palestinian refugees. She was 16 when she arrived with her mother and never returned. Her children have never seen Palestine with their own eyes."

                      

Mustafa continued to drive toward the camp and pointed to the concrete building in which the Prime Minister Rafik Al-Hariri had been assassinated. Ashes were still everywhere. The site was still under investigation five months after the attack. Yellow tape bordered the scene, prohibiting anyone from entering. In front of the building was a deep, large, mud hole where his car had been bombed. Dug into the ground were poles of Lebanese flags. The red and white fabric with a little green tree in the center was swinging back and forth from the breeze that the sea carried.

 The streets were crowded with hundreds of cars and people crossing the roads. There were several charter buses waiting around for the European tourists, all of whom seemed to be over the age of fifty. Some carried book-bags on their backs, while others wore pouches around their waists. 

The Mediterranean Sea was dark blue as the afternoon sun blended into the water. As we continued to drive, the roads became narrow and rocky. The buildings were old and broken. Parts of windows were missing, the concrete looked fragile, and the paint was fading away. Outside the windows were women stretching their bodies forward to hang their wet laundry of t-shirts, trousers, undershirts, and scarves on rusted wires.

Mustafa then turned into a pebbly road and said, “This is Mar Elias Palestinian Refugee Camp.”

            If Mustafa had not made that announcement, I would have believed we entered the West Bank. The red, white, green, and black colors of the Palestinian flags were hanging from each door and planted on each rooftop. Posted on the walls of homes and small convenience stores were pictures of Yasir Arafat’s famous pose, signaling peace with two fingers, and Ahmad Yassin, founder of Hamas, with his long white beard and a scarf thrown over his head.

There were children running in the tight alleys barefoot, playing soccer with a deflated ball. A little boy dressed in muddy, green shorts, and an orange shirt which looked too tight on him, sat in the dirt playing with dinosaurs. Young men stood outside smoking cigarettes and shisha. The people stood around with nothing to do, as if waiting for a miracle.

            The camp looked as if a tornado had chewed every home, tree, car, and store, and then spat them all out again.   

            “Do you see that building?” Mustafa pointed immediately ahead of us. “Those are bullet holes from 70’s civil war.”

            “And people live there?”

            “Yes, a family’s there right now.”

I looked at Ismael, and he was in a deep stare.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m so glad I came with you,” he said.

            I glanced at the homes from inside the van and took digital pictures. I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable with my camera once the van stopped or bring excessive attention to myself, so I hurried to capture whatever I could. I wondered how families sheltered themselves from the rain during the summer and from the severe cold nights during the winter. The windows were broken, the roofs stripped off, the apartments stained with black ash.

            There was a woman standing in front of her home that had dark gray hair and wrinkled hands that trembled as she held a photograph. I could see sadness in her eyes. Next to her were little girls sitting on dry mud playing with handicapped dolls. The arms of the Barbie were missing. There were several garbage dumps at the corners overflowing with ketchup-flavored chips bags, watermelon peels, coke bottles, and cigarette boxes. Over the garbage was a vortex of flies. I rolled down the window just an inch, and a stench of rotten food filled the car.   

As we drove, I could hear crackling underneath the van that sounded as if the tires were about to explode. I looked at the ground and saw piles of the civil war debris: shards of broken glass, bullets, sticks, stones.

            “Safiya’s living condition is horrible, yet much better than many of these people you’re seeing.”

            “If the two of you were staying an extra day, we would’ve taken you to Sabra and Shatilla Refugee Camp. Although it's 2005 and the massacre occurred in 1982, it looks as if someone pushed the pause button. People there think the Mar Elias community is wealthy,” Mustafa said.

           Mustafa stopped and turned off the ignition. I grabbed the gifts and stepped outside. A crowd of little boys and girls ran to the van with huge smiles across their faces. I felt guilty for not bringing enough gifts.

“Who are you visiting,” a boy about eleven years old asked.

I rubbed his hair. “We’re visiting Safiya and Mona. Do you know them?”

He bounced the soccer ball on his head. “We go to school together.”

“What’s your name?” Ismael asked.

“My name is Musa!” he said, flexing his bicep.

“Do you like soccer?”

“Of course, I’m the Ronaldo in this camp,” he laughed as he wiggled his loose tooth with his tongue.

“Well then,” Ismael said, “We’ll just have to play a quick game before I leave to see if that’s true.”

Musa smiled and pounded his chest with pride.

 I wrapped the cake in a black garbage bag I found in the van to veil it from the children. We walked through a narrow pathway and stepped over pieces of glass and sharp stones to get to Safiya’s home. I started to imagine how they would greet me, and how we would spend the day together. There were starving felines hunting for food in the decayed dumpsters. They were the type of cats I didn’t feel comfortable touching. Two of them had only three legs, limping their way through the alleys. Other cats were so gray with dirt that it stained their white and orange fur. I felt a tear roll down my cheek and quickly wiped it with my scarf. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the cats or the children.

            “That’s her home,” pointed Aisha. It was about four floors high, and I was relieved to see that the building had managed to preserve its roof. We climbed up the spiral stairs supported by a half and broken wall.

            There were two identical twins waiting at the top.

            “Safiya?” I looked at the girl on the left.

            They both giggled. I wasn’t sure if the giggle was because I mistook Mona for Safiya or because they caught a glimpse of the cake.

            “I’m Safiya,” the girl on the right said.

            I gave the bag of cake to Ismael, got on my knees, and hugged them both, kissing each girl on her face and on the top of her head.

            “You two are going to have to wear different shirts so I can tell you apart,” I said.

            They giggled some more.

“Aren’t you going to take me inside?” I laughed.

They were too shy to speak, so they opened the door for me. I watched Safiya play with her thick, dark brown ponytail. I tried to find something distinct on Safiya that would help me tell her apart from her sister. Their skin was a shade of olive that brought out their large, black eyes. They both reached my shoulders and together we walked into their home.

            The entrance door led us into the small family room with only one green couch that was ripped on both sides and stained with brown ink, and a brown recliner that seemed to be growing mold. The plaster on the wall was peeling off. A few rusted fold-up chairs were leaning against the wall underneath the Palestinian flag that spread itself like a portrait.

            “Haj-ja,” Aisha mouthed each syllable loudly and carefully.

            The old woman on the recliner who was hemming a pair of pants looked up, squinted her peanut eyes, and brushed a few strands of gray hair into her blue, triangular scarf.

            “Sarah and Ismael are here,” Aisha said, reaching over to kiss the woman’s hand.

            The grandmother put down her sewing, smiled, and called us to her so that she could greet us.

            “Asalamu alaikum, Khala,” I said, kneeling down and kissing her hand.

            Ismael kissed her hand after me and then she signaled us to sit down on the green couch.

             Safiya and Mona watched us as we greeted their grandmother. Then they followed us to the couch and sat next to me. I was in the middle. 

            “How do you like our new Barbie t-shirts?” Safiya asked.

            “They’re beautiful! I love them. Where did you get them?”

            “The camp distributed new clothes last weekend to all the children who passed the fourth grade.” 

            “That’s awesome! Because you two are so smart and love school, I bought you some really cool stuff,” I said.

            Another girl, about 17, walked in carrying a tray of cups and a glass bottle of mango juice.

            “Marhaba, I’m Eman, Safiya and Mona’s older sister.”

            I stood up, greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks and then helped her serve the drinks after she placed the tray on the bubbly, wooden coffee table.

            After we gulped our last sip of the icy mango juice, I uncovered the cake and said, “I heard you two love fruit cake.” Their eyes lit up like candles. They stared at the cake and I could hear them reserving their slices. Eman brought me a dull knife from the kitchen and some reusable plastic plates, and I began to cut and serve the cake to everyone in the room, including the brothers.

            “This cake is delicious,” Mona said.

            “Look at mine, look at how many mangos I got,” Safiya said.

            “Once you finish the cake, we have some more presents for you,” Ismael told the girls.

            They started to chew quickly and laughed as they stuffed their mouths with cake and frosting spread over their lips. Ismael and I then pulled out the book bags from the gift bag.

            “This is for you, Safiya, and this one is yours, Mona. Open it, there are more stuff inside,” Ismael said.

            They raced to open the bags and found the Strawberry Shortcake collection along with a lunch box and a water bottle.

            “Wow, look at this Mona! Did you get one too?” Safiya said, rushing to her sister’s side.

            Mona searched for the markers and then pulled them out. I had made sure to get them exactly the same items and could see them comparing each gift to make sure that neither had received anything extra or cooler.

            “We’re going to have the best school supplies in the whole class,” Safiya said.

            “Yeah, all the other kids are going to be so jealous,” Mona stuck out her tongue.

            “So now you both have to work very hard in school and try to be the best in class,” said their grandmother. “I don’t want your teachers calling me anymore about your grades.”

            As the girls packed the gifts into their new book bags, the grandmother, who was rocking in her chair, called me over to her. Her weary eyes were moist as she kissed my head and then showed me a picture of the twin’s parents.

“My son died first and then their mother. Safiya visits them almost everyday after school at the cemetery and begs them to return.”

I didn’t say anything.

“It’s been a very long time since the girls had been this happy.” Her smile was so deep it felt absent. I imagined she must have been remembering the days when the family was still together, when her son was still alive.

“He loved them very much, and died when they were only five.” she said.

“Come on Sarah, we want to show you the house and the glow-in-the-dark stars you sent us,” the girls said.

            “I stuck them on myself,” Mona said.

            “No! I helped you,” Safiya insisted.

            “First our homes are stolen and burned. Everyone in my village was forced to leave and that’s when my mother and I came here, along with my uncles over fifty years ago,” the grandmother continued. “Then my son is taken away from me. What can we do but pray. Pray for hope, pray for a miracle.”

Safiya and Mona came and grabbed me by the arm and gave me a tour of their small home. There was only one bedroom.

“This is our room, see the stars?”

“Me, Safiya, Eman, and teta sleep here.”

“Who’s the lucky one who sleeps next to your grandmother?” I asked.

“Both of us. But sometimes she snores so loud I make Mona sleep next to her.”

“My brothers sleep in the living room with our uncle.”

“Khalah Aisha told me that you two are artists. Show me some of your paintings,” I said.

Safiya dropped to the ground and crawled underneath the bed to pull out a

box. Inside were more drawings, a broken necklace, an empty bottle of gardenia body lotion, a pair of men’s navy blue socks, and an old green toothbrush with bristles flying in all directions.

            “This is mine, I painted it when I was six.”

            “Where’s mine?” Mona asked, searching through the box.

            “Don’t ask me. Maybe you threw yours away.”

            “No I didn’t! I put it in the box with yours.”

            I glanced at the image and saw amongst a rainbow and three birds, a little girl sitting on a large rock next to two graves holding in one hand a bottle of cream, and in the other hand a blue sock and a green toothbrush. 

            “I love the colors in the rainbow, Safiya. You should be an artist,” I said.

            “That’s what I’m planning to do. I want to become the most famous painter in the world!”

            She returned the picture, closed the box, and pushed it back underneath the bed.

“And this is the kitchen,” Safiya pointed. The kitchen could only fit

one person at a time. On the floor was a tin can of orange butter, a jar of olives, and a bag of rice. There were clean dishes piled over the sink and one old sponge to handwash everything. The stove and oven were smaller than my niece’s play kitchen. I opened the deserted door at the corner, and there was a hole in the ground for a toilet.

“What’s all this water for?” I asked, pointing to the seven buckets on the floor.

“The electricity shuts off everyday at 6:00 pm, so we have to store water for emergencies,” Mona rushed to answer before her sister.  

            I smiled, though deep inside my heart burned. Our bus leaves the next morning back to Syria where we would depart to America in a few days. I wanted to stay longer.

“Where do you girls want to go today?" I asked.

            “You mean outside the camp?”

            “Yes, any place in Beirut.”

            The girls looked at each other and opened their mouths wide.

            “Let’s go to the arcade,” Mona said, jumping up and down.

            “No, let’s eat pizza. I want to eat in a restaurant,” Safiya said.

            “How about renting a boat and going into the sea?” Mona begged.

            “No, no let’s go to the mall,” Safiya suggested.

Aisha told me earlier in the morning that Mustafa was available to be our personal driver for the entire day, and so I told the girls that we could go to the arcade, eat pizza, rent a boat, and go to the mall if we had time.

I looked at their older sister. “Eman,” I said. “Come with us.”

“Are you sure, maybe you want to spend time with my sisters alone?”

“Of course not! You have to come,” I said.

Safiya grabbed my hand and started to pull me out the door while Mona grabbed Ismael’s hand. I tried to say goodbye to the grandmother as Safiya pushed me outside.

“Have fun,” the grandmother said. And as I looked back to take one last glance at her, I saw a tear roll off her chin.

            We were able to do everything the girls dreamed of doing that day. They requested refills every time their coke finished, tested every machine at the arcade, splashed each other with the paddles in the sea, and laughed in each other’s arms.

They asked me all sorts of questions as we returned to the van and headed back to the camp.

“Do you have your own car?”

“No,” I lied, thinking about my two-door black Accord and Ismael’s red Murano.

“What about a TV?”

“Yeah, a very small and old one,” I said, thinking about the 60 inch High Definition LCD installed on our living room wall with over 200 channels.”

“Do you have a mother and father? What are they like?”

I didn’t know what to say. Should I lie? Should I pretend they were dead or abusive?

“I do. And they told me to give you a big kiss when I told them I would visit you two.”

 They asked me if everyone in America was rich, and if the electricity and water went out after 6:00 pm.

            “Mama,” they started to call me.

            My face became so red. “No sweetheart, I’m your big sister, like Eman.”

“But we want to call you mama,” Safiya cried.

I tried to imagine what it felt like to never be able to utter that four-letter word ‘mama’ ever again.

They started to laugh and scream, and blow air in our faces with the handful of straws they grabbed from the restaurant. When we returned to the camp and Mustafa parked the van next to the girls’ home, Ismael helped them get out and grabbed their leftover pink cotton candy.

“Stay one more day, please,” Safiya begged, squeezing my hand.

“Please don’t go,” Mona whispered.

I looked at Ismael and saw him try to hide the wetness in his eyes.

“I want to stay, but my bus leaves tomorrow morning. I promise I’ll come back soon.”

“Please don’t go,” Safiya reemphasized.

“Come here, both of you, and give me a hug.” I leaned over both girls and kissed the top of their heads. “Today was the greatest day of my life,” I told them. “And I will be back to see my two little sisters very soon,” I said, wiping the tear away from Safiya’s cheek. I kissed her eyes.

Mustafa was waiting in the driver’s seat to take us back to the hotel, the five star hotel Ismael and I were staying in – the hotel that charged $200 per night while $50 was sufficient to feed and clothe Safiya for an entire month. Ismael reached for my hand and we climbed into the van. I cracked open the back window and stuck my fingers outside, waving goodbye. The girls stared as they held on tightly to Eman’s hands. I blew one last kiss and sat forward.
And that's when I allowed my tears to fall down.