Chapter 1: Adila

  

Adila was cooking in her­ kitchen as usual. She never really cared much for cooking, but in her culture it was the norm for a woman to know how to cook. It was a source of pride to one’s family that their daughter is a good cook, or their daughter in law, but in this case, both sets were not particularly impressed with how Adila handled her kitchen.

Her husband Mehsen was a carpenter. He worked specific hours, and very rarely did he have to stay later at work. Only on rare occasions does he get called to take measurements in someone’s home, so he stays later on those days.

They fled Syria after the war started; they lived in tents in Europe, and nine months ago they entered the U.S on a refugee visa.

Adila was pregnant with their son Moustafa (named after Mehsen’s father) when they left Syria, and now their son is 5 years old.

Their life together was very stable, very normal to any Middle Eastern standards. They were both from Syria, and they were both uncomplaining.

Mehsen checked the television, there was something wrong with the remote control, and he said some words in Arabic about how life is difficult while he was replacing the batteries on his remote. Adila did not really care much about the complaints her husband was registering, and only told him that "dinner is ready." He clicked the button and saw that his favorite program was starting, and he went to the table walking slowly backwards watching it start.

Very often, Mehsen watched Cops, Cold Cases, and Unsolved Mysteries. For some reason, seeing how effective the American police were made him feel safe about the new home that adopted them. But it wasn’t just for emotional reassurance that he watched these programs, they were thrilling, and he was obsessed.

Adila wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and went to get Moustafa seated; he was shuffling Pokémon cards aimlessly but passionately. She tapped him on the shoulder and told him to go sit down, and he rose from the ground, walked to the table with his eyes on the cards, and sat down. After that no one said a word, utensils were clicking and everyone afterwards started eating.

When Moustafa spilled his water on the table cloth, his dad cursed out loud, and Adila quickly grabbed the kitchen towel and tsked tsked a few times, then grabbed her son’s plate, and shoved some food on a fork and into his mouth angrily. The boy was ashamed - as he should be in both their opinions – and then Mehsen asked Adila if she knew anything about her good-for-nothing brother.

Adila replied that she hasn’t talked to her mother in Syria today, and she thinks her brother is in Turkey now. Mehsen expressed his disagreement with everything by huffing sarcastically and hoping his son does not turn out like his failure-of-an uncle, because Moustafa is very careless with the way he drinks his water, and most of the time he ends up spilling it. Adila did not have any comments to make regarding the water crisis.

The apartment building that they were living in was crowded, it was a huge project, but nothing really fancy, something they can afford on Mehsen’s salary.

They were apartment 410 and they did not really know their neighbors all that well. Mehsen’s friend on 10^th floor is from Sudan, his wife died of cancer last year, so often times, Mehsen takes Moustafa and goes up to Adnan’s house to keep his friend company and for his kid to play with Ibrahim, Adnan’s 7-year-old son.

Tonight however, Mehsen was not going anywhere. His program was on.

While the cops were chasing some lunatic on the highway, Adila was washing dishes. She called out for her husband to come take out the trash, but the police were really maneuvering, and she was sure she cannot beat “Cops” at this point. She grabbed the garbage bags and walked towards the “Shute Cabinet”- she crossed a beautiful girl coming out of the elevator wearing jeans with long strands of hair, the girl said hello in nodding, and Adila smiled shyly and shifted graciously out of the girl’s way. But the girl stopped in front of her, and asked her a question, in ENGLISH, a question she understood and knew the answer to. She was very happy that she still remembered the few phrases that her husband taught her just to get by.

So here we are, this girl wants to know if this lady, wearing this very baggy skirt and some kind of long sweater over it, with her hair bundled up somehow (in a ponytail maybe), anyway: “Do you know where apartment 409 is?” Adila nodded, and enthusiastically replied and pointed: “Yes, yes, here, yes, come…” She walked back towards her apartment and stopped at the door right next to hers, apartment 409. “Here, see” and Adila tapped at the numbers on the door and smiled proudly. This never happens. Her day normally starts and ends sometimes without her having to leave the house or talk to anyone but her family back home on the phone, or Facetime. Things are always quiet, very quiet, especially now that Moustafa goes to school during the day.

The girl smiled in gratitude and thanked Adila; Adila knew that the girl was thanking her, and she asked her to pass by to drink coffee sometimes in Arabic because that is what one is supposed to do when they meet strangers in Syria - they invite them over for coffee. She knew the word for “coffee” but the girl only understood “coffee” and she could make up the rest while knocking on the door. She told Adila that she loves “coffee” and Adila misunderstood that the girl was asking her if she could have coffee, like NOW… oh, but Adila was worried about the state of her house, and she has not put all the dishes away, and her husband is not too decent, but it is rude to turn the girl away. So she told her meekly, “yes, coffee, yes." The girl, having had no-one answer the door, agreed to the pleas of the insisting lady to grab some coffee NOW; she has nothing to lose, so she will grab a cup and try 409 again in a little bit.

Adila entered her house, and told Mehsen to go wear something decent, fast – they have company. She tried to wipe her counter tops quickly before rushing back to the door - which was at an arm’s length anyway - and let the girl in.

The girl walked in slowly, carefully, looking around without looking too closely, and she saw Moustafa; Moustafa speaks decent English. She asked him about his name, and he replied, then she asked him how old he was, and he replied, and all the while Adila was watching with great pride but not much comprehension the exchange between her son (who generally speaks Arabic with her) and that beautiful creature with the beautiful hair.

She put the “Rakweh” (Arabic coffee kettle) on the stove and asked the girl with the hair if she wants her coffee with sugar, by simply saying “sugar?” The girl said “umm, I never tried Turkish coffee before, whatever you like.” Ok, Adila has no idea what the hell that was, so she grabbed Moustafa by the arm without making it look so forceful, but it was, and asked him to stay near her in the kitchen to tell her what that lady is saying. Moustafa was faithfully translating by just telling his mom: “Whatever you like, she is saying.” Ok. Then the girl asked questions again, ones she maybe understood: “Where are you from?” I know this one she said quickly to her volunteering son, “I Syria.” “Oh wow, you are from Syria? Are you new here? Were you there during the bombings?” Ok these were easy, Adila could tell by now what American people normally ask when they know she is from Syria.

So she said “yes, yes, yes.” The girl was horrified; she sat down with her mouth slightly open.