Amina's Song: Chapters 5–11

Heat rises to my face as she utters the last sentence. She’s talking about my country, the one that’s a part of me and made me who I am. I stay silent and stare at the sky, trying to make out constellations as I think about how to respond.

“I listen to the news, Amina,” Zohra scoffs. “Remember what happened to your own mosque. And the things those kids wrote on the walls.”

“No. It’s true. I heard scary things about terrorism, and explosions and stuff, and I was afraid something bad would happen to us while we were here.”

When my father sensed that I wasn’t excited about visiting Pakistan, he urged me to talk about why. I finally confessed my fears to him one night, and he gave me a lecture about “being rational” and not letting my fears limit me.

And I was surprised to see how happy the people who live in Pakistan are and how their lives are as full as mine. In some ways, with all of the family around and the constant commotion, they might seem a little fuller.

I practiced reading with him most mornings on this trip, like I did when I was preparing for the recitation competition last year, and never got tired.

I listen to famous qaris with my headphones and try to mimic their inflections and elongations of words when I’m alone.

Tucked next to the Quran is a stack of postcards of the Wazir Khan Mosque. Mama bought them for me to put in little frames and hang in my room. My favorite is the close-up shot of tiled calligraphy in blue and white.

I’m strapped in my seat next to Mustafa for our second flight, from Paris to Chicago. My headphones are on so I can start a movie immediately after the safety announcements. But first I have to sit through a video of smiling flight attendants doing a choreographed dance while they fasten and unfasten seat belts and sashay along the illuminated path to the exits while I hear instructions in English and French.

I’m strapped in my seat next to Mustafa for our second flight, from Paris to Chicago. My headphones are on so I can start a movie immediately after the safety announcements. But first I have to sit through a video of smiling flight attendants doing a choreographed dance while they fasten and unfasten seat belts and sashay along the illuminated path to the exits while I hear instructions in English and French.

I’m strapped in my seat next to Mustafa for our second flight, from Paris to Chicago. My headphones are on so I can start a movie immediately after the safety announcements. But first I have to sit through a video of smiling flight attendants doing a choreographed dance while they fasten and unfasten seat belts and sashay along the illuminated path to the exits while I hear instructions in English and French.

“Watch your elbows, please.” A flight attendant rolls a cart down the aisle with what I guess is supposed to be lunch. Mixed with someone’s perfume and the stale airplane air, the smell makes my stomach lurch.

The seat belt light goes on and the movie pauses while the captain warns us about turbulence ahead.

“You have to put your seat up.” Mustafa jostles me.
“We’re landing.”

The plane lands with a few bumps, and as we race along the runway, the forces of the plane’s momentum and the brakes oppose each other. My insides go in one direction while my body careens forward, and I grasp the seat as we start to slow down.

The plane lands with a few bumps, and as we race along the runway, the forces of the plane’s momentum and the brakes oppose each other. My insides go in one direction while my body careens forward, and I grasp the seat as we start to slow down.

The highway seemed empty after the streets of Lahore, and it was so quiet it was almost eerie. There was no honking or the hum of motorcycles or the music that seemed to fill the streets.

Next I rummage through my desk for an old spiral notebook with only a couple of used pages. I scribble the word “PRIVATE” across the front with a marker and tear out the old notes. It’s as good as new.

“Can’t sleep either?” he asks me.
“I’ve never been so awake in my life.”
Mustafa grimaces.

Negotiating with Mama over my wardrobe has been way more stressful than haggling over prices in the market in Pakistan.

Mama finds a shirt she calls a tunic that resembles a kameez I wore in Pakistan. It’s white and has light blue embroidery around the neckline.
“How about this? With jeans?” she asks.
“Yeah, I like that,” I agree.

In Pakistan I saw enough kids in tattered clothes with their hands outstretched to finally understand why my parents always insist that Mustafa and I don’t leave the house in anything torn or dirty.

She explained that it’s better to give money to local groups who make sure it actually goes toward feeding, educating, and housing poor people. And she promised it was a better option. It didn’t stop my stomach from constricting like it was being squeezed through a hand crank every time I saw someone like that little boy for the rest of the trip.

“I know. I miss my friends from camp so much too,” Emily commiserates. “I have to wait a whole year to see them next summer.”

Everyone in the community hall claps as Imam Malik takes the stage.

As Imam Malik explains how people can join various committees, a few volunteers pass around sign-up sheets and donation envelopes, and waiters bring out plates of baklava, flaky pastry with nuts soaked in syrup, along with pots of steaming-hot mint tea.

“It’s hard to imagine being forced to start your life over in a strange place, after a major trauma.” Baba shakes his head as he drops sugar into his tea. “I’m glad we’re doing something to help, but it doesn’t seem like enough.”

Even tonight, one of the dads with a kid on the team was raving about Mustafa and his coaching style to Baba, who was bursting with pride.

The image of the little boy in the market in Pakistan comes to mind, and guilt over all of the extra food in my stomach makes it churn.

I wonder what terrible things forced this family to leave their home forever and escape to a new place where they don’t fit in or speak the language fluently.