Aisha

By Sagnik Mondal 

“Aren't you scared, Aish? That no one's listening to you? I mean, you're literally risking your college degree for this. Are you sure cutting ties with these few Israeli Universities means so much to you? Are you sure it's even gonna end up mattering?" Austin had asked her a couple days ago at the Jazz Cafe, as he caressed her cheek. 

"I’m not, but that's just part of it. Still gotta try". Aisha smiled as she slurped some more juice with her straw, because she'd often ponder the same exact question.

 Why did it mean so much to her? Why did she spend her weekends at marches instead of clubs, flying her hand-painted Intifada banner alongside chants for the Black Power movement and against apartheid in South Africa? Why did she spend hours after school on the cobblestone streets of Commonwealth Avenue, strumming her self-taught oud while singing the little Arabic she could muster, hoping her performance caught someone's eyes, if not the big acrylic poster frame screaming "END THE OCCUPATION"? And most of all, why did she never stop even after she invited nothing but trouble for herself? Since 1981, the Reagan administration had largely shifted US policy towards a strategic alliance with Israel to push back against Soviet influence in lieu of the Cold War. The rhetoric she liked to spread wasn't exactly popular at the moment, especially at Beacon Hill College which prided itself on many standards of excellency, but not really when it came to political dissent. So, yeah, she'd spent a fair bit of time in her professors' chambers being cautioned against "losing her head in brash displays of youth".

This time though, she'd really struck a nerve. A prominent potential donor had decided to visit the campus on the same unfortunate day she had chosen to organize her biggest demonstration yet outside the mess hall. Aisha and her friends from the student marches wanted to gradually pressure the faculty against how they had doubled down on incorporating a closer relationship with universities in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv both in the form of funding and “academic exchange” in order to curry favour with dominant discourse. The donor had apparently labelled the venture risky because of radical sentiments brewing within the university, fearing that it might have lost what it was once known for in upholding conservative community virtues and had decided to abstain from investing at the moment. Aisha had been suspended indefinitely and had been informed by the review board that they would only consider not expelling her if she submitted a formal apology, promising to never again propagate activism pertaining to the university. 

Austin now took her hand, “Your parents asked me to talk to you.”

“Mmmm did they now?” She started to absent-mindedly stir her drink with the straw.

“They’re only worried about you, y’know. I am too.” 

“Well, what d’you want me to do Austin? Promise ‘em I’m never gonna talk about what I’ve spent so much time fighting for? Apologize to them while they keep taking my money and help make it worse out there? Think I’d rather be kicked out” She started to get up and leave.Austin stopped her, “Aish, they just want you to have a future. You know I love everything you’ve been doing, but please just think it over before you make a hasty decision. Besides, you didn’t answer my question. Realistically, how much can you even end up doing?” 

That question always did make her heart skip a beat, but part of her could never fully come up with an answer. Maybe it was because she knew that it would be really easy to give everything up if she stopped to think about it for too long. It would finally stop hurting her and all the people she loved and she’d finally be….free? Is that really what freedom meant…? It seemed to equate more with comfort. So, whenever someone asked her that, the only thing she could do was go all the way back. 

To that day….

Back to math class in elementary school, to that small red chair Jenny Walters sat on behind Little Suzy Collins with the frizzy blond hair and lopsided glasses right as they were getting their test grades back. Jenny always had been quite the math whiz, and little Suzie, well, not as much. Maybe it was insecurity that prompted it, or just not knowing better, or maybe a bit of both, but either way she turned to look at Jenny’s 9/10, and retorted with a sneer, “Being smart ain't gonna change the fact that ya don't belong here, you know that right? Isn't it time you asked your parents where you were really from?” 

“What'd you mean? I was born here”

“Geez, take a look at the mirror lately, idiot?” Little Suzie got up and stormed off.

That made Jenny’s heart sink. Growing up in North End, Boston, she’d always known that she didn't quite look like the other kids in her neighbourhood. With her brown skin, wavy black hair, dark hazel eyes and other features that didn't quite equate with her name, people often liked to point things out to her. She’d sometimes overhear the parents of the kids she played with talking, “She doesn't even resemble the Blacks. Much more the Indians or Pakistanis down in Lexington, don't you think?” Her parents, on the other hand, fit the Walters name a lot better, both with pearly white skin and blond hair. They’d always told her the same story whenever she’d asked - she'd gotten a melanin mutation at birth, but she was perfectly and absolutely their daughter. She’d always believed that too, or rather she’d always wanted to believe it.

Jenny now raced through the brick streets of Boston Common as the sun was just starting to dip, perfectly curtained between two grey clouds that seemed to break off into little streaks engulfing the entire sky, leaving splatters of orange in between. She reached the row of Federal-style brick houses with hipped stonetile roofs - replicas of her own house. She skidded to a halt in front of the address that said “45, Walters” and opened the gate. She could see her mother, Sally Walters, on the open terrace, gripping a still - burning cigarette with two fingers - implementing her promise to get rid of the habit would apparently still take a while. Seeing her daughter, she pressed the lit end against her ashtray to put it out and started to rush downstairs. They met right in front of the stairway as Jenny was starting to take off her shoes, and the concern on Sally’s face was now very prominent. “Where the hell’ve you been, Jen? It’s 8 in the eve, goddamnit, school’s been out for 7 hours! Your daddy’s been out there for lord knows how long now looking for you!” she yelled, not even pausing to take a breath. “And what’s that in your hand?” she pointed towards a piece of paper and an envelope Jenny had tightly gripped. 

Jenny faltered, hesitating to say anything at all.

“Speak up, Jen, where’ve you been?” Sally started to edge closer to her now. 

“The orphanage on Boulevard High”, Jenny muttered, not looking up. Sally stopped dead in her tracks, suddenly realizing what the papers were, her face turning ashen. 

“Why did you never tell me the truth, mom? If I can even call you that.” Jenny’s voice turned cold as she now looked her “mother” in the eyes, a strange never-before seen defiance seeming to have crept into her eyes.

Sally struggled to find the right words. “Jenny, you’re our daughter. Nothing can change that. We just never wanted you to feel any different. We chose you! God, maybe it was stupid to lie to you but we didn’t want to hurt you until you were old enough to understand!” Sally had been preparing to have this conversation for years now, but it didn’t fail to fluster her all the same.

“Am I then? Old enough to know I’m Palestinian? To know you kept these hidden from me all this time?” Her grip fastened on the papers. 

“You’re right, it probably was stupid, mom.” Tears started to trickle down her eyes, pattering down on her half-removed shoes. Sally went up to her and hugged her daughter. 

“I’m so sorry, Jen. I know this doesn't fix anything but you really were the best thing that ever happened to me. I thought I could protect you by lying, because I was just so afraid of losing you. I know I should have listened to them back at the orphanage when they said that we should tell you early-on, but I was so scared. I’m so, so sorry Jen” Jenny felt her stifle a sob.

She hugged her mother back, “I know, mom. You’ll never lose me”

As they broke apart, her mother smiled and looked at the papers still in Jenny’s hand. “A birth certificate and a letter. Yes, that’s what you were found with, they’d said. It was all in Arabic though, so none of us had any idea what it said.”“I do now.” Jenny sounded very frail, almost afraid of saying anything further. “Mr. Aziz, the caretaker at the orphanage, speaks it. He translated it for me.” She paused. “Would you like to know what it says?”

“Of course”Jenny carefully opened the envelope and unfolded the parchment inside. It was covered top to bottom with the worn-out marks of a pencil, beautifully etched in the Arabic script. She began to read, her thoughts racing back to another life…

Hey, ukht sagheera! (little sister),

I don’t know if you’ll ever end up reading this, but here’s to hoping you do! Mama and Baba said that shedding tears while saying goodbye to someone invites bad omens, so here I am writing you a little risala hahaha. More and more soldiers keep coming everyday now, even close to here in Aqabat Jaber with their tanks. You’d think we would be used to it by now but this war is honestly starting to scare  me. You’re the real brave one, though - you didn’t cry even a little on our way here, I think that’s why baba likes to call you “little tiger. I’m so glad I got to see you turn two years old last week, smiling at me as well as you could with your 12 precious little teeth while I tried to teach you the alphabet! I’m sorry you couldn’t have more of the delicious kunafah mama made for you but she says it's bad for you to have too many sweets. 

Seeing how much of a crybaby I am, I don’t think I would usually have been this mature. But when I saw the two Americans - the ones that came with their flying machine the other day, saying they were from an organization - talking to baba in private, I understood. I understand more than they think I do. He might have told me that they were only going to look after you for a while because they had better food and medicines. And also that the Israeli soldiers wouldn’t attack a refugee camp, but I know. But as long as I know that you’ll be safe, I won’t be scared or sad - not even one bit. Even still, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold my tears back when they take you away tomorrow, but that’ll be the last time, I promise! So, I’m going to give them this letter so that maybe you can know someday, wherever you are, that we never gave you up - and somewhere out there, you still have a sister you mean the world to. I hope you’ll learn to say “habibi” the proper way and not the guttural sounds you make now. I hope you’ll get the life you never could have here, and I really do hope you get to remember - if not for anything else, then just to know the name me and mama picked for you - it really is pretty!

Always yours,

Fatima

Jenny’s voice lingered on those last words for a while, as she looked up at her mother. Sally was completely speechless. Mr Aziz had said that residents of Aqabat Jaber, the Palestinian refugee camp, had faced mass exodus to Jordan, not long after the date of the letter, during the Six day war in 1967.

Slowly, Jenny pulled out the birth certificate, and traced with her finger the column that read “ism” (name) - Aisha Al Fayed.