Day 3: Second Look : An Excerpt by Jameeleh Shelo

Salam, Hello and for those of you stuck in 90’s pop culture WASSSSSUP! I have some amazing news. I am writing a novel, and since I believe Palestinian Joy is an act of resistance, it’s a feel good story! (Revolutionary! Cue “Do You Hear the People Sing?” from Le Mis!) Its a rom-com set in our beloved Southwest suburbs of Chicago AKA Little Palestine. I can’t tell you too much, but for those of you who enjoyed my screenplay “Eid Mubarak”. I really think you will love this.

Originally, I wanted to post an excerpt from the book, but I was advised against it from my publisher. Instead I wrote a WHOLE NEW CHAPTER just for you that follows two side characters from the book and their journey. Please enjoy and feel free to share, like and comment. As always, FREE PALESTINE!

Fatima Hamdan knew that Target marked down their kids clothing on Monday and shoes and toys on Thursday. She knew that Amazon had lightening deals they only released at midnight. She knew that Jewel-Osco accepted both manufacturer and store coupons on the same grocery item, but you had to argue with the manager for them to honor them both. She also know how many days she could put off paying the electric bill before the lights were shut off (24) and how to talk the customer service agent out of charging her a late fee (I know its not your fault, but I think there was a glitch in the autopay.) Fatima Hamdan also knew exactly how much money she had in her bank account ($17) and how many more days before she got paid. (6 days).

Fatima Hamdan also knew that she was going to be late for her job as a dental assistant. She knew that in order not to get her pay docked, she’d have to act extra contrite and bring one of her sister-in-law’s knafeh cheesecakes for the office in the next day. Fatima made a mental note to text her sister-in-law and maybe offer to babysit her feral children as a thank you for bailing Fatima out so often. Fatima’s only real day off was Sunday but she was willing to sacrifice it.

She sat outside of the principal’s office at Galaxy Islamic school with several other mothers. Today the office had been taken over for the by a new charitable organization in the area that wanted to reinvest in the Palestinian communities in Palestine and the greater diaspora. Bridgeview, Il, or Little Palestine, was the perfect location for them to find Palestinian-American’s in need of assistance.

Fatima was a little embarrassed to find herself in a position where she could be considered in need. After all she was BORN here. She wasn’t some fresh of the boat F.O.B that got taken advantage of by a scumbag Southside guy. She was a second generation Palestinian-American girl that had gotten taken advantage of by some scumbag Southside guy. She had full knowledge of her rights and all the privileges that came with being born and having lived in the same place her entire life and somehow she was still bamboozled.

It had been three years since the divorce and somehow Samir was still managing to open credit cards in her name. He was still ruining her credit. He was still bad mouthing her all over the community.

She’s a gold digger.

What gold? Seriously, is the gold in the room with us right now?

She gained weight.

She was literally pregnant with his child.

She never appreciated anything I gave her.

Besides the three minutes of unsatisfying grunting that produced their daughter, Amira, and the fear of a communicable disease what exactly did he give her?

She was on the internet.

Ok, What does that one even mean? (Although Fatima did have to admit that one sounded vaguely sinister, like she was some sort of computer hacker circa 1998.)

Fatima adjusted her off-white hijab. Years ago she took a color me beautiful test and discovered she was an autumn, so she tended to gravitate towards warm muted colors that accentuated her thickly lashed brown eyes and warm skin tone. Fatima used to have time to do things like that. Facials, massages, waxing etc. So much time and money spent grooming, now she would take half that money and buy groceries and use the other half to get her dryer fixed. If she was honest with herself, she did miss the feminine frivolities. It wasn’t the actual activities (although she did miss those) it was the freedom to stop worrying, to be selfish for the length of a manicure and pedicure that she missed.

Fatima then proceeded to check out the other mothers in the waiting room without making actual eye contact. If accidental eye contact was made, Fatima would pretend that they were staring at her and act slightly surprised and possibly offended. This was a fool proof method for spreading a tiny bit of insecurity in the other person. So fool proof, in fact, the other mothers in the waiting area were using the exact same tactic.

Normally Fatima would not resort to such underhanded schemes but she was desperate. Galaxy was offering three FULL scholarships, kindergarten through twelfth grade to their highly coveted (and expensive) Islamic school. They had a wait-list a mile long. Fatima’s daughter, Amira, turned five this year and Fatima was determined that her daughter would want for nothing. If Amira went to this school she’d be surrounded by education, by success, but still maintain her values. Amira wouldn’t be trapped like her mother. In Fatima’s mind this was the first step to breaking a cycle.

Amira’s father had not only bamboozled Fatima, he had run a series of scams through out their entire community. There was a segment of the Little Palestine community that believed that Fatima and her daughter were living large on her ex-husband’s ill gotten gains. She was surprised at how many people were comfortable punishing her daughter for the sins of her father. Fatima didn’t know how to correct the impression that she had somehow benefitted from the misery of others. She was debating getting a tattoo on her forehead that said I’m poor, but that would be very inconvenient to cover-up with make-up for photos and also haram. Hmmm…What if I used henna…thought a Fatima letting her mind wander as she waited.

Fatima watched as another mother exited the office and her name was called.

“Fatima Hamdan”, said the very bored teenager acting as receptionist for today’s meetings in exchange for service hour credits, “Inshallah khair.”

Fatima stood up nodded at the receptionist.. She adjusted her hijab, swallowed her pride just a little and prepared to secure her daughter’s future.

#

Mohammad Suliman sat behind the Galaxy Islamic School principal’s desk with his laptop open. His business partner and friend Omar Zayed was Zooming in from New York. Mohammad ran his fingers through his hair, realizing that he was going to need to get a haircut soon before his curls started to show.

“Look Mo, I gotta go.” said Omar not even looking at the screen anymore, “You’re the community guy. I’m more big picture guy. I’ll agree with whoever you pick.” and with that Omar hastily shut off his camera before Mohammad could protest.

This small interaction annoyed Mohammad but not enough to affect his next interview. He knew Omar wasn’t down for the community stuff, but the guy just had so much disdain for the Palestinians living in Bridgeview. It felt like a personal vendetta. He avoided coming home like the plague. Even a zoom seems to unsettle Omar. Mohammad rolled his eyes at his friend’s behavior and prepared himself for the next applicant.

“Big Booty Hamoodi?” said the perky hijabi in medical scrubs pausing in the doorway as she entered the office.

Mohammad instantly recognized the woman that walked in “Faitma? Fatima Najjar?”

“It’s Hamdan now… but I’m in the process of changing it back.” and then realizing that shouting out a hated childhood nickname at the person interviewing you was not the best way to get what you wanted. Fatima did what all people in awkward situations throughout history did when faced with social discomfort — Pretend nothing happened.

“Asalam u Alaikum Mohammad.” she said as she sat down

“Wa Alaikum i salam, I’m actually am also legally in the process of changing my name to…Big Booty hyphen Hamoodi. ” he deadpanned.

Fatima buried her face in her hands.“You know, I would never call you that…”

“You came up with it.”

“…as an adult…”

“You just did.”

“…to your face.”

Mohammad laughed finding the faint blush of embarrassment on her cheeks amusing.”It’s ok. I’m surprised to see you too, but just in case, you know my brother Ali got married years ago.”

“Yes”, Fatima groaned even more embarrassed.”I know.”

“And just to clarify, you are here for the scholarship, not to stalk him right?”

“I’m playing the long game. This interview is just one of a series of humiliations that I am enduring as penance for your mom’s tomato plants.”

“You know she wouldn’t have been so mad if you didn’t track mud all over her new carpet.” Mohammad vividly remembering her limping into his living room and collapsing on the carpet like it was yesterday.

“I still contend she tracked mud on her own carpet.”

“After she destroyed her own plants?”

“I don’t know her life.”

“You fell climbing the rain gutter.”

“Allegedly.”

“You squashed her tomatoes.”

“Maybe they squashed themselves. Were they ever tested for depression? Bi-polar? Schizophrenia?”

Mohammad wanted to laugh at her impertinence but kept it together.

“She’s still mad.”, said Mohammad trying to look as serious as possible but something in his face gave him away.

“I know. She hates me.” Fatima’s was voice forlorn, but somehow still not apologetic.

It was always like this with Fatima. As children they had been inseparable. Fatima had a tumultuous relationship with his older brother… in her head that mainly consisted of her trying to catch glances of him and him avoiding her like the plague. Mohammad was a reluctant witness and sometimes participant to all of her tomfoolery. She followed Ali, and Mohammad followed her. They were happy kids. To Fatima a day without seeing Mohammad was a disappointment, but to Mohammad it was a tragedy.

Mohammad and Fatima would spend their days playing together until their respective families called them in for dinner then they would do it again the next day. Sometimes they were joined by Fatima’s cousin Sarah and other neighborhood children, but most of the time it was just the two of them.

After the garden incident Fatima’s parents realized that they needed to rein in their boy-crazy daughter before she ruined her reputation. She was too old to spend her days obsessing over a teenage boy and his brother.

In a lot of conservative immigrant groups the separation of the genders happens gradually. The Palestinian-Americans of Bridgeview were no different. Boys start doing boy things and girls do girl things and the fences are built. Suddenly girls aren’t riding their bikes around the block anymore and boys aren’t helping mom wrap grape leaves for dinner. Whether it’s pressure from parents and siblings or the natural way that we start sorting ourselves, things change.

The change for Fatima and Mohammad was abrupt. Fatima was no longer allowed to go to Mohammad’s house. They saw each other at school, hung out with mutual friends but that simple childhood bond began to fade as they both grew into their own lives.

The air grew slightly thicker as Mohammad realized he was staring at her. Be cool bro.

A thought suddenly hit him.

“Why are you here, Fatima?”, he asked suddenly realizing why they were both there again.

“I want my daughter to attend Galaxies.” she said implying an obviously at the end of that sentence.

Fatima was starting to feel unnerved by his gaze tried the change the subject. “When did you come back from Ireland?”, she asked tucking a non-existent hair into her hijab.

“Scotland”, he corrected as though he was lost in thought. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes, “ a few months ago.”

“Are you still doing tech?” said Fatima reaching for a conversation topic that would get him to stop staring at her. Were his eyes always so dark?

“I mean, why are you here? Applying for a scholarship?”

Fatima thought about the rehearsed answer she had come up with in her head. I want my daughter to grow up with Islamic ideals combined with the best education so she can live up to her potential and serve her community.

She met his eyes.

“No one told me Samir was a piece of shit when I married him. No one told me when I dropped out of school for him, or got pregnant. No one told me when he disappeared for days or had girlfriends behind my back. It wasn’t until he left me desolate….can you imagine he didn’t even give me the satisfaction of leaving him…that I realized I chose to be ignorant. I spent my life listening to everyone else. I let them all choose for me. It’s going to be different for my daughter.”

Mohammad finally looked away, his features darkening with anger, shame, and even disgust. A protective instinct he hadn’t felt in years rose up in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was angry at this community for not protecting her or at himself of not being there. He felt the feeling of disgust sit in his mouth. Samir, even that name makes me sick. Fatima adjusted her hijab again her hand shaking slightly. The urge to shield her from all the injustice in the world floored him and yet he was at a loss for words. He just knew that she deserved better.

The moment was interrupted by a knock at the door. The very bored teenage receptionist peeked in.

“Mr. Suliman, my shift is almost over can you sign my service hours form?”

“Yes. Of course. We’re almost done here.”

Fatima glanced at her phone. She might have to bring in two knafeh cheesecakes to make up for today’s tardiness.

“Fatima…”

“I have to go. I’m late for work.”

“Of course. I’ll be in touch about next steps.”

“Inshallah.” I’m screwed thought Fatima.

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt. If you want to find put more about Fatima, Mohammad, Omar or what really happend to Mohammad’s mom’s tomato plants be sure to check out my upcoming novel and look for my first full length novel coming soon!