I
don’t remember her name, but I can tell you every detail of her face. Her eyes
were dark, shiny, and as shy as the smile on her chapped lips. Her round face
was tanned and flushed cheeks roughened by the heat of the sun. She was around
my age—eight or nine. The first time I met her was at the doorstep of our house
in northern Iraq. She was hiding behind her older sister and I was hiding
behind my mother.
The
second and last time I saw her this close to me was at the school courtyard.
The school offered two shifts, morning and afternoon, and I would sometimes see her walking through
the gate alone, her big eyes looking bashfully at the ground as I ran to catch
the school bus home. But that day, something was different. She was looking
straight ahead, and even stranger, was smiling with pride. I could see joyful curl
of her lips from the opposite end of the courtyard, and I could also see my old
leather school bag across her shoulder.
As
I made my way to the school gate, I heard a group of boys talking and laughing
loudly –nothing unusual. But I looked around anyway, and what I saw was a
return to normalcy. Eyes cast firmly on the ground, lips devoid of life, and
tears making their way down her parched cheeks.
It
was a split second decision, and for me, a shy and quiet third grader, an
unusual and scary one. I ran towards the mocking voices, and forgetting my
timidity, yelled at them with a high-pitched voice that drove them into a fit
of laughter. I didn’t care. I placed my arm around her and urged her not to
listen to the bullies, as if that was possible. I remember her quiet tears, the
cry of a person accustomed to pain and harassment. And I remember her walking
towards the concrete wall for support, where I soon left her so I could catch
the school bus home.
Noor.
Light. Luminosity. I’ll call her
Noor because it’s my favorite Arabic name and I want to give her a lovely name
that matches her beautiful heart.
Noor
was an orphan. Without mother or father to support them, Noor’s oldest sister had
quit school to provide for her four siblings. While I ate, played, complained, and slept in my parent’s
house, Noor’s sister was at work, trying to feed and shelter her young brothers
and sisters.
I
think about Noor and her family often, especially during Ramadan. Maybe it’s
hunger that makes the hands of time linger a little longer at every second and
leaves us pondering life more than we usually do. I don’t know where they are
now or even if they’re alive. I hope to God they’re alive, and happy. God,
please let them be happy.
During
this month, we need little cajoling to remember the less fortunate. But I hope
that we will do more than just remember for a short time and forget for a long while.
Let us do what we can, every day for the rest of our lives, to stand in
solidarity with the oppressed, Muslim or non-Muslim, confront injustice,
however minor, or donate time, money, or both to a deserving cause. It is with
these actions that our heavy hearts begin to shed the burden of apathy and
soften in the presence of our Creator.
God
doesn’t need our fasts or our prayers –we all know this. He’s given us a month-long chance to
attain the highest morals of humanity, and for this, we can never be thankful
enough.
“The Believers, men and women, are protectors
one of another: they enjoin what is just, and forbid what is evil: they observe
regular prayers, practice regular charity, and obey Allah and His Messenger. On
them will Allah pour His mercy: for Allah is Exalted in power, Wise.” (9:71)
-- AK
