Fareeha’s Flowers
by Jeniya Mard
Central Michigan University
Jeniya Mard has always had a passion for writing. She is currently a student at Central Michigan University studying Early Childhood Development and Learning, as well as an English concentration in Creative Writing. Much of her poetry has been published in multiple issues of her university’s literary magazine, Central Review, as well as in Mistake House Magazine, a literary magazine through Principia College. Quirk’s publication of “Fareeha’s Flowers” is her first fiction publication, and she is honored to be a part of this Spring’s Issue. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter @Jeniyamard.
Any season used to be the busiest time of the year for my parents. Dozens, if not what felt like hundreds of people would cram into our little shop for flowers; taking armfuls of chrysanthemums and roses alike. They would fawn over their look, the aroma they gave off, and compliment how well my Mama and Baba took care of their blooms. My parents would say that all of the customers were like family to them, but one woman, in particular, held a special spot in Mama’s heart. Her name was Jane, and she was our landlord. Her husband, John, was a firefighter, and on the days that Jane wasn’t in the shop buying bouquets, picking at roses, or gossiping with my mother about anything, John was. Every time Jane came into the shop, she would compare the color of her work blazers to my sister or my mother’s hijab, unironically matching on more than one occasion.
My sister, Aa’ida, spent hours in the morning trying to replicate what she’d seen Jane wear the previous day. Whether it be her makeup or the sweater she styled with jeans, Aa’ida tried very hard. Jane was an all-American woman, blonde, tall, wealthy. She was the figure of success, according to Baba, that is. Jane’s son, Jack, would occasionally accompany his mother to the shop. And time and time again I’d watch from behind the trays of Mums and Asters, peaking past their petals to get a view, I’d watch my sister nearly fall over at the sight of him. He was all she ever talked about sometimes; what he was wearing, if he looked in her direction, It was all so strange. My sister had never spoken to him, yet he was all she ever spoke about. Once, I asked her why she never just went up to him, but she just told me I’d understand the feeling when I was her age, saying things like “oh, Fareeha, you’re just a baby, you’ll understand it when you’re finally mature.” But seventeen was so far away—she had nine years on me. Even if she claimed I wouldn’t understand, I knew right from the beginning, my sister loved Jack, and my Baba loved to smoke his Hookah out of the kitchen window to blow the smoke at that pesky baker next door, and Mama loved to look down from the windows of the apartment onto the shop’s awning, occasionally shooing away birds if they were to nest there, and the bustling people of New York loved Fareeha’s Flowers.
Until they didn’t.
Tuesday, September 11th, 2001.
It was 9:00 am, and I was sitting in my fourth-grade classroom, Ms. Haufman’s class, and it was science time. Everyone had their own pair of winter gloves, and we were all handling the same piece of dry-ice. From hand to hand, glove to glove, the ice hissed and solidified in our grasp, and the smoke bleeding off was enchanting.
Watching as the white, airy smoke danced around my gloves, I imagined as if I were a fairy, lost deep within the brush of the forest, barefoot and surrounded by all of my little bug and animal friends. I closed my eyes and imagined how Snow White felt when she sang in the forest amongst her animal friends, how she danced in the wake of the wildlife, and the sweet scent of the air. But my imagination didn’t last long.
The sound of the blaring wall-mounted phone’s ring forced my eyes open, and after a moment, I looked towards the classroom's main door, and saw Ms. Baxter and Mr. Song from the classrooms next door nearly collapse onto each other as they both fought to enter first. Their faces were panicked, yet their eyes were blank; and Ms. Haufman’s face became flushed with a bright red as the two rushed to where she had been standing.
It was then I looked up, and found myself, along with the rest of my class, focusing on the television up on the wall as Ms. Haufman got up on her tip-toes to turn it on. It was incredibly old, extremely thick, but it was one of the only televisions on that floor. They had begun renovating the building room by room, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if that was the only TV in the building at the time.
The news was on, and at the bottom of the screen in big, bold letters, it read;
TERRORIST ATTACK ON WORLD TRADE CENTER, NEW YORK.
And as Ms. Haufman dragged her fingers across the bottom buttons of the television, the bangles on her wrist clinked against the frame as her hand shook; flipping through the channels in an unsteady haste. No matter what channel she landed on, each headline practically read the same thing:
TWIN TOWERS HIT BY SECOND PLANE, PENTAGON ATTACKED.
TERRORISTS ATTACK NEW YORK, UNITED STATES THREATENED.
New York, New York...I knew where that was -- that’s where we were! But I was never a fan of the news, it was TV for adults. I never understood what it was saying, but from the look on the teacher’s faces, it must not have been good. For what felt like minutes, we sat in silence, all watching together as the bright, blue sky was consumed with a black overcast of fire and smoke.
It wasn’t a nice smoke, not like the smoke in my hand.
It wasn’t like that at all.
A week had gone by, and all that was on TV was that smoke; for hours and hours, days and days it remained. I sat on mama's lap as we watched the TV; the bold, red line of an emergency broadcast never left the bottom of the TV, it’s bright color nearly burning it’s place into our televisions screen as the white text slid across the banner in the rotation of three alerts,
President George W. Bush delivers an address to the nation regarding the terrorist attacks on U.S. soil from Emma E. Booker Elementary School in Sarasota, Florida . . .
Terrorist attacks against targets in New York and Washington . . .
Capital, Treasury, and White House evacuated in wake of terrorist attacks in New York and Washington . . .
One afternoon, while the local news station repeated its same hourly dialogue regarding the attacks, I sat with mama on the couch, but my attention had been drawn to the screen, watching in awe as snow began to fall in the clips being shown. There was so much of it, the pileup eventually building into a brown color as it swept the ash on the streets and people ran through it in all directions. It was odd to see snow in September, but I knew Allah must have sent it down to put out the fire. I knew he must have been protecting all of those people.
I wasn’t exactly listening to what was being said on the tv, but from what I had heard through my snowy-trance, that particular hour’s recap consisted of, After horrifying attacks just days ago, Americans all over the nation are working together to heal through the damage. It was no different than any other hour, I found it strange that they were still talking about it, even days later. Everyone already knew what happened now, so why did they keep saying it?
It was then I decided to ask Mama the question I had been wondering since that day. But I waited until the TV was back to displaying the smoke; the black, clouded sky and fire clogging the tv once again. Inevitably, I looked away, leaning the side of my head against my mother’s breasts as I focused my gaze on Aa’ida, who was sitting at the kitchen counter with her head down. Her hair was covering the sides of her face, and her legs were tucked up beneath her as she sat with her legs crossed. She looked exhausted, but...why was she tired?
It was then that I asked, “Mama, what’s a terrorist?”
I knew she didn’t know how to respond. She had hesitated, and that was unlike her. My Mama was as quick as a whip, she always had an answer for everything;
Mama, why is the sky blue?
Because it’s not purple.
Mama, why do dogs bark?
Because they can’t speak German.
Mama, who’s your favorite clown?
Baba.
For a few seconds, it was quiet. The only sound present being the quiet sniffling from my sister until Mama finally spoke, her voice faltering as she took a deep breath,
“A terrorist is someone who does a lot of bad things to hurt a lot of people.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re a bad person, they don’t care who they hurt.”
“Are they gonna hurt us?
“No...no, habibti, there's no reason to worry.”
“What does a terrorist look like?”
To that question, I got no answer.
I wasn’t sure whether my Mama simply didn’t know, or whether or not she didn’t want me to know, but as the days went on, that question sat in the back of my mind, festering, swelling into a throbbing pain; one that left me lying awake at night staring at the ceiling, one that left me picking at the skin on my hands, and one that never let the tight feeling in my chest go.
Fareeha was my grandmother’s name, and it was bestowed upon me on her deathbed; my Baba promising to name his next child after her, since Aa’ida was my Mama’s mothers name. But before I was alive, Baba had gone off on the decision to name the flower shop after his mother -- deciding he no longer wanted any more children after moving to America, the shop was his second child. But then came me, a surprise!
Every morning when Aa’ida and I would walk to school, I would smile at the front stained glass window of the shop. Fareeha’s Flowers, Fareeha’s Flowers, I’d repeat over and over until Aa’ida finally threatened to leave me down in the sewer with the rats. That was normally after we’d walk about a block from the shop, so it was just far enough whereas Aa’ida could yell all she wanted, and Mama and Baba wouldn’t hear a thing -- even if the early morning roar of New York wasn’t present.
Thankfully for the shop, and those shops around us, we were far enough from ‘the terrorist mess’, as I had heard it been called, to only be affected by a small excess of dirt and debris. Compared to the other miles up, we were off easy. That was until one afternoon when it was just me and Aa’ida down in the shop.
Mama had begun cooking dinner upstairs and Baba was taking a nap. They trusted Aa’ida to run the register before, but it was only when one of them was down there with her.
Now it was different though.
After the eleventh, we got just about one customer a week, and even they stopped coming. Not even Jane came, which is what I think drove my Mama to lowering our prices and extending our hours, but even then, she didn’t come. Mama told me that customers stopped coming because of the attacks, and that everyone was scared. Baba, on the other hand, told me customers stopped coming because the economy was bad—whatever that meant.
With Aa’ida sitting behind the register doodling on a loose sticky note, I had placed myself up on the counter. I was looking across the shop to the large floor-to-ceiling mirror on the opposite wall; it was tucked neatly below the Russian Sage and Chrysanthemums, it was The Bride Window, named by Mama. During the summer months, or ‘wedding season’, Mama would set up dozens of bouquets in front of the mirror, with flowers ranging from Buttercups to Peonies in their blooms. The mirror was there so women who walked by would see themselves with the bouquet of their choosing and hopefully purchase it, or if not, perhaps just pick the flowers for their own enjoyment.
I liked looking in The Bride Window, the frame of flowers always made me feel pretty.
As I looked in the mirror, I could see the side of Aa’ida’s head beside the reflection of the Chrysanthemums, and her hijab was light pink that day; my favorite one. She told me when I turned thirteen she’d give it to me as my first one, and I couldn’t wait. It was only a few years away, but as impatient as I was, I found a way to improvise.
Looking down the counter, I leaned across the register and crumpled a handful of wrapping paper from the untouched stack beside the tape and scissors. It was a little too long, but after a few forward folds on my lap, it was the perfect size. Looking back towards The Bride Window, I squinted my eyes as I lined the edge of the wrapping paper up to the front of my hairline. After pushing the side of the paper down, I had to hold it closed at my neck; my hair being far too thick to be held down by the paper alone.
“What’re you doing?” Aa’ida had asked, glancing up from her sticky note, “Baba told us not to waste the paper. Stop,”
Admiring my work in the mirror, I scoffed as Aa’ida’s hand came into view beside my throat; grabbing at the paper with a fist as I pulled back in protest.
My one hand fell above hers as my other pressed against the counter behind my back as I leaned against it; nearly having to resort to using my feet to get her away. She was much stronger than I, no doubt about it, she won fights time and time again, but this time I could tell she wasn’t putting in much strength.
Her eyes held a low, dismayed look, and the hand near my throat was shaking.
“Take it off,” she demanded, her face getting closer to mine as she began to utter threats beneath her breath, eventually using both of her hands to rip the paper down off my head -- the force of her pull leaving me on my back against the counter.
Aa’ida, sometimes, had a hard time controlling her anger; Baba even making jokes of her needing ‘management’, but ever since the eleventh, Aa’ida would turn on a dime. It seemed even the smallest of things could spark an alarming rage in her.
My arms sprawled out against the counter in defeat, I watched as my sister curled the paper up into a ball and tossed it across the shop, only to look back to me and force me to sit upward by my collar. I only had socks on, so as I was pulled up my heels dragged against the counter and my socks rolled up my feet.
“Fareeha, ghabi,” Aa’ida huffed, “don’t act stupid.”
“What was stupid? I was just trying--”
“I know what you were trying, and you’re stupid,” her grip on my shirt loosened and she sighed, letting go, “Don’t you see the TV? Don’t you see what they are saying about us?”
“Us?” I questioned, my brows raising as I examined her face yet again, this time my own falling into a frown, “What are they saying about ‘us’?”
I remember watching her eyes roll and her lips scrunch up. It was almost as if she didn’t want to say anything, but just as she had gone to say something, both of our attentions were stolen by a loud, shattering sound that popped in our ears and shivered up our spines. Within a second, Ai’ida’s hands had gone from the front of my chest to wrapping around my middle, squeezing with all of her strength as she ducked behind the counter; dragging me along. My feet smacked against the counter, sweeping past the monitor in a quick motion as we hit the ground with a thud. A little bit more pressure and my feet would’ve knocked the entire monitor down onto us, but even if it were to fall, Aa’ida had her arms cradled around me, I probably wouldn’t have felt much of it.
Long, heart-racing seconds went by as we laid against the floor. I counted nine, labeling one second each time Aa’ida’s chest rose and fell. She landed on her elbow and so did I. The force with which we hit the ground resulted in a shooting pain traveling up my arm. I was sure it was the same for her. The side of my head was pressed against her chest, my one eyes closed as they were in direct contact with her sweater, and my legs were curled up beneath me.
It wasn’t until she let go of me and sat up did I move; watching her eyes widened and one hand skim the top of the counter before assisting herself in standing. Sitting up, a cold breeze hit my face, and a crunching sound followed Aa’ida as she stood.
Looking around where I sat on the floor, I rubbed my hands against my chest as I bent my head forward, and my eyes gaped at the sight of clear shards.
I had gotten lost in a sea of glass.
From where I sat to the front door, there were shards big and small, sharp and not. Some of the shards had the window decal lines on them, some were piled up into clumps, and one even had a word on it; ow.
Averting my eyes from the glass, just as I had gone to look towards where the breeze had hit me, I was taken by my underarms and held up.
It was Aa’ida again, and as she had picked me up, I wrapped my legs around her waist and my arms around her neck, placing my chin on her shoulder as I finally got a view of the front of the shop.
There, beyond waves of glass, I felt my heart drop.
The entire front window was gone, as was the glass that made up the door. I could see straight out, no backwards letters or numbers to skew my view of the bank across the street. It was completely open, the honking and chatter from the outside seeping in like water to a sponge.
It was then I realized what had happened.
Turning my head as I felt Aa’ida take her first step forward, I remained silent as she carefully maneuvered around the glass, despite being in boots. She had been muttering to herself, and I could feel her hands trembling as they were pressed to my back as she got farther and farther away from the front of the store. It hadn’t taken long after we got around the counter for me to spot two rectangular, grey bricks. The smaller of the two was near the door, having knocked over a variety of bouquets in front of The Bride Window, water and petals painting the floor amongst the glass. The larger brick had landed farther away; nearly reaching the door leading upstairs. That brick, from what I could see, had yellow spray paint on it, and there was that word again, the same one from TV,
TERRORISTS!
Watching as the door leading upstairs flung open, we were met with the aghast faces of our parents, and it only took a second for them to begin yelling. While my mother came to Aa’ida and I, running one of her calloused hands over our faces asking if we were alright, my father stomped right over the glass -- going as far as to swing open the broken door as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, shouting profanities at the top of his voice as if that would bring whoever had done it back and to justice.
After an hour had gone by, and Aa’ida had gone upstairs without a word. But I, for one, remained on the stairs, watching as my mother and father cleaned the shop. Mama told me not to move from the step because I could step on glass, but she was in her socks, what was the difference?
Every time I had gone to say something, I was immediately shut down,
Not now, Fareeha.
Tell me later.
We’re busy right now.
Our glorious window had a big, black trash bag taped over it, and Baba had been yelling the entire time he was putting it up, but I chose not to listen. Instead, I watched Mama sweep the floor religiously, also speaking to herself but in a far more soothing manner, no profanities in sight. I stuck to the bottom step of the stairs, my one hand dangling upward as I loosely held onto the doorknob leading to the staircase. The door read Employees Only, but Mama told me that was just a fancy way to say that the customers weren’t allowed upstairs -- and I’m glad they weren’t, they might’ve seen my room and yelled at me that it was a mess just like Mama.
After watching her get down onto her knees to pick up the larger pieces of glass, I couldn’t help but sit uncomfortably. My mother’s face looked crooked, the same way she looked when Aa’ida fell ice skating a few years ago and broke her arm. But this time it was a little different... She looked as if she wanted to cry, I could see her eyes gloss over every few seconds, but whenever she went to speak she simply uttered out something inaudible, and the gloss would leave. She was angry, probably because the window broke, I knew she loved that window as much as I did, but she also might’ve been upset about what they were saying about us, whatever that meant.
There was a silence sitting above us, nothing but the hum of the air conditioning and the pitter of shattered glass being swept up could be heard. Normally in the shop we’d have the radio playing; Aa’ida always put on Destiny’s Child when it was her turn at the register, and Mama would put on any channel she’d hear that was popular on the radio, but occasionally, I’d catch Baba mouthing along to an NSYNC song, bopping his head and tapping his foot as he wrapped bouquets, but if you asked him, it never happened.
I didn’t like the silence, it made me think of all the time I’d spend laying awake at night, but the entire country was in silence. It was something called mourning, it was another word I had heard on TV.
When school started again, we spent a majority of the first few days listening to the adults talk about what happened, and one Friday in particular, in art class, we all made ‘thank you’ cards for paramedics and firefighters. Mine was really big, I hadn’t folded it correctly, but I made sure there was enough room for the American flag. I copied my design from Katie Sternin, a girl I routinely sat by at lunch. When I had gone to pick up the red marker, she had taken it from its spot, claiming she was still using it. But when I went to grab the blue marker, she said she was still using that too.
I’ll never forget what she told me when I called her out on her marker-hogging, not because she had said it in a genuine manner or was bitter, but because it confused me. I didn't cry or whine about it though, I simply sat in my thoughts as I used my own colors for the flag, turning my entire back to face Katie as I continued to draw my flag; my pink, white, and orange American flag.
My daddy told me not to talk to you. He said your daddy was a terrorist.
I didn’t turn my card in. Not because the colors were wrong, but because looking at it made me sad. Was that what the mourning was? Ms. Haufman told my class that morning that people mourned when they were sad, so I could only assume that that’s how I was feeling.
I was mourning.
When the school day had ended, I sat on the front step of the building as I waited for Aa’ida to leave the High School a few blocks up. We’d always leave right before all of the buses left so we wouldn’t be stuck on the wrong side of the street when traffic got bad. But I waited for a long time that day, longer than normal. It might’ve been only a few extra minutes, but watching the busses leave and Aa’ida still not arrive made my chest get tight with worry.
But it was only once I put my head down on my backpack did I jump up at the figure of a shadow hovering over me. It was Aa’ida! -- but she looked...different.
Her bottom lip was bruised, there was a black hue around her right eye, and her hijab was draped on like a Shayla Mama would wear; I assumed she must have lost her pin.
It was strange to see Aa’ida with her scarf tucked as a Shayla; to see the sun halo around the sides of her head as loose, small strains of hair fell in front of her face, and her collar bones peaked out from her neckline.
“Da? Why are you wearing your hijab like that?” I asked sheepishly, slinging my backpack up onto my shoulders as I stood, and Aa’ida shoulders fell with an inhale,
“Let’s get home.”
“What happened to your face? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she took my marker-stained hand as she helped me down the last step, and we began our transition onto the busy sidewalk.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her.
Her eyes were red as if she had been crying, her lips were held down in a frown, and the little bits of hair peeking out the front of her Shayla were frizzed, as if she had been pulling on her scar, or someone else had. I tried again to ask her what had happened and if she were alright, but she didn’t answer the question. Instead, when I had asked her what had happened to her hijab, her answer was short, simply, and straight to the point, despite it steering away from what I had asked,
“Ms. Jane, our landlord, her husband is dead. He died on the eighty-fifth floor of The World Trade Center.”
In response, I was silent, gathering my thoughts at the idea of Ms. Jane and her husband. It was weird to think I’d never see him again, but that didn’t mean I’d never see Ms. Jane again.
“...does Ms. Jane want some flowers?” was all I could think of in reply, my eyes gluing to my sisters as we made eye contact.
“No, Fareeha, Ms. Jane doesn’t want any of our flowers. No one does.”
“Is it because of what happened on tv?” I asked, “with those buildings that got attacked?”
“...sure.” she sighed, her grip on my hand tightening as we crossed to the other side of the street, lightly pulling me as we stepped back up onto the curb, the shop now just a few hundred feet away.
There was always a bustling heap of people getting from place to place on our street, it was a ‘hot spot’ as I had heard a customer once call it, and most days after school, the sidewalk and road alike were shoulder to shoulder and bumper to bumper -- there wasn’t ever much room to breathe.
Through the passing bodies, I could see the tailend of the trash bag covering our shop's window blowing in the wind, even from so far away. Mama had swept up the rest of the glass that had fallen outside onto the sidewalk that morning before school, and she even placed a few folding chairs in front of the window so no one would get to close in case a few microscopic pieces of glass remained.
With every store we walked by, I watched my reflection pass in the windows, watching as the inside of every store changed in its own unique way, but as Aa’ida and I reached the shop one door down from our own, I couldn’t help but feel strange again; the mourning feeling raising up in my chest at the sight of an American flag hung low in a window. It reminded me of my mismatch colored flag in my backpack, and that word again.
“Aa’ida?” I asked, planting both of my feet against the ground as I stopped her from walking any further—watching as she turned to me with half-lidded eyes,
“What is it, Fareeha?” she muttered, her tone dropping as she took a quick glance around.
“Are we terrorists?” I asked, my complete attention then up on her; the endless number of people moving around us fading into a blur as I watched my sisters expression grow from one of irritation to dismay.
She had taken a moment to answer, and for a few seconds, I was worried she’d say the same thing that mama had, but she didn’t. Instead, my sister took both of my hands and took us away from the center of the sidewalk; placing us just out of sight from our shop's broken window. Even with the bustle of pedestrians moving up and down beside us, I could just barely hear Mamas voice through the absence of a window. My right side was pressed to the wall, as was Aa’ida’s left. Getting down on her one knee in front of me, her hands squeezed at my shoulders, locking my eyes with hers. In that moment, Mama's voice went away; fading into nothing more than the hum of air conditioners in the adjacent alley as I looked to Aa’ida.
“We are not terrorists.” she began, her voice steady as she gave a small nod, almost as if reassuring herself of her words, “why are you asking that?”
“...you said us the last time I was thinking about asking,” I questioned, forcing my hands into my jackets pockets, balling them into tight fists, “and at school--”
“If I knew you were thinking about asking that I wouldn’t have said ‘us’... I said ‘us’ because that's what they’re going to tell you. They’re going to tell you that we are bad people, every one of us.” she took a deep breath, rubbing the palms of her hands against my shoulders.
I swung the idea about telling her about what Katie had said to me...but I chose not to say anything, she looked beaten enough.
“Why are they calling us that? Terrorists, what does it mean?”
“A terrorist is a very bad person… And these people who are on the tv and who everyone is talking about...well, they looked like us, like me and you, like Mama and Baba...but they aren’t like us.”
“Then why are they talking about us? Why did they break our window? If we aren’t like them? Are they the same people who hurt your face?”
Aa’ida paused at that question, and I watched as she looked up for a moment, almost as if trying to find an answer. In the seconds she took the answer, I felt my chest tighten, and I was certain it was the mourning again. I had to get rid of it, each time it came back it hit harder; piercing at my skin as I watched my sister take her backpack off, and dig through the large pocket with her one free hand.
And while she hadn’t answered my question, and I was still stuck on the concept of us, they, and the terrorists. I couldn’t help but slouch at the sight of Aa’ida pulling out her extra scarf from her bag. With the pins missing from her Hijab, I nearly thought she was going to layer her current scarf to keep it secure, but as I watched her begin to fold the front, I listened to every word she began to say.
“Fareeha, the world is not a nice place.” she began, lining the edge of the scarf to the top of my head, “When we lived in Iran, before you were born, everyone was like us. Everyone worshiped Allah, but here in America, not everybody does. Everybody is different, they all have their own Gods and their own Religions...like Ms. Jane, she's catholic. So that makes her different from us, right?”
I nodded, but Aa’ida hadn’t waited for an answer before continuing, “Sometimes people who see other people who are different from them...they may see one thing about one particular person, and then apply that one idea to every person who is like that person, and recently...a few people who look like us did a very bad thing. So now some people may think that we’re bad...because we look like them, and we’re all suffering for it.”
“But we aren't bad, are we?”
“No. We are not bad. You, Mama, Baba, Me, and any other Muslim person you know, Fareeha, are not bad. The mean people, the ones who are scared of us for simply...being unlike them, will try and tell you that you are bad. You are a beautiful Muslim girl, and you should be proud to be one. We are like flowers...every one of us, we are our own individual type of beauty. And we grow so big and tall in our gardens, but what happens to prettiest flowers?”
“They get picked,” I cut in, tilting my head slightly as I took another good look at her. “Did they pick you?’ I asked quietly, my brows raising as I brought the subject of my sisters bruised face back into question.
And just as I had expected, Aa’ida nodded, albeit a small, very quick nod, it was still enough to cause her to frown again. “That's exactly what I mean,” she started bluntly, her eyes falling slightly as she continued, “but am I going to let a couple of mean people at my school hurt me? No, because--”
“You look hurt,” I cut through her words again, this time my hands falling from my pockets, “why did they hurt you? What did you do?”
There was another pause in response, but this time, when Aa’ida and I made eye contact, I could see the tears lining her eyes.
“Nothing.” she said, taking a short breath between her words before continuing, “I did nothing...but people who aren’t afraid to be themselves and be proud of their Religion, well..their the prettiest flowers, they’re the first to be cut; to have their stems broken and die...and Fareeha, we are such a pretty flowers.” She hesitated, a faint smile then crossing her lips as she tucked the ends of the scarf into the neck of my jacket, tucking my hair in underneath it, “so many people are going to want to cut you down when they see you blossoming and existing in your excellence...they’re going to want unroot you and move you from where you’re grounded, but you can’t let them.” she tugged on the back of the scarf gently, “You must remain in control of your life, you can’t let any name that they call you, or anything that they do to you, unroot you from your garden, no matter how loud or strong they are, because what they say is never going to be true, do you understand?”
Nodding, I let my hands fall out of my pockets, my fists unclenching as I focused on my sister's bruising face; ignoring the stinging sensation rising in my palms from my nails digging into my skin.
“Can I be a Sunflower?”
“Yes, Fareeha…” my sister mumbled, adjusting the last of the Shayla on my shoulder, “you can be a sunflower.”
Interview With The Author
1. What was your inspiration for this piece?
As an Arab American myself, I felt the need to tell a story like this one, one that can open other’s eyes to the hardships and struggles thousands of Arab Americans faced (and still face to this day) as a result of the horrible events of 9/11. In writing, I find the most real and raw perspectives on tragedies come from the eyes of children, being that they do not yet know of the true, cold, malicious nature of the ‘real world.’
2. What is your creative process?
I try to wake up early to write, around eight or nine o’clock before anyone else in my house is awake, and try to write for about two or three hours a day. I find that I write better and even feel more creative in the morning. As a full-time student, it’s sometimes a bit hard to meet deadlines, but I try my best to get as much creative time into one day as possible!
3. What are some influences on your artistic process?
Some influences on my artistic process would definitely be visual art or music. It is a well known saying that a picture can be worth a thousand words, but sometimes, if you look a little deeper, you may be able to pull out two thousand, or three, or four— and at that point, you might as well just start writing about how that art makes you feel and what ideas it sparks. It’s important to hold on to our creative ideas the second they come to us, otherwise they’ll slip away far too quickly.
4. Is there anything more you’d like our readers/viewers to know about you or your work?
Something I’d like for the readers to know about this piece is that it was made with love. I tried to tell a story everyone needs to hear, it is a story that hurts, and it is, unfortunately, a perspective that is far too real to be overlooked or ignored any longer.
Editors’ Comments
In "Fareeha's Flowers," Jeniya Mard poignantly recounts how 9/11 impacted her family through a perspective that is all too frequently overlooked by Western eyes. She subtly illustrates how bigotry is the offspring of fear and anger, and how trauma can create a circle of pain which consumes those on the sidelines. Her touching narrative about the courage of a Muslim family is filled with grace and sensitivity, and it is an honor to share this perspective with our readers.