J.E. Safa

Issue 16

Flash Nonfiction

Two women—one veiled, one not. Selling men’s undergarments. 

“100% cotton Made in Egypt,” occasionally yelling out to a passenger scurrying by.

iPhones bellowing out the Adhan—alerting them it’s time.

They take turns praying.

Big women. Strong stock. 

They observe the travelers with a judgmental eye sitting outside the tiny store. They take calls and joke with each other.

..

So many men walk around with a black mark stamped into the middle of their forehead. 

Pious. They pray a lot. The turbah used during prostration solidifying their commitment to God for all the world to see. 

Medicinal soil imbedded in their souls.

I don’t pray in the traditional Islamic sense. No one in my family does. I can’t remember the last time I stepped foot in a mosque. (Note to self—visit one when I get to Lebanon.)

..

A beautiful man walks by. He is dressed in a white abaya, a black Jansport dangling off his right shoulder. I’m trying to guess where he is from. Sudan? Senegal? Sierra Leone? Why am I concentrating on countries that start with an S?

..

I need coffee.

Everyone has children. They are loud and unruly. I don’t like traveling with children. 

..

A woman wipes down the toilet for me and hands me toilet paper. I tip her in dollars. I don’t have Egyptian pounds.

My cousin calls me while I’m peeing. She was raped again. I’m in Egypt, what can I do but listen? I’ve already exceeded my international phone plan.

..

I’m hungry. Maybe I’ll eat Burger King. I wonder if it will taste better here. 

..

Many of the veiled women wear tight clothing, looking sexier than those of us who are unveiled faces full of makeup—like a Lancome advertisement. 

A swole guy walks by. I wonder if he takes steroids. He looks like he is about to bust out of his tight blue t-shirt. He looks Eastern European. He starts speaking Arabic, and I realize he is Lebanese like me. 

Why didn’t I take a cab to Khan-Al-Kahlili and visit my favorite bazaar?

I wonder how I will be received on judgment day.

..

I hope this trip gives me the clarity I need. The last few years have been rough.

..

My mother says Beirut is too hot. But how bad can it be? 

I remember Brooklyn summers—where the heat was unbearable, the window opened to the fire-escape—blowing in nothing but street noise. My brother and I would fill a sock with ice and put it on our foreheads to cool down—slowly being rocked to sleep by the R train rumbling underneath our building. 

When we woke up, the ice would be melted, the damp sock stuck to our faces. 

But still, these are the summers I want. The summers I love.

..

I feel like I’m dying a slow death, being away from Brooklyn. Old, withering, rotting like my ovaries and uterus. 

Sometimes when I see a baby I get a tightness in my belly. I’m unsure if it’s because I want one or if it’s because I don’t. Either way I can’t. My body made the choice years ago.   

..

I remember Lebanese summers. Balcony doors open all night. The breeze always cool. Falling asleep to the barking of stray dogs fighting over scraps of food. Waking up to the roosters’ crow. 

Learning to differentiate between the sound of an Israeli sonic boom or an actual bomb. Learning that my heart can stop for a second and I will continue to live.

What were my parents thinking—sending us to vacation in a war zone? 

But still, these are the summers I want. The summers I love.

..

I’ve eaten too many fries and drunk too much Pepsi and bad coffee. I’m at my gate. 

The Lebanese diaspora looks so perfect. The women are always glamorously put together. Designer everything. 

My mother won’t be happy. I’ve gained a bit of weight and I’ve started picking my face again. I won’t look perfect.