Zeina Hashem Beck

If I die, you say you will let your hair turn silver, grow long, and you will go into the dark place, for you’ve already begun to forget what Mecca means. Where we come from, you and I, maqam means home, means music; the Qur’an can only be read as a song; a sheikh recites the Fatiha as if he has built a house among the lines, the ayas. We’ve both called our daughters Aya, and when they ask about their name, we play holy verses for them, listen to how the sheikh lingers long enough on each letter, how the audience claps and whistles —Is it Umm Kulthum? our daughters ask. He knows all his maqamat, this sheikh, says God is greater, and Allah, Allah, reply the faithful and the unfaithful alike, for the earth is such a small planet, and look, there is Ithaca, almost always on the horizon — float, my friend. Ithaca —It is rough, but raises good men, says Homer, but oh, the women, the women know how to house the bodies of the drowned. They sing, In the Name of the Cross, of God, the Merciful. A child in Syria has amputated legs because he has ventured into a minefield to eat grass. He still has two eyes, two arms, a mouth.God is greater, is greater, stay with me in the light a little longer. You light two cigarettes at the same time, give me one. Tomorrow you will fly to Lesbos to translate. The refugees will say shai, and you will say tea, home, Mecca, Ithaca, maqam, maqam, maqam.