College Creative Writing Supplement

Neamah Hussein's CommonApp Creative Writing Supplement

It turns out that dreams don’t only change in childhood. In the spirit of being lucky enough to be surrounded by a supportive family, my dream of writing a novel materialized this past summer. The story is inspired by third-culture and the question of identity that stems from this phenomenon. I have completed ten chapters and I’m currently working closely with my editor to refine my writing style and edit the work that I’ve done so far in preparation for the next ten chapters that I will write next summer.

Synopsis: Rem is a Yemeni teenager living in Dubai. After a less than graceful exit from high school, she finds herself in the dark, unable to find herself and unable to see where she belongs. With all her comrades ascending to the next level of adulthood and independence, she finds herself left behind and searching for… something. A journey to Yemen, a place that holds the voracious spirit of a young neighbor girl and the memories of a troubled home, returns to Rem more than just a long forgotten identity.

The following excerpts are from the Prologue and Chapter 7.

Prologue

Sometimes, when we look back at the events in our lives, we can’t help but marvel at the profound intricacy of every minute detail and how each one sits snugly in the jigsaw that makes the present. Little things that seem insignificant today will be the building blocks towards the future that we’ll one day pick apart to trace back the incidents that shaped our lives.

For some, the process consists of sifting through pleasant memories of seemingly mundane idiosyncrasies that built their fortunate lives; for others, bitterness taints every memory as they curse their past for the misfortunes of today. For yet others, the process remains a laborious task that is wrought with questions, laments and regrets as they try their best to find the pieces, hoping that one day, the picture will shine through with clarity.

I thought back to the day I visited my uncle in America, the country that intrigued me with its overwhelming optimism and ambition. I dreamed of a bright future, with me starring as the hotshot politician whose decisions affected nations. It was only upon telling my uncle that I wanted to pursue politics that he asked me, in all seriousness, whether I’d done my research, because as far as he knew, I had to be American to practice politics in America. That was quite the hindrance to my five-step plan to fame, success and a Cadillac with tinted-windows.

Being the flighty and impatient girl that I always was (and still am), I asked him the different ways in which I could become naturalized. He relayed the obvious, including studying in the USA for long enough to obtain a green card; but that seemed much too tedious for my quickly waning patience. I obstinately refused to be optimistic about bureaucratic details that called for extensive form-filling and read-between-the-lines contracts. As far as I was concerned, those processes were designed to lead to nervous breakdowns.

It was only when he mentioned something new and rather outrageous, that he caught my attention again.

“I don’t know habibti[1], apart from this way, there’s nothing,” he chuckled, “Unless you manage to get yourself adopted or something.” He laughed at his own joke.

Thus, the idea of getting my uncle to adopt me was born.

Of course, America’s infectious optimism allowed me to overlook the fact that I was far from being an orphan. In fact, I had a rather comfortable life with two very much alive parents back in Dubai. I shrugged off my uncle’s obvious discomfort at the idea of having me move in full time and my parents’ mortification and instead, I Googled “How to get adopted”. Soon, the search narrowed to “How to get adopted by an American family member when you’re 16, not American and not an orphan.” Alas, the invincible Google gave me nothing beyond genealogy tips, homosexual adoption and something about Ethiopian orphans.

Ultimately, I found out that even if I did find a way to get adopted, I was already past the adoption age. My parents and my uncle breathed sighs of relief; I cried tears of frustration.

Rem has made it to Yemen, where she’s looking for inspiration to write before she finally decides the next step in her life. This inspiration, however, is preceded by a circus of familial encounters and cheek pulling as well as a dose of nostalgia as a life that she doesn’t remember having emerges.  

Chapter 7

I woke up to the invasive cacophony of the vacuum cleaner. It was the weekend and Rayya Mami was frantically cleaning the house with Safiyya before the Friday prayers started. Muhannad Mamu was at work; he didn’t believe in the concept of “not working” during the weekend or even on the holy day of Friday. So he chose to go to work for a few hours, go to the mosque for prayers and then reluctantly come home for an early end to the day at his wife’s insistence. 

“Esh hadha-el ‘relax’? How can I ‘relax’ if I don’t work first? It doesn’t make sense.”

Adamantly refusing to follow orders when Rayya Mami instructed me to put down the broom and go back to sleep, I chose to help with the chores by cleaning my own room, which had slowly morphed from a quaint bedroom into a chaotic eyesore of clothes and bags strewn all over. I finally unpacked properly and put my laptop on the topmost shelf, guiltily keeping it out of my sight, realizing that I was already on my fourth day in Yemen and I still hadn't come up with a brief plan, let alone having written anything.

“Rem, Adam will be sleeping in Muhannad’s study, so can you please help Safiyya with preparing the bed in there?”

I had forgotten about Rayya Mami’s brother’s arrival from the UK that night. Taking his arrival as an opportunity to examine Muhannad Mamu’s study, I helped Safiyya change the bedsheets.

The study was elegantly and simply furnished to a man like Muhannad Mamu’s liking. There were a couple of bookshelves that held countless volumes of worn novels, business textbooks and corporate magazines. The desk was neat and clear, unlike my messy desk in Dubai, which was blanketed with papers, books that never found their way back to my shelf and little trinkets that I couldn’t otherwise find places for. His sparingly furnished and neatly kept study reminded me of papa’s study at home. With both papa and mama being firm advocates of order, I often wondered whom I had taken after in my messiness.

I concluded, rather reluctantly, that I must have taken after my father.

“What else did I get from him?” I shook off the distressing thought and moved back to dusting the shelf in my room, only to make it dustier with every swipe.

Rayya Mami popped her head into my room, “Rem, finish this off quickly because we’re pushing off right after salah.”

“Pushing off where?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I must have forgotten! We’re going to visit Kakaji Asghar and Kaki Amina!”

“Who?” I was truly confused.

“I’ll explain later,” she said hurriedly and returned to energetically vacuuming the corners that held permanent dust. “Oh!” she popped her head in again. “Make sure you wear a salvar kamees or something nice.”

“But, I don’t have any…” I rarely ever wore salvar kameeses to proper family functions, let alone casual family visits! The only salvar kameeses that I had back home were heavily decorated for wedding ceremonies or other such events.

“Okay, you can wear mine.”

“What?” I panicked. “I won’t fit into them!” Rayya Mami was a slender woman with significantly slimmer thighs than mine. I had often cribbed over my chunky thighs, but as long as I wore clothes that fitted me well, they didn’t look too large. Rayya Mami’s salvar kameeses would give me the sort of thunder thighs that would make me want to sit under a hot shower and bawl my eyes out.

“Don’t worry! I’ll find something that will fit well.”

I spent the next hour worrying about the monstrosities that my thighs would look like in Rayya Mami’s clothes. Thankfully, she had a pair of dark and loose-fitting Patiala salvars that looked rather like exaggerated balloon pants. Unfortunately, the waistband was much too small, so I sucked in my tummy and cringed in pain as the fabric cut into my flesh every time I bended or sat on the floor.

Rayya Mami and I left the house soon after salah and she drove us to through the city to Kakaji and Kaki’s house. I still didn't know who they were and Rayya Mami was busy talking on her cell phone.

The city was quiet, just as Dubai was on a Friday afternoon. In Dubai, Friday was the first day of the weekend, so the city would buzz at night, when everyone would be well-rested and ready to party or be with family. In Yemen, Friday was the second day of the weekend and generally the lazier day of the two as people slowly settled back into their normal cycles and prepared for the long week ahead of them.

We reached an even quieter side of town where Rayya Mami parked in front of a small derelict house along a quiet residential street. She finally got off her cell phone and apologized for keeping me waiting.

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain who we’re meeting when we’re inside.”

The gate was rusty and dirty and the little patch of grass outside the house was burnt to a crisp. Rayya Mami rang the bell and the door opened a few long minutes later to reveal a small and frail woman wearing a colourful der’. She flashed us a toothy grin and welcomed us in a disproportionately loud voice.

“COME IN! COME IN!” The droopy skin around her neck rippled with the force of her voice. “I’M SO HAPPY TO SEE YOU!”

“I’m happy to see you too Kaki!” Rayya Mami said. Cleary, she was used to the volume.

I had been waiting for Kaki to notice me standing there, guessing that when the attention shifted to me, her loud voice would become even louder. My guess had been accurate.

“IREM! YA RABBI, IT’S HANAN’S DAUGHTER! OH MASHALLAH! OH MASHALLAH! SO GROWN UP! MASHALLAH!” Kaki unleashed a few more “Mashallahs” before finally inviting us in.

Rayya Mami and I followed kaki into a stuffy living room that was cushioned in every possible way. A thick blue carpet with a suspiciously yellow hue covered the floor; heavy blue drapes with woolen tassels blanketed the windows, shutting out the sun; old blue sofas of a musky velvet melted into the carpet; tapestries and rugs embroidered with Quranic passages hung on the walls and cushions of every shape and size lay in an untouched “leisure corner” that the elderly inhabitants presumably never used.

Kaki pulled open one of the drapes, letting the blinding sunlight infiltrate the otherwise dark room and reveal another occupant snoozing in an armchair, effortlessly blending in with the antiquated environment.

Kaki spoke again, jolting the man out of his peaceful slumber, “WAKE UP, WAKE UP! LOOK WHO’S HERE!”

The old man, who I presumed was Kakaji Asghar, looked around the room and right past us as he tried to discern what Kaki was screaming.

“Kem cho? How are you Kakaji?” Rayya Mami spoke animatedly, startling me with her use of an unexpected, and rather clumsy, blend of Gujurati and Arabic.

Kakaji finally looked at us. He tried to utter a cry of surprise that didn’t quite make it out of his mouth, compensating for it with a weak wheeze and a puzzled expression.

“Ah kon che who is this?” His voice was raspy and low and his words amalgamated into one long indiscernible sentence.

Kaki sat beside him and explained that Rayya mami was the woman who cooked biryani and ate lunch with them every two weeks and that I was his nephew’s daughter.

“Papa has an uncle?” I thought and looked at Rayya Mami uncertainly.

Kakaji smiled and acknowledged us with a nod.

Rayya Mami removed her abaya and entered the kitchen, telling Kaki that she would make us all some tea. I remained in the living room.

While talking on stage in front of thousands of people might have been my forte, making small talk in a small living room with two harmless old people was definitely not my strength. I smiled at them awkwardly.

“Kem cho?” I asked, at a loss for something more original.

My knowledge of Gujurati was limited, but I certainly found it easier than Arabic. Perhaps it was because of the Hindi that I had picked up from all my Indian friends and Bollywood movies in Dubai. Ironically, in the UAE, an Arabic country, Bollywood was more popular than Arabic movies. The only times my parents ever spoke Gujurati were when we were around particularly culturally-strict members of the family or on the rare occasions that mama and I attended Bohri mosque events where Dawat-ni-zaban- a Bohri language very similar to Gujurati- was the “proper” form of communication.

Kaki looked like she was about to flash her toothy grin again and say that she was just fine, but she stopped somewhere halfway. The smile that I had expected had suddenly contorted into a look of sorrow that pierced through my heart. Kaki tried to say something, but her tears beat the words and flowed down her soft and wrinkly cheeks before she could say anything. I stared in shock, too scared to move or to say anything that would worsen the situation.

“What is the situation?” I thought frantically.

She buried her face in her der’ while Kakaji attempted to placate her. He barely had enough strength to move his arm to pat her on the back. Feeling compelled to do something, I sat beside Kaki, mimicking Kakaji’s actions. She felt my hand on her back and turned her tear-stained face to look at me with pained eyes. Hesitantly, I put my arms around her and hugged her while she wept on my shoulder. Kakaji nodded approvingly, wiping his own tears. He looked away.

I held Kaki for a long time.

“Arey! Soo thayoo? What happened?” Rayya Mami rushed to Kaki’s side and held her shoulders.

“She looks- she- so much- like…” Kaki’s voice trailed off between her sobs, as she rested her head on Rayya Mami, soaking her salvar kamees through.

I caught Rayya Mami’s eye and poured a cup of tea for Kaki. It took some effort, but a short while later, Kaki’s heavy sobs and stream of tears reduced to quiet sniffling and the occasional shudder. Rayya Mami continued to soothe kaki by pouring her more cups of tea.

Sitting on the sofa, I felt out of place and still stunned at the little outburst. Kakaji looked unruffled, as if he had expected nothing less. I thought back to when Rayya Mami had told me that she would explain whom we were visiting and, for the first time since I had arrived in Yemen, I felt annoyed at her for neglecting to prepare me for this encounter. I felt shaken and lightheaded, as if I had been crying. I had been crying.

Somewhere amidst the novelty of being in an unfamiliar country and the anxiety that I had felt upon meeting all the new people, I had neglected the nagging feeling of dreadful nostalgia that had crudely dug its way into my mind ever since that late night talk with papa.

Rayya Mami was still occupied with Kaki while Kakaji continued to stare into space.

I closed my eyes, forcing down the tears that lingered at my lashes. …

The aroma of freshly made biryani wafted through the living room, mingling with the luscious scent of bukhoor that burned in a corner of the blue room. Sunlight danced off the glass cupboard beside the old television, illuminating the various crystal animals that rested on its shelves, suddenly bringing the cold forest to life as fire lit within the frosted woodland creatures. The little rabbit with jade eyes, the ruby-encrusted fox, the topaz-tailed squirrel and the emerald-studded trees glowed warmly and welcomed the guests. A firm arm grabbed and lifted me from behind and nuzzled my neck playfully. I turned to see Kakaji and laughed at the thick black beard he had grown for Ramadan.

“Put her down Kaka! She shouldn’t get used to being carried around all the time.” Mama? It certainly was mama, although she looked more tired and frail. Her eyes were sunken and her der’ hung limply on her thin frame.  

“No, no, I love carrying her! And kissing her!” Kakaji nuzzled my neck again and I giggled.

“She’ll get too used to it!”

“Hanan, yalla, where’s the food? I’m late,” a third voice called out brusquely.

Mama’s eyes hardened.

“You’ll wait for as long as it takes to get the food ready.” A curt response, then silence.

Kakaji carried me into the garden where the grass was no longer burnt. Instead, bright green grass grew in carefully maintained patches enclosed by small bushes. There, I played with him and he carried me as much as he wanted to. We played for what seemed like hours under bright sun and the cool breeze. I squealed when he found me behind the bushes during our games of hide and seek and laughed at silly Kakaji when he tried to hide his bulky frame behind them. Suddenly, with my sharp squeal came the sound of a slamming door and a crashing plate. Kakaji scooped me off the grass and rushed inside.

Inside, the crystal forest didn't glow anymore; someone was blocking the sunlight from the window. A tall figure stood against the light and roared, making me scream and bury my face into Kakaji’s shoulder.

“I SAID I HAVE TO GO!”

“For what Karam? Drinking with your good-for-nothing friends again!”

“BAS KARAM!”

“You stay out of this!”

“I said that you need to wait for the food! If you don’t want to wait, then GO! STARVE!” I had never heard mama yell like that before.

“KARAM LA’! NO!” I heard a strange commotion and heavy footfalls as Kaki screamed the last three words with desperation.

“HEMARA!”[2] The menacing voice lingered threateningly as heavy footsteps stormed past Kakaji and me.

“THE DAY THAT HAND STRIKES ME, YOU’LL BE OUT ON THE STREETS!” Mama screamed as the front door slammed shut. “YOU CAN GET YOUR DRUNKARD FRIENDS TO HELP YOU THEN!” she continued, even after the heavy footsteps had gone…

…Opening my eyes, I noticed the woodland creatures looked old and tired as a film of dust forbade the sunlight from bringing them alive. The vibrant blue room had transformed over the years into a melancholy chamber of memories that spoke of the warm laughter of close family as well as of the ugly encounter that I now so vividly recalled.

Tears flowed freely down my cheeks and my palm now covered my mouth as I stared in shock at the elderly couple. My stomach knotted; I lurched out of my seat and rushed out of the main door. The once green grass now stared at me in plaintive thirst, as if to guiltily remind me that I had abandoned it for the grey tarmac of Dubai under just another steel-and-glass structure along a highway of steel-and-glass structures.

I slumped onto the porch, a heavy ambivalence weighing on my shoulders. The door behind me opened and I heard Rayya Mami’s light footsteps tentatively approach.

“I didn’t remember,” I said finally.

After a pause, Rayya Mami replied. “Didn’t remember?”

“I didn’t remember them. Or this house,” my lip quivered and I bit it furiously.

“Irem, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would be so-”

“No, you don’t need to be sorry.” She really didn't. I thought back to when I had asked papa if I could meet my real father and I almost laughed at my self.

“How could I have been so stupid?” I thought to myself, feeling ashamed for falling apart the way I had.

Rayya Mami looked at me intently. “I should have asked Muhannad first.”

“I just…” I could tell from the way Rayya Mami had brought me here that this wasn’t meant to be a big deal. It wasn’t, was it? “I knew coming here would bring back memories… I just didn’t expect those kinds of memories.” Even as I said it, I knew it sounded absurd.

“Irem, if you want, we can go home right now. This has been a lot for Kaki too, so maybe I’ll give you all some time-”

“No, it’s fine,” I said quickly. “Really, it’s fine.”

I wiped my face and stood up to show her just how fine I was. She nodded hesitantly and followed me inside.

Kaki and Kakaji were whispering to each other when I came in. As soon as Kaki saw me, she launched into speech.

“Habibti, please forgive me. I really don’t know what came over me! You’re coming to our home after so long and I should be asking you how you are, how mama and papa are and what you’d like to drink! Please, please forget what happened.” She pleaded with the same vibrant eyes that I remembered from the days when she used to sing “Abu Ali” to me. The memories were there, but they had lain forgotten for so long that each one crept out unexpectedly, as if I had an entire life that I couldn’t even remember living.

“Kaki, please don’t worry about it-”

“Dadi,” she cut me off.

“Sorry?”

“You used to call us Dadi and Dada,” she paused, wringing her hands nervously, “because we were just like your grandparents.” 

Hot tears burned behind my eyes and I painfully suppressed them again. “Da- Dadi…” the intimate word lingered. “I’m just happy to see you again.”

She smiled sadly. “You’re so much like-”

“Amina.” Kakaji’s voice called out, unexpectedly clearly. He looked at Kaki and held up his palm. “Slowly,” he said simply and went back to observing in silence.

Kaki nodded and cupped my face in her hands.

Looking at Kakaji now, in his fragile state, and thinking back to the playful old man who had hidden behind the bushes in his own garden was surreal.

“How…” How would one phrase such a question? “How exactly are we related?”

Rayya Mami was wiping her own tears now, and the old couple laughed, breaking the heavy mood.

“We’re like your grandparents,” Dadi answered.

“Like?” I was certain now that papa didn’t have an aunt or an uncle. That left only one other possibility.

“Yes, like,” she left the answer at that and I understood that, for this meeting, there had been enough tissues wasted.

“So, Dada and Dadi?” The words rolled off my tongue with some effort. “I could get used to that.”

Before Rayya Mami served the biryani, I visited the bathroom and scrutinized my reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely recognizing myself. Gone were the jeans, t-shirts or short dresses. Gone was the carefree and confident girl that I had been at the beginning of the year.

I had been the girl who was sure of herself, sure of where she wanted to go, sure of what she wanted to win and sure of whom she wanted to be. I thought back to when my only question was what I wanted to do in my life. Now, as a gaunt and confused face stared back from the plain mirror, I felt overwhelmed with the sudden realization that I may have been lost for the past few months, but now, I was falling.

The burning tears that I had suppressed now painfully escaped.

I closed my eyes and succumbed to the feeling.

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[1] My love

[2] An Arabic insult directed at a female.