The end of another day of fasting. Unwinding into the night with an evening of ritual: Mahgrib, Iftar, talk, and Isha. Even later came TaraweeH, but that is another story. Several families, really parts of families, gathered together in a small apartment in Brooklyn.
The meal was lavish. Each of the many dishes delicious, and plates overflowed, as did the talk. Each dish lifted its own plumes of spice-laden air, thick with memories of Ramadans past, places past, lives past.
"This feels like home," said a young woman, here alone, her family still in Baghdad. She lifted her face and said softly, "The gathering; the crowded table; the many dishes; the talk, arguing, children playing and teasing...like home."
Lina, the hostess, reached a hand to touch a hand and said, "Please. We are your family now. We are all one family here."
The table overflows and there aren't enough chairs so some are sitting on hassocks and the youngest, Luma, is on the sofa. She doesn't mind because from there she can watch an ElectricFactory show ("Please Arwa, use the earpiece.") while she eats, eavesdrops, and learns English at the same time.
After dinner the teenagers head for the bedroom, the women for the kitchen, and the men chat of everyday things: the long commutes to work, the business of making a living, studying...then AHmed told of his recently failed venture and how he had to sell the grocery store, and how that gave him the money to start another business and how this new work was so fulfilling.
"This work is the work I did in Baghdad. Air condition. Big." His hands draw large machines in the air and he continues, " Large for companies, for stores. The same. I love it. I can do it here. The store I sold in Manhattan, they are now a customer. In Baghdad we had three stores of... appliances. Air condition, refrigerator..."
He pauses here, eyes moving to the floor, hands drooping in his lap.
"Then one day my man of business...er...my partner of the business assassinated. They come into the store, some men, and they just shoot him. No. No rob. Just to kill him. He has wife and three daughters. "
He pauses again, staring into space. His breath seems to stop and his face has loses all emotion, and he continues, flatly, "Then, after this, they kill my brother-in -law. He has two children. Two sons. No reason. Too much."
Murmurs of recognition and words of condolence are offered, and accepted. A few more stories come forth of life in Baghdad in 2005, 2006 (when most of those here at the table left Iraq). The usual coda of questions without answers follows ("Who does these things? Who are these people?" Why?) and then, with a joke or two, there is first an attempt and then success at moving the mood. We return to the present and become concious of the laughter from the kitchen. Luma has not budged from the sofa. She gives no indication of having heard any of the conversation around her but notices immediately when the older women enter the room.
The women return with kaHwah and kleicha and qataiyef. They bring withthem a real joy and appreciation for what we have. The evening returns to a bright night with friends, with family, and with Ramadan's spirit of calm reverence for all that is given.
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