The Pilgrim [Part 3]: Not Your Fault – A Ramadan Story

The pilgrim offers Zahra four simple words that unravel a secret she has carried for years.

Previous Chapters: Part 1  | Part 2

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A Spark

Ismail reached his hand across the table. Momy looked at it for a moment, then extended his own. They clasped hands.

As I watched, Momy – a perpetual slouch – sat up straight. His eyes widened, as if he had just awakened from this banal existence into a world that spread out before him like an endless meadow, more beautiful than anything he had imagined. He looked younger and older all at once.

His mother reached toward him, but I calmed her with a gesture. “It’s just a handshake.”

Ismail released Momy’s hand. Zahra went to her son and touched his shoulder. “Is everything okay?”

Momy shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Can I have another piece of cake?”

“But what was the gift?” She looked at Ismail. “What was that?”

“A spark,” Ismail replied.

Zahra looked at me. I knew something significant had transpired, but I also knew that – just like my own experience – it was personal, and should not be questioned. Imitating my nephew, I shrugged as well. “I want more cake too.”

Zahra snorted, then served the cake and refilled our tea cups.

Ismail added a spoonful of sugar. Stirring the sugar, he looked sideways at Zahra. “Do you want your gift?”

She stiffened. “I’m not going to shake your hand.”

Ismail nodded. “Of course.”

“Alright.” Her lips were tight. “Get it over with.”

Ismail rose. “Let’s sit on the sofa.”

Four Words

Hesitantly, Zahra led the way to the living room. They sat on opposite ends of the sofa, not quite facing each other. Ismail’s back was straight, his expression serious.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

Zahra blinked rapidly. “What? What did you say?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Her jaw tightened. “You’d better watch yourself.” Her eyes were fixed on the Persian rug. “In fact, you should get your things and leave.”

“Once,” Ismail said, “in the county jail in Little Rock, I was attacked while I was in salat. No warning. They knocked me down, kicked me and stomped on my neck. My arm was broken, I lost two teeth, and I was paralyzed from the neck down. The doctors at the state hospital told me I might not walk again. I entrusted my future to Allah. I prayed with my mouth only. A month after the attack, I moved a finger. A month after that, I walked out of that place. An experience like that is dehumanizing. You wonder if you could have done something to prevent it. You feel rage at the perpetrators.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I said softly, but Ismail did not look at me. His gaze remained on the floor somewhere between himself and Zahra.

“We are all wounded in this life,” Ismail went on. “Our Prophet, sal-Allahu alayhi wa-sallam, was in sajdah in front of the Ka’bah when one of the Quraysh dumped the waste and entrails of a camel on his back. Yet the Prophet did not raise his head until his young daughter Fatimah came and cleaned the filth from his back. Was he diminished by that? Never. He was the most elevated man to ever live. He was the Beloved of Allah.”

Zahra stood. “I have no idea what you’re prattling on about,” She looked ready to run.

I did not understand what was happening. It seemed that Ismail was talking about something other than what his words described. Something that only he and Zahra understood.

Sincere and Pure

“As fresh as the first winter snowfall.”

“You,” Ismail said to Zahra, “hold no blame. You are as fresh as the first winter snowfall, clean and crisp on the fields. You are all that is sweet, sincere, and pure. Everything that was once possible for you is possible still, by the will of Allah.”

Zahra had covered her face with her hands, and stood very still.

“I will leave you now,” Ismail said, and stood.

I went to my sister and touched her shoulder. “Zahra?”

She turned to me and threw her arms around me, hid her face in my chest, and began to sob. “He hurt me,” she wailed. “He had no right.”

“Who?” I said gently. “Ismail? Or… Waleed? Your husband?”

She shook her head and wailed, “No!” For a long time she said nothing more. She sobbed until my shirt was wet with her tears and mucus. Finally, her sobs slowed. “It was Dr. Zakarian,” she said, barely audibly.

I frowned. “Who’s that?”

“One of the doctors,” she whispered, “at the hospital where I used to work.”

“What did he do?”

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Okay.” I didn’t know what else to say.

She went on as if I had not spoken. “I was working nights. It was late. Almost nobody on the floor. I was in the supply room getting IV kits, or syringes, I don’t remember. He came in behind me.”

She swallowed, then looked away. “He shut the door and locked it.”

My breath caught in my chest.

“I told him to stop fooling around. I thought he was joking.”

Zahra broke away from my embrace, went to the sofa, and sat with her arms around her knees. For just a second, I wondered where Ismail had gone – maybe to the bathroom? – but my attention was focused on my sister.

“I said no,” Zahra continued, staring at the floor. “I told him no. I tried to fight. He…” She bent forward, hugging herself. “He was too strong.”

Momy made a small sound, like he had been punched in the stomach.

“Afterward, I had to finish the shift,” she whispered. “Do you understand? I had to wash my face and go back out there and act normal. And then I had to keep seeing him. Every day.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She glared at me. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her eyes puffy. “I was ashamed,” she said. “I never reported it. I worked closely with Dr. Zakarian. I thought, maybe I led him on without meaning to. Maybe if I wore hijab it wouldn’t have happened.”

I swallowed hard. “It wasn’t your fault. Just like Ismail said.”

Only then did I notice that Ismail’s pack and boots were gone. I recalled his last words: “I will leave you now.” I hadn’t been paying attention.

Something to Take

I turned to Momy. “Sit with your mom.” Without hesitation, Momy went to his mother and put an arm around her shoulders. I hurried to the front door, yanked it open, and dashed out, not even bothering to put on my shoes.

It was drizzling outside. The wind reached through my clothing with icy fingers and raised goosebumps on my arms. I ran to the sidewalk, looked one way, then the other – and there was Ismail, kefiyyeh wrapped tightly around his neck, pack on his back, already a block away. I called out and ran to catch up, my bare feet slapping the sidewalk and splashing in puddles.

He turned to face me. His lean face was beaded with rain.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

He took my cheeks in his hands and kissed me on the forehead, then pulled back. “I thank you,” he said. “Allah reward you for the food and company. It was an honor to meet you.”

I raised my hands questioningly. “Where will you go? You’re not even wearing a coat.”

“Many places. But eventually to my homeland of Al-Quds, then to Makkah, then to the masjid of our Beloved Prophet, sal-Allahu alayhi wa salam, to bring him greetings from a distant people and a broken land.”

I studied his oddly light-colored eyes. His rangy body and easy strength were youthful, but his eyes were ageless.

“You said you would take something.”

He smiled. “I already have.” He held out his hand. I shook it, then the man called Ismail turned and walked away.

A Bushel of Lemons

The faint sounds of talking and laughter woke me up. It was late morning, and the pale sun eased in through the living room window onto the sofa where I slept. I threw off the heavy blanket and sat up. I was thinking about my idea for the Malcolm X youth conference. After breakfast, I would write an email to a few colleagues.

“That’s enough!” It was Zahra’s voice, outside. “Come down now before you fall and break your neck.”

La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah. She wasn’t fighting with the neighbors again, was she? Dressed in red flannel pajamas, I hurried to the door, slipping my feet into a pair of Arabic sandals.

Outside, I was amazed to find Momy on a tall ladder, picking the lemons from the tree. He wore a heavy jacket and gardening gloves to protect himself from the thorns. Zahra stood at the bottom of the ladder, surrounded by bags full of lemons. I walked over to her.

“Look at this!” she said, grinning. She pointed to the bags. “We have half a bushel already.”

The sight of Zahra grinning left me speechless. Finally, I said, “Isn’t a bushel two thousand pounds?”

She shook her head. “You’d better stick to teaching history.”

I gestured to Momy. “I’ve never seen him do actual work before.”

“You know I can hear you, right?” Momy called down.

“Yeah, be quiet Amir,” Zahra said. “Don’t jinx it.”

Egyptian Lemonade

“Zahra.” I tugged at her sleeve. “I was thinking about something.”

“Me too,” she said. “But you go first.”

“The thing is, I knew all the kids at the masjid back then, when we were young. And I don’t remember anyone named Ismail.”

Zahra put a hand on my shoulder – an odd gesture from her – and regarded me solemnly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But don’t you want to know -”

“No,” she interrupted. “I don’t.”

I took a breath, let it out. “Okay. What were you going to say?”

“You have money saved, right?”

“Yeah, some.”

“I want you to extend the house.”

Egyptian lemonade

I frowned. “What for?”

“For you. I don’t want you to have to sleep on the sofa anymore. I want you to build a master bedroom and bathroom for yourself, and for… whoever. For the future.”

“I’m not taking Samina back.”

Zahra smiled. “There are other women in the world.”

“I need another bag!” Momy called.

I reached up and took the full bag he had collected – it bulged with fat, glistening lemons – then handed him one of the empty bags on the ground.

Momy resumed plucking lemons. The citrus scent was sweet and tantalizing in my nose. My father had planted this tree, and it was taller than the house. The lemons shone in the morning sun, each one a miracle and a gift. I would make lemonade for tonight’s iftar, I decided. Egyptian-style lemonade with sugar, mint, and milk. Zahra and Momy would love it.

THE END

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See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

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