Ream Shukairy

Furia meets I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter about the unlikely friendship between two very different Syrian girls, the pressures and expectations of the perfect Syrian daughter, and the repercussions of the Syrian Revolution both at home and abroad. Khadija Shami is a Syrian American high school senior raised on boxing and football. Saddled with a monstrous ego and a fierce mother to test it, she dreams of escaping her sheltered life to travel the world with her best friend. Leene Tahir is a Syrian refugee, doing her best to adjust to the wildly unfamiliar society of a suburban Detroit high school while battling panic attacks and family pressures. When their worlds collide the result is catastrophic. To Khadija, Leene embodies the tame, dutiful Syrian ideal she's long rebelled against. And to Leene, Khadija is the strong-willed, closed-off American who makes her doubt her place in the world. But as Khadija digs up Leene’s past, a startling and life-changing discovery forces the two of them closer together. As the girls secretly race to unravel the truth, a friendship slowly and hesitantly begins blooming. Doubts are cast aside as they realize they have more in common than they each expected. What they find takes them on a journey all the way to Jordan, challenging what each knows about the other and herself. Fans of Samira Ahmed’s Love, Hate, and Other Filters and Tahereh Mafi’s A Very Large Expanse Of Sea will love Khadija and Leene’s sharp-witted voices in this dual POV narrative. The Next New Syrian Girl is a poignant and timely blend of guilt, nostalgia, devotion, and bad-ass hijabees.

The Next New Syrian Girl

blue

Okay, I admit it. I’m in the denial phase of my crush and it’s not going so well. And maybe Younes has graduated from denial a little earlier than me.

When Khaleh Maisa brought me into this room on our first day at the house, there was a smell of jasmine and an olive oil soap that older people in Syria like to use. Laced together with a hint of musk and rosewater, it is undoubtedly the scent of a childhood surrounded by a loving grandmother. The smell took me back to Syria for a brief moment. A beautiful Syria, a Syria that no longer exists, a Syria that is buried.

syrians are humans; they too deserve freedom and rights

I left Syria to find freedom. I bought my way onto this boat to escape Jordan in my quest for it. Flying through the salty air, I feel raw, uncharted freedom and wonder if this is what I always wanted. What nations of people die for.

My memory preserves images of revolutions and war crimes that only a victim’s eyes can capture. Mutilated corpses and limbs drift past me. The ruby-red water. The smell of salt and metal and death. The sound of mourning and of the patience resounded through prayer. I always saw prayers as peaceful, but I’d never heard a prayer from a man who has stared into the eyes of death, or that of a mother who has seen her son sucked into razor propellers, or of a newly wedded wife losing the love of her life moments before. Desperation leaches into every word. Fights breaking out over the buoyant items end the time of supplication. People shove each other from fear. Those who can’t swim beat their arms against the water to save themselves from drowning.

So, with many swipes of my conceding mother’s credit card, I converted my room into an ode to Syria. A jumbo Syrian flag covers one wall—the revolution’s flag with the three red stars and not the two green ones. I have burned the other flag on occasion. Adorning another wall is a mosaic of tiles imported from Turkey but made by Syrian textile workers who were driven out of Halab. Floor to ceiling, they create a backdrop to my hanging plants identical to the ones my aunt has hanging by the fountain in the courtyard. On the third wall hangs a canvas painting of the Umayyad Masjid, the Great Mosque of Damascus, where we would pray after an exhausting day at the souk, a neighborhood mosque that is also a historically revered structure. From its minarets to the detailed arabesques in the stone relief to its rows of arches and courtyard of white marble, the mosque commands presence in my room. Above the painting, in ornamental Arabic calligraphy, a verse from the Qur’an in light-beige paint: And be patient over what befalls you. It’s what I first see when I wake up from my nightmare. My room is my Damascus in Detroit.

again, heartbreaking (and i wonder if mom feels like this too?)

Leene Taher used to be a need-no-help girl. The word used to not come easily onto my lips.

My journey out of Syria broke that part of me. The more help I accepted, the more of me washed away. When I ask for help, I accept my status as refugee. When I left Jordan, I vowed to stop describing myself with that label. Refugee implies the need for aid, and I’m too proud, as many refugees are, to ask for help. I’m Syrian first, and Syrians always figure a way out on their own with what they have. 

I had to yield and accept help. I became helpless.

i hate that word too, it makes me uncomfortable 

“Is it because I’m a refugee?” My voice dips at the word. Though I would like to believe that I’m more than a refugee despite what it means, the word still tastes sour on my tongue. As a refugee the assumption is that I’m pitiable, and a reminder of other people’s entitlement. I don’t want to be that for Khadija or for anyone. It’s what I call self-scapegoating.

I blink at her, tears stinging my eyes for another reason. I am a refugee. A refugee skilled in Syrian etiquette and nuanced with my language. I am also a survivor. A daughter. A possible friend.

She looks boxy in it because it’s a size too large, but in my eyes, she looks like the most respectable woman in the world. I give her a quick hug.

I don’t know who this person is in front of me who criticizes me, blames me, and then cares for me in ways that make me feel neglected. Mama doesn’t want me to be happy—she wants me to be exactly what she wants. Whether that matches what I want from my life or not.

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